The Naturalist (The Naturalist Series Book 1)

by Andrew Mayne

  “But you have all the answers,” says Seward.

  What an asshole.

  “Just the numbers. They tell a terrifying story. There are at least thirty or more Joe Viks operating out there.”

  “Let’s get this one, then worry about the others,” Glenn says.

  “It’ll give you something to do from jail,” adds Seward.

  “You’re still going to go through with this arrest?” asks Jillian. “After all he’s done?”

  “Tell that to Christopher Dunleavy’s family after they see what your boyfriend did to their son’s corpse,” says Seward.

  “The operative word is corpse,” I fire back, but I can’t pretend he doesn’t have a point. I give Jillian a sorrowful look. “I didn’t think I had any other options.”

  She squeezes my hands. “I believe you.”

  “It was kind of stupid in retrospect. I should have tried to draw him toward me.”

  “We’ll be okay—”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence.

  “Shit!” yells Glenn as he swerves to the side of the road.

  I look out the windshield in time to see the ambulance tumbling over on its side and skidding toward us.

  The roof of the ambulance clips our front end, and we go into a violent spin, smashing a guardrail and careening into a ditch.

  As we skid off the highway, I see a massive black tow truck fly past, flash its brake lights, then do a screeching U-turn.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CRASH

  Our SUV slides backward down the grassy slope and rams into a line of trees. The back of my skull rockets off the head rest, sending my face slamming into my handcuffed wrists, cracking my nose. I see stars for a moment and smell the tangy scent of blood.

  “Are you okay?” Jillian asks, unfastening her seat belt and sliding over to me.

  “Yeah . . . I’m okay.”

  She reaches up and grabs Seward by the shoulder. “Can you get these damn handcuffs off him?”

  He doesn’t move.

  His head is slumped over to the side. His window is shattered.

  I grab his neck with both hands and feel for a pulse. “He’s alive.”

  Glenn rubs his temples. “Holy crap! Everybody okay?”

  Jillian thrusts her hand in front of his face. “Handcuff keys. Now!”

  “Just a second . . .” He’s still shaken from the impact. “Let me call for help.”

  He takes his phone out and starts dialing. Frustrated, Jillian leans into the front section and starts to riffle through Seward’s pockets.

  “Careful. He might be hurt,” says Glenn.

  “You think?” she says.

  Something moves through the bright beams of light shooting out over the edge of the road near the gap where we tore through the guardrail.

  Reflexively, I grab Jillian by the collar of her jacket and yank her into the back. “Duck!”

  “What is it?” asks Glenn.

  A split second later, the windshield is punctured by a barrage of gunfire, blasting bits of glass at our heads.

  I press Jillian to the floorboard and throw my body on top of her.

  There’s a second burst, and the truck makes popping sounds as bullets penetrate the hood and grill.

  “Anyone hit?” Glenn shouts from the front—presumably crouched down like we are.

  “I’m good,” whispers Jillian.

  “I’m okay.”

  The light beam flickers again.

  “He’s moving.”

  “Stay down,” says Glenn. I hear him slipping his magazine out of his gun, then pushing it back. “I’m going to count to three, then fire back.”

  “He won’t be there,” I say.

  “What?”

  “He’s going to try to make a feint. Probably on your side.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because he knows you’re armed and needs to take you out first.”

  “Are you—”

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Bullets fly above our heads and send more glass fragments raining down on us like angry hail.

  “FUCK!” Glenn screams.

  “Are you hit?”

  “Grazed. Went through the door. I’m going to return fire. You two get out on the other side and stay behind the vehicle!”

  “Hold on,” says Jillian. I realize she’s got Seward’s keys. Her nervous fingers find the handcuff key, and she unlocks me. “Okay.”

  Glenn begins to fire his gun, filling the cab with a deafening noise.

  I fumble with the door handle and climb out, keeping low. Jillian slides out after me.

  “Are you out?” yells Glenn.

  “Clear.”

  “He’s lying down in the grass. I think I may have got him.”

  “Or he’s just taking up a sniper’s position,” Jillian replies.

  “Maybe. I’m going to fire again. When I do, head deep into the woods.”

  I have a bad feeling about that. The forest is his home turf, but I don’t have a better idea.

  “Go!” Glenn shouts, then starts shooting.

  Jillian and I start through the woods, but I freeze the moment Glenn’s shooting stops.

  “What is it?” asks Jillian.

  We’re about ten feet away from the truck. I can see patches of grass beyond the tree trunks. Joe is nowhere to be seen.

  “Other way!” I yank her by the arm. “He’s already in here!”

  We race around the truck, putting it between us and the forest, and climb up the hill toward the highway.

  I look back and see the tip of Glenn’s pistol above the dashboard.

  I yell, “He’s in the trees, coming up behind you!”

  Glenn pops his head up and spots us running toward the road. Without hesitating, he crawls through the open windshield, rolls across the hood, and chases after us.

  I see him stop and look back at Seward, afraid to leave him.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Rifle fire emerges from the woods, and bullets ricochet off the truck.

  “RUN!” I scream.

  Jillian is pulling at my arm, trying to get me to move as well.

  We hop over the guardrail as bullets puncture it, making a loud metal twang. Glenn hits the side of the hill, twists around, and returns fires back in the same direction the shots originated.

  The rifle fire comes to a halt, and he picks himself up and races over the top of the rise, catching up to Jillian and me.

  We run to the ambulance lying on its passenger side. The lights are still flashing and the back wheels are spinning, having crashed only moments ago.

  The paramedic is bent over the passenger side door, getting to his knees.

  We pull him to the far side of the vehicle, away from the forest.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think.”

  I point down the road. “Then take her and run.”

  “No,” Jillian says flatly. She turns to the paramedic. “Go!”

  Already spooked by the gunfire, he breaks off into a sprint.

  Behind us, red and blue lights flash as a Hudson Creek police cruiser comes to a skidding halt. An older cop jumps out of the driver’s seat. “What’s going on?”

  “Shooter in the woods!” says Glenn.

  The cop starts to stride toward us, exposed to the trees.

  “Stay back!” yells Glenn.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The officer’s shoulder is ripped open, and he drops to the ground, screaming.

  “Help me get him!” I say to Glenn, then hunch over and hurry toward the fallen man.

  “Let’s take him to the car and use it to get out of here,” replies Jillian.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  A burst of automatic fire sprays into the cruiser, puncturing the radiator and sending up a cloud of steam.

  “Shit! He has us pinned!” says Glenn. “I’m going to fire. You grab him and bring him to
the ambulance.”

  Glenn fires his gun twice, then ducks behind the cruiser, using it as a shield.

  Jillian helps me drag the downed cop to the inside of the ambulance. He valiantly tries to stifle his screams as we lift him across the sideways door.

  I start searching through the medical supplies all over the floor—which was once a wall—for some bandages, find them, and start wrapping the man’s shoulder wound. It’s a mess.

  Through the back window, I spot Glenn climbing into the police cruiser and taking out the shotgun.

  He moves toward the hood and puts a finger to his lips when he sees us watching. He points to his eyes then toward the back of us.

  Joe has changed positions again and is sneaking up behind where we’re hiding.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  VALIANT

  My impression of Glenn has crystallized in these moments. When I first met him, I thought he was a hard-ass, and I resented the way he manipulated me into spilling my guts, embarrassing me with my own naïveté. He knew my intelligence but used it against me in some kind of judo move. For all my theoretical smarts, his knowledge came from talking to real people all day long, spotting the liars and thieves among them.

  He’s been my antagonist, but in the last few minutes he’s put his own life on the line several times to protect Jillian and me.

  Glenn is checking the shotgun he borrowed from the police cruiser and getting ready for an assault from Joe.

  Right now Glenn has the ambulance and the car to block a retreat and could make a run for it and abandon us. He won’t. He’s not even trying to get to our hiding space, where we have more protection from the assault rifle.

  He might be able to make a better last stand from here, but his position is better suited for firing at Joe if he comes at us.

  It’s a selfless thing Glenn is doing. He’ll get the better shot from there, but it will probably be his only one.

  He catches me staring at him. He gives Jillian a small nod, then locks eyes with me.

  Protect her.

  It’s primal. It’s chauvinistic. It’s what we’re biologically programmed to do—well, the best of us.

  I turn my attention to our patient. He’s leaning against the wall, grasping his arm below the wound.

  I notice for the first time this ambulance is actually a mobile medical center, with refrigerated storage and a mini pharmacy.

  “How are you doing, Sergeant Bryant?”

  “Wonderful,” he groans. “I had the night off.”

  I slide open a panel and find the hard stuff. “Want something for the pain?”

  “God, yes.”

  I give him a shot of morphine, and his face slackens.

  “Is that a good idea?” Jillian whispers to me.

  “He was still in shock. He was a minute or two away from screaming his lungs out. He lost a lot of his shoulder.”

  I’m afraid to try to redress the wound without a proper surgical environment. If I move the bandage, I risk uncorking whatever is keeping him from bleeding out. Instead, I put another layer over his shoulder, making sure there’s plenty of pressure.

  The first bandages I used had a built-in clotting agent and seem to be working pretty well.

  To be on the safe side, I get a syringe of clotting medication ready, as well as a bag of synthetic blood in case Bryant loses too much of his own. Synthetic isn’t meant to replace your blood—it just dilutes it better than straight saline, helping you maintain blood pressure.

  “What are we going to do?” asks Jillian.

  “Glenn called for backup. I’m sure help is coming.”

  We’re both well aware that Joe is close by and will be here before any help.

  Glenn is creeping toward the front of the cruiser. He has the shotgun trained on a point off to our right.

  BOOM! He fires at something.

  Glenn moves to the other side of the hood, then shoots again. BOOM!

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Bullets fire into the police car, making ice-pick clangs as they hit.

  Glenn lurches forward and groans loudly. A bullet hit him in his side.

  I rush toward the back of the ambulance to help.

  “Stay back!” he snarls through gritted teeth, then pumps the shotgun.

  He bounces up and fires another volley. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  BANG! BANG! BANG! His chest is covered in red blossoms, and he falls to the ground.

  I leap out of the ambulance and pick up his shotgun. When I try to run back to the door, my leg collapses under me, and even before I hit the road I know I’ve been shot.

  My chin hits first, splitting open on the rough asphalt.

  When I look up through hazy eyes, I get my first view of him twenty yards away.

  My initial reaction isn’t terror or shock.

  It’s awe.

  Joe is enormous. He’s clad in body armor from head to toe, and his face mask is a metal shield with narrow slits and war paint. Across his Kevlar chest is a necklace of bear claws.

  At his waist I see the stainless steel metal claws, waiting to be unleashed.

  He walks slowly toward me with his rifle aimed at my chest. He could have fired already, but he’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying watching me as I see him for the first time.

  I raise myself up on my good knee and limp back toward the ambulance. As soon as I get near, Jillian grabs me under the arms and pulls me into the back.

  I see her eyes widen as she catches a momentary glance of Joe.

  “Did you see him?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She rips open my pant leg to examine my wound. “Help me with this—what do I do?”

  “He’s . . .” Words fail me.

  “Theo! Help me with this!” she yells.

  I’m staring out the window at the shadow of Joe as he gets closer. What’s it like to have caused so much death? Do you think you’re no longer human? Do you imagine yourself a god trapped in flesh? Do you even feel anymore? Or are you just a creature of pure reaction—like lines of code?

  So many questions.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  HUNTED

  Joe raises the rifle and fires at the back window. I throw myself over Jillian and Bryant, turning my back to the barrage.

  The inside of the ambulance is chaos as bullets shatter glass, burst through metal walls, and riddle the doors with holes.

  I feel a searing pain in my thigh and another in the side of my body.

  The staccato beat of the rifle comes to a halt, and the only sound is our breathing. I can feel Jillian under my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin.

  Her body is shielding the wounded cop—one more layer of humanity trying to protect him.

  There’s a deep, whinnying sound as someone labors to breathe.

  Jillian turns to look at me, wipes away strands of dirty-blonde hair, and mouths, “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” I try to say but only sputter blood.

  Her face, inches away from my own, is a wide-screen vision of terror as red-tinged saliva trickles out of my mouth.

  I realize the wheezing sound is me. One of Joe’s bullets grazed a rib, fracturing it.

  “Hold on,” says Jillian. She crawls out from underneath me and goes toward the door.

  I try to say, “Don’t go out there,” but start to cough.

  She grabs the handle of the open lower door and pulls it shut, sealing us in.

  The upper window is filled with holes, but it’s largely intact. Although I don’t know what difference it will make. One more spray of bullets from Joe and the glass is likely to give way.

  Seconds later, the handle begins to rattle as Joe tries to open the door.

  Jillian and I watch anxiously; then the noise comes to a halt.

  “I think he’s gone,” says Jillian.

  “No, he’s not,” I gurgle.

  “Theo, tell me what to do!” She runs her hands across my body and finds the wound on my rib cage.


  “How’s he?” I ask through gasps.

  She touches the cop’s neck and measures his pulse. “Alive. Now help me patch you up.” She assists me into a sitting position.

  “No time . . .”

  “Bullshit. Tell me what to do!”

  “Gloves,” I say through labored breathing.

  She digs through a pile of supplies and finds a box of blue gloves and slips them on. “Now what?”

  “Is the wound deep?” I ask.

  She probes the injury, trying to gently see if there’s a bullet hole, implying there could be a bullet inside me.

  “Fuck!” I scream when my body is attacked by white-hot, searing pain.

  She pulls back. “I’m sorry!”

  “It’s okay . . . It’s a good sign.”

  “I can feel your rib. I think it’s fractured.”

  “No hole. Get . . . the clotting . . . bandage,” I gasp.

  The internal bleeding is just a temporary symptom, I hope. If there had been a bullet hole through my chest and lungs, I could be dead in minutes.

  Jillian rips open a pack of the same bandages I used on Bryant and sticks them to my skin. The clotting agents mix with the blood and start to form a seal, stopping the flow of blood from the wound.

  Still, I feel woozy.

  “Theo?” Jillian raises her hand from the floor. It’s covered in blood. “I think you got hit on the leg in two places.”

  She searches my body and presses on my thigh. I feel like I just got stabbed.

  “I’m so sorry! I think it went through, at least.”

  She finds a pair of scissors and cuts away at my jeans.

  “Should I wrap it, too?”

  “Plug . . . ,” I say through gritted teeth. “Like a tampon . . .”

  Sometimes the best field dressing is a round plug that fills the wound. It can be a lifesaver or make things worse, depending on the type of wound. For a hole straight through my thigh muscle, it’s the most expedient solution.

  “Like this?” she asks, holding up a syringelike applicator.

  “Yes . . .”

  Without warning—which is probably for the best—she shoves it into the wound. The pain is so intense I pass out for a moment.

  I come to with Jillian slapping me and calling my name.

  I feel cold and weak. “Yeah.”