The sputtering men swam hell-bent-for-leather for Max Lester’s boat, but it intercepted them before they splashed a dozen strokes toward their destination. With a tremendous jerk of its head, it grabbed all six with a single crushing chomp. Again, blood and screams surged briefly before disappearing down its throat.
Max fired up the engine, and the airboat lurched away in time to avoid another of the creature’s swift attacks. Without glancing back, he passed mangroves at a frightening speed, while Darryl pumped round after round into the pursuing monster.
“He’s gaining!” Darryl hollered for all he was worth above the roaring engine.
Max had the throttle lever pinned against the stop and couldn’t coax another mile per hour from his pride and joy. The rushing wind nearly ripped his hair from his scalp, and the downpour nicked his face like shards of broken glass, but yet he endured. It was either that or take a trip down the monster’s gullet.
Darryl slammed his rifle down on the aluminum deck. “Empty!” he shouted. “The bastard’s closing fast! Move it! Move it, man!”
Max decided against serpentining the craft to the shore. He’d watched that fucker move back there, and it was downright agile. It could turn on a dime without losing speed. It was an out-and-out fucking hunting and killing machine.
And now it was hunting them.
In the cones of light below, Sheriff Stark observed the carnage and nearly lost his lunch. Crushed and overturned boats drifted amid a flotilla of body parts on the water’s surface. The pilot pointed east toward the black jungle skyline.
“An airboat at nine o’clock, Sheriff,” he cried, “And it’s moving like a bat out of hell!”
“Then let’s get after it. The monster must be chasing them!” Stark ordered. A smile pried his rigid lips apart for a fraction of a second. This could well be the moment he had long anticipated. His one big chance for fame. Forget the man who shot Liberty Valance. That was nothing compared to this feat.
He would be known as the sheriff who caught the Big One!
It was nearly upon the noisy prey when it sensed an enemy from above. Reluctantly, it broke off the chase and doubled back toward the deeper waters of the flooded swamp. Lights appeared above — very bright lights. Its powerful tail sent it racing to a nearby mangrove, where it settled to the bottom beside the great tangle of roots, effectively hiding itself. The light swept over its position but didn’t linger, instead choosing to follow its escaping prey.
It felt pain now, but the bleeding had slowed. Under normal circumstances, it would have stayed at the mangrove to heal, but its ravenous hunger vetoed its healing instinct. Time to move. To hunt. To feed.
When the lights faded to gray in the distance, it surged forward with one fluid motion past the wreckage, and continued its journey to the deeper water teeming with larger food. It sensed it was close to realizing its objective and further increased its speed.
“It’s gone!” a jubilant Darryl screamed into Max’s ear. “It turned back!”
Max didn’t know whether to believe his friend or not. It might be a trick. That big fucker was smart.
Darryl’s hand closed over Max’s and forced the throttle back. The airboat slowed, but Max still fought to free his hand from his friend’s grip.
“It’s over, man. Relax, or you’ll kill us hitting the shore that fast!”
Max’s taut muscles ached from the stress of the chase, but he removed his hand and relinquished control of the boat to Darryl.
He shook his head and slumped into the unused pilot’s seat. “Take her. I’m too fuckin’ strung out.”
The fast-approaching drone of a helicopter and its spotlights closed quickly on them. They looked up, wondering what the hell was happening now. Darryl brought the airboat to a stop as the light washed over them.
“You two okay?” a bull-horned voiced boomed down.
Darryl waved and nodded.
“Where’s the creature?”
Both Max and Darryl exaggerated shrugs. They had no idea, and they wanted to keep it that way.
“What direction did it go?”
Darryl pointed west, behind them.
Without further conversation, the copter turned and sped back west into the darkness.
Darryl slapped his buddy’s shoulder. “What say — you ready for a brewski now?”
Max regarded him as if he was crazy. “Yeah, when I’m sitting safe and sound in my recliner at home. Now let’s get the fuck outta here,” he snapped.
The Broward County Sheriff’s Department helicopter hovered above Mangrove Swamp where the Everglades waters joined the Florida Bay. The lights from Key Largo glowed in the distance.
There was no sign of the creature, and Sheriff Stark was furious that something so big had managed to elude them.
His selfish ambitions of celebrity status and grandeur were fading fast.
It dived into the deep water of the bay and headed north toward the plentiful hunting waters of the Ten Thousand Islands south of Naples. It knew those waters from long ago. As a young one separating from its mother.
As it swam out of the bay into the Gulf of Mexico, it became more cautious. Bigger prey meant bigger predators, and it was determined to avoid them in its weakened condition.
After a few days of feeding heavily in familiar territory and healing its wounds, it would continue its trek to locate its mysterious new provider.
Chapter 57
Jackson was ten feet from the mausoleum when a bullet notched the closest grave marker and pelted him with stone fragments. He dropped to the mud and grass. A powerful searchlight beam pinned him low, and a familiar voice shouted over the rain gusts.
“Come out with your hands up.”
Jackson shook his head. Wilkerson!
“You’re trespassing on an FBI crime scene,” the agent added.
Shit! Now what? He eyed the doorway. It was tantalizingly close. Could he make it before an FBI sniper nailed him?
He had to. The life of his friend was at stake.
Jackson rose, but another bullet ricocheted off the same grave marker, and the exploded fragments stung his cheek. He dropped again.
“You’ve got till the count of five to comply with my order, or we open fire,” Wilkerson warned him. “One . . .”
Jackson peered through the tall grass bordering the marker. The rain-blurred silhouettes of Wilkerson and six special agents were backlighted on the opposite hill. He touched the belt holster securing the 40 caliber SIG Sauer he’d been given in Guantanamo. It was an effective weapon, but Wilkerson had the numbers in his favor if this standoff turned into a gunfight.
He sighed.
He had no choice but to surrender, but by doing so, he’d just sacrificed his friend.
Dex lay stunned on the altar stairs above the water line, pressing on his throbbing ribs to staunch the blood. That was the second time he’d been shot this summer, and now he was damn pissed. Some unseen coward had just clipped him, and he had no idea where that chicken-shit bushwhacker was hiding in that infernal blackness.
The odds were against his survival. He was one man squaring off against a sniper, a man-eating lake monster, and a cantankerous back. He slowed his raspy breathing and listened for any clue to the shooter’s position, but the grotto was infused with absolute silence. He glanced up to the altar and spotted the urn — it still glowed. Thank God its light wasn’t bright enough to illuminate him.
Another deafening explosion echoed in the grotto, and a bullet nicked his left leg. Dex howled in surprise and pain. Blood immediately stained his cotton slacks.
The asshole must have a night scope!
Dex slid down the remaining four steps into the cool black water. The liquid stung his wounds. A saltwater lake! Dex frowned. That was odd, so far inland. But he didn’t exactly have time to worry about the anomaly.
He swung his gaze to the other side of the stairs. If he could make it over there, the elevated side would protect him. He knew the shooter’s position
now. He’d spotted the brief burst of light from the firing gun.
The son-of-a-gun was standing at the tunnel opening leading to the Swinson mausoleum.
Dex pushed off the bottom step with his good leg and silently paddled toward the other side, but despite his caution, the resulting undulations lapped the dry step above the water line. To Dex’s horror, the entire temple, including the hideous demon statue, switched on like a light bulb, and he found himself bathed in its brilliant golden illumination!
He was now an easy target. He stopped kicking and despairingly sank into the depths.
A series of deafening explosions rent the stormy blackness. Jackson ducked, fearing Wilkerson’s assault, but he immediately recognized the heavy artillery.
Jackson peered over his shoulder and marveled at the incredible firing speed of the Blackhawk’s 50 mm cannons as they raked Wilkerson’s position. He checked the opposite hill and noticed that the spotlights were dark and the FBI team was nowhere in sight. Screaming rockets rent the hillside, blasting the soggy earth into chunks of black rain.
Jackson looked up, waved gratefully at the pilot, and scrambled on all fours up the slippery slope to the mausoleum entrance. Once inside, he closed and bolted the door. Hopefully that would delay Wilkerson and his men long enough for him to execute his rescue plan.
Despite his urgency, he deliberately descended the ladder so as not to alert the enemy below. When he reached the tunnel floor, he pulled the ladder down behind him. That would buy him even more time should Wilkerson’s team manage to break in to the mausoleum. He slipped a pinhole flashlight from his utility belt and directed the narrow shaft of light to the floor. Blood. Old blood. He sighed his relief.
Rocket detonations and rapid machinegun fire continued above him, and Jackson allowed himself a smallish grin. It appeared as if Wilkerson wouldn’t be arriving any time soon.
A gunshot reverberated along the tunnel ahead. His grin flat-lined as Jackson loped toward the grotto. Again, his stomach was a twisted ball of knots. Would he reach his friend in time?
Chapter 58
Whumps from the Blackhawk’s attack shook the grotto ceiling, sending rock fragments cascading into the lake. The pilot was punctuating his retaliation.
Dex surfaced and spit out the nasty-tasting seawater. He heard the racket under the water, but he didn’t have a clue of what was happening upstairs. It sounded like a full-scale invasion from where he floated. He glanced up and hoped the heavy blasts wouldn’t bring the whole damn grotto on top of him!
But Dex didn’t have time to ponder the earth-quaking explosions; the sniper made certain of that. Another gunshot reverberated through the grotto, and a bullet sailed past his scalp and ricocheted off the stairway. Before the Seminole drawings of the lake monster could dissuade him, he swiftly filled his lungs again and sank into the menacing black water. Maybe the sniper would think he was dead and leave.
Dex pivoted toward the far stairway side and frog-kicked in that direction, but before he stroked twenty feet, an enormous something whooshed past him. The enormous shape violently brushed his body and sent him into a tumbling spin!
Panicked, Dex kept his eyelids squeezed shut and his lips clamped together as his body spun out of control. Ass over apple cart! Wooziness supplanted his wounds’ fiery pain, and nausea impelled his stomach contents up into his throat. Before he could vomit, Dex burst through the surface with slapping splashes, swallowed the contents pooled in his throat, and rapidly gulped the grotto’s dank atmosphere, momentarily neglecting the dangers above and below the lake. He was thrilled to be alive.
Another bullet pierced the lake’s surface, barely missing him by a few inches. He blinked away the stinging saltwater, but everything was a blur. The temple’s golden light. The lake’s surface. Aghast, Dex turned left, then right, attempting to assess his position. He was unsure which direction led to safety. Where was the side of that blasted stairway, anyway?
He was trapped. Dead in the water. Christ, he hated that expression!
He imagined a gaping mouth the size of a Lincoln Navigator rising from the bottom, zeroing in on his treading legs. Then he pictured the night-sighted gunman with Dex’s forehead squarely in his scope sights. Shit the bread, Fred! He was dead in the water.
The muted pounding stopped above. Still, ceiling rubble dropped like hail, but Dex didn’t much care anymore. He resolutely closed his eyes and calmly awaited death.
Jackson paused near the end of the tunnel as the second gunshot ripped the tomb-like silence. His ears rang momentarily, and he dropped to a knee to appraise the situation. A gunman’s outline appeared at the tunnel’s mouth, illuminated from a golden light somewhere inside the grotto. He winced as another psychic vision invaded his mind. Not now! It ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving him with vital information about the shooter. The gunman was a she.
Jackson knew the target’s identity, but what he didn’t know was why she was shooting at him. He watched as she prepared to fire again. The woman wore infrared night goggles over her eyes and coolly adjusted her rifle sight toward a target to her right. He heard panicked splashing from the lake. Dex.
Jackson anxiously watched her cocked arm stiffen, her finger curl over the trigger, and her pursed lips release a controlled breath. The unseen splashing ceased. Jackson realized from his jungle vision that his wounded friend was too weak to put up a fight, so he simply waited for death.
And in a few seconds, it would be headed his way in the form of a bullet.
Jackson had to act fast!
He eased a flash grenade from its clip on his belt, yanked the pin, and rolled it into the grotto. The shooter reacted to the sudden noise by pivoting and pointing the rifle into the darkness. Just as Jackson wanted. The grenade detonated in a burst of dazzling white light and temporarily blinded her. She screamed, tore the goggles from her head, and frantically dug the knuckles of her free hand into her useless eyes. The rifle went off, but the bullet harmlessly ricocheted off the tunnel wall behind Jackson.
He quickly covered the distance between them, lowered his shoulder, and plowed into her midsection. Her rifle pitched upward and flew to the edge of the lake. They rolled over the rocky grotto floor together. He landed atop her, his knees pinning her shoulders, but she refused to submit. She struggled like a cornered animal, scratching and kicking wildly.
“Dex!” Jackson shouted at the top of his lungs. “I need some help over here!”
There was no answer.
“Now!”
“I’m comin’, dammit! Hold your horses,” the sheriff’s remote voice growled. “I’ve been shot. Twice!”
“I know! Suck it up and get over here quick, or you and I’ll both be history!” Jackson yelled.
A limp, waterlogged figure struggled from the water onto the golden stairs, caught his breath, and loped awkwardly along the stone path, groaning and swearing along the way. Dex’s soaked shoes squished as he half-stumbled and half-jogged toward Jackson.
“Wait’ll I . . . get my hands . . . on that shooter!” Dex huffed.
Meanwhile, Jackson had his hands full. The woman was no longer entirely human. She/it was rapidly transforming into a hideous creature the way Demmy had inside the boat on the rainforest river, and her strength was escalating. It took all of Jackson’s brawn to keep her arms pinned against the rocky surface.
Dex stopped behind Jackson, stooping and gasping for air. Suddenly, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “Jesus mother of Mary!” he exclaimed. “It’s Teddi!”
“No shit!” Jackson managed between clenched teeth. “Get down here and pin her left arm down while I get out the antidote!”
Dex eased down beside his friend and propped both his knees on her arm, while Jackson released his grip and fumbled around inside his pocket for the small bottle.
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” Dex cried out incredulously.
“What?” Jackson asked irritably.
“Snakes are growin’ out of her fingertip
s!”
Hissing black vipers swelled from her fingers and exposed their poisonous fangs; their beady eyes bored into Dex’s horrified gaze.
“Yeah, I know.” Jackson tugged the bottle free while holding down Teddi’s right side. Wriggling vipers were emerging from that hand as well. Their presence rattled his composure, and he fumbled the bottle while attempting to remove the lid. The antidote plummeted through an opening between Teddi’s shoulder and his knee toward the hard grotto floor.
Dex’s hand snagged the fragile container an inch from the ground!
“I’ll hold the damned thing while you unscrew the cap,” he suggested through gritted teeth. His struggle with Teddi, or whatever she was now, aggravated his wounds.
Jackson quickly unscrewed the cap.
The five vipers writhed inches from Dex’s face like charmed cobras. He thought about grabbing her hand and subduing the snakes, but he wouldn’t have enough time; they were too close. He heard a plastic bottle cap bounce off the ground a few times with hollow pings before rolling down the slight slope toward the lake.
Jackson tipped Dex’s hand until the wax-like ball dropped into his palm. He pinched it between his thumb and index finger and thrust it toward Teddi’s contorted mouth. Suddenly, a forked purple tongue shot past her bloated lips toward his hand. Jackson quickly withdrew the antidote. Now what?
Before he could brainstorm, Dex’s fist flew past Jackson’s stationary hand and pummeled the grotesque tongue and mouth with the force of a jackhammer. Her head momentarily lolled to the side, and the writhing snakes sank to the shore.
“Now, Jackson!” he yelled.
The psychic thrust the antidote toward her mouth, and then paused. The vipers were slowly recovering, and they gradually raised their triangular heads.
“Jackson, do it!” Dex pressed. “What the hell are you waitin’ for?”
Demon Key Page 24
