Prey sahl-1

by Ken Goddard

  "Going to be a little tight in there, but Marie looks pretty small, so we should be okay on weight," Woeshack said as he finished stuffing in the last bag and then stood up, a pair of long broom handles in his hand.

  Lightstone started to say something, but his attention was caught by a reflection off the overhead wing.

  "You've got ice on the fucking wings?"

  "Oh, yeah, sure. We got a lot of that up here." Woeshack shrugged as he handed Lightstone one of the broom handles. "Believe me, it's no big deal. All we've got to do is get it off." He grabbed the edge of the wing with his left hand for balance, brought the broomstick up over his shoulder with his right, and then slammed the stick down hard on the wing surface, sending small chunks of ice flying in all directions.

  Henry turned and walked back to Marie and Sally Napaskiak.

  "You know we're going to crash," he said in a strangled voice. "Either we're going to be too heavy to take off, or we're going to ice up, or the fucking wings are going to fall off because our pilot has been pounding on them with a goddamn broom handle."

  "Oh, don't you pay any attention to him," Sally Napaskiak advised Marie, shaking her head. "You two are going to be just fine. Thomas has been a federal government pilot for three whole weeks now, and he hasn't killed anyone yet. So why should you two happy people be the first?"

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tuesday September 14th

  To virtually any other resident of the southern shoreline of Skilak Lake, the sudden cracking of a dried branch would have been immediate cause for alarm. But in this remote and isolated area of the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, the fiercely protective Kodiak had no natural enemies. With her cubs close by, she was completely engrossed in the alluring clumps of lush, ripe, raspberry-like salmonberries and low- bush cranberries. She had every intention of seeing her small cubs develop the fatty tissue necessary to carry them through the cold Kenai winters.

  Relaxed, confident, and only mildly curious about the source of the crackling noise, the mother Kodiak grunted her annoyance as she rose up to her full nine-foot height. Once upright, so that she could see over the interwoven salmonberry stems and alder branches, she quickly focused on her young male cub, who had wandered too far. More branches snapped as he awkwardly tried to work himself in closer to an especially sweet-smelling loop of fibrous material that seemed to be drenched in berry juice, and the repetition of the familiar sound caused the last of the mother Kodiak's residual concerns to vanish.

  The Kodiak bellowed a long, grunting whooof to warn the cub back, then dropped down again to continue foraging. She was reaching out toward a particularly enticing clump of red salmonberries when the sudden, terrified yowl of her cub erased all thoughts of eating from her instinct-regulated brain.

  In an instant, seventeen hundred pounds of furious motherhood exploded through the mass of interwoven branches and stems that would have hopelessly trapped any lesser mammal. Charged with adrenaline, her eyes bulged as she saw her tortured baby cub dangling from a rope held by a relatively small and mostly hairless upright creature.

  Had the sow possessed any sense of what it meant to have natural enemies, she might have hesitated. But in nature, the desperate urge to protect the young at any cost is always the dominant instinct.

  Exposing her huge teeth in a savage snarl, the enraged sow brought her massive shoulder muscles down in preparation for attack. In her fury, she paid no attention to the shiny, long-barreled pistol that suddenly appeared in the creature's hand, nor did she ever actually hear the gunshot that tore into her right shoulder. The fractured joint gave way, sending the roaring bear tumbling muzzle-first into the soft earth.

  Mindless of anything but the sound of her squalling cub, she staggered up onto her three functional legs, her right foreleg dangling useless. She tried to make the uphill charge once more… only to go down again when the carefully aimed second bullet ripped into her left shoulder socket.

  There was another momentary flash of pain, so severe this time that it threatened to eclipse her awareness. But then the white-haired predator yanked on the rope, causing her cub to cry out again, and the mother Kodiak suddenly rose up on her hind legs like a demon out of hell, her neck bowed like a huge striking snake as she lunged upward, her fearsome teeth bared for the kill.

  The third high-velocity bullet shattered the knee joint of her right rear leg, and she came down heavily on her side. But this time she was only a dozen feet from her tormentor, and the furious churning efforts of her left rear leg-as well as the swiping motions of her damaged but still functional left forearm-brought her to within six feet before the fourth bullet slammed into her left hip and completely broke her down.

  She might have stayed there then on that rocky hillside, having done all that could possibly have been expected of an animal limited to the fearless use of muscle, bone, and heart in trying to protect its young from the most savage species on earth.

  It would have been reasonable, and understandable, and even just.

  But her cub was squalling steadily now, fighting against the rope to reach its mother, while the white-haired man simply laughed.

  Which was all it took to send the tortured Kodiak roaring forward one last time, slashing out at the leg of her tormentor with her one functional paw even as Gerd Maas sent the fifth bullet from Sonny Chareaux's single-action. 357 Magnum Ruger revolver into her brain and silenced those unyielding maternal instincts forever.

  "Look at them," she whispered in amazement.

  Henry Lightstone and Marie Pascalaura were sitting together in the bow of the twenty-five-foot patrol boat, bundled up in thermal underwear, sweaters and windbreakers under their life vests to ward off the chilling offshore breezes. They watched in silent fascination as the now-familiar pair of bald eagles continued to perform their aerobatic twists and turns over the glistening turquoise surface of Skilak Lake.

  The graceful raptors had been performing for the past half hour, probably, as Refuge Officer Sam Jackson suggested, because it kept their human competitors from concentrating too much on trying to catch their fish.

  Sam Jackson, a twenty-two-year veteran at the Kenai Refuge, and longtime friend of Thomas Woeshack, had shown up in a patrol boat an hour before. Wearing his reddish-orange "Mustang" survival suit and carrying his golden retriever pup, he had been more than happy to pull out his own fishing pole and join them.

  "I think they're the most beautiful things that I've ever seen in my life," Marie said, cradling the golden retriever pup in her arms now and laying her head back against Henry Lightstone's shoulder. "I think I could get used to days like this."

  "It isn't bad," Lightstone agreed. "But I'm not too sure about that idea of saving on grocery bills by catching our own food," he added thoughtfully as he stared out at the gently bobbing lure. Although they had already hooked and released several two- and three-pounders, the ten-to- fifteen-pound "keepers" had shown no interest whatsoever in the Grey Mosquito fishing fly. Their Alaskan guide had apparently overestimated the rainbow trout. Just like he overestimated his flying skills, Lightstone thought, recalling the young agent-pilot's two aborted attempts to put the Skywagon's twin floats down on the wind-rippled lake surface, attempts that Lightstone had privately described to Marie as "probably how a stone feels when it gets skipped across a lake."

  "Hey, Woeshack," Lightstone said as they watched one of the eagles swoop down toward the water and then tumble wildly in the air, narrowly escaping disaster as one of its talons locked onto and then lost a glistening and thrashing sockeye salmon. "Is that your flight instructor up there?"

  Jackson laughed. "I saw him try to make a landing out on Lake Hood just like that a couple of days ago."

  "Don't let them pick on you, Thomas," Marie Pascalaura said, holding onto her pole and the pup as she looked back over her shoulder. "I think you fly just fine."

  "That's okay, I don't mind," the young native Alaskan agent shrugged easily. "In fact, they're right. The eagles have alway
s been my inspiration. As a child, I often watched them catching their food from the water and dreamed that I would fly just like them one day." He cast his line with an effortless flick of his wrist out toward a swirl in the water about thirty feet away.

  "Well, you've just about made it as far as I'm concerned," Lightstone said, ignoring Marie's warning elbow to his ribs.

  Trying to concentrate on the gentle swirls around his slowly drifting fly, Lightstone heard but chose to ignore the sharp, distant explosion that suddenly echoed across the huge Alaskan lake.

  Instead, he continued to breath in a slow, steady rhythm, his muscular hands rock-steady on the eight-foot rod. His feet were solidly braced against the tightly secured backpack that contained a pair of 7x40 binoculars, a stainless-steel Smith amp; Wesson revolver fully loaded with. 357 hollow- points, and his special agent's badge and identification, all of which Henry Lightstone had no intention of using on this bright, crisp, peaceful Alaska fall day.

  "Come on, you picky bastards," he whispered. "Go for it. What the hell are you waiting for?"

  "Don't worry, lover," Marie Pascalaura whispered. "There's always the fish market."

  The second echoing gunshot caused Lightstone to blink, but his eyes never strayed from the gently bobbing fly. In the murky depths of his subconscious, Henry Lightstone had already categorized the shots as having come from a high- velocity pistol somewhere along the southern shore of the lake, probably at least a mile and a half away. Fine, he thought to himself, moving the tip of his rod slightly. I don't care about gunshots today, just as long as the bullets aren't coming in our direction.

  Off to the right, a large, slow swirl broke the reflective blue surface about fifteen feet away from the lure.

  "There, did you see that?" Marie asked as she clutched Lightstone's arm anxiously.

  "Just be patient," Woeshack advised quietly as he stared out over Lightstone's shoulder at the glistening water. "They think they are the hunters, but you're the one who has the bait they want. Watch for the next one. It will come to you."

  It was the timing of the third explosion, as much as anything else, that jarred at Henry Lightstone's peace of mind.

  Paced shots, cool, deliberate aim, he thought, unable to resist the urge to count off the interval.

  Not a hunter.

  … thousand and three, one thousand and four.

  "What's the matter?" Marie Pascalaura whispered, but he ignored her.

  Now.

  Crr-rack… booom!

  Henry Lightstone slowly turned his suntanned face toward the distant southern shore, aware that the soaring eagles had instinctively drifted away from the echoing explosion. He waited… and then winced six seconds later when the fifth shot echoed across the water with a discernible sense of finality.

  "You have many hunters out here?" Lightstone asked.

  "A few," Sam Jackson said with an edge to his voice. "Never heard any shoot like that, though." He, too, had detected the unlikely pattern of the gunshots.

  "Someone doing some target practice, maybe?" Thomas Woeshack suggested, but the tone of his voice suggested that he didn't really believe it. He slid his rod down against the gunwale of the aluminum boat and reached for his backpack.

  Lightstone could hear Woeshack at the rear of the boat, opening up the waterproof equipment box that had been bolted to the cross structure of the sturdy patrol craft. At the same time, Sam Jackson slowly and carefully climbed back into his smaller patrol craft and opened up his own equipment case.

  For a good five minutes, the two federal agents and the refuge officer scanned the distant rocky, tree-lined shore with their binoculars, searching for some sign of the individual who seemed much too methodical- much too precise — to be a hunter, while Lightstone tried to hold back the harsher reality that threatened to overwhelm the serenity of the glistening, smooth water. Memories of grisly crime scenes and deadened eyes. And of terrified victims, and of nervous suspects on the edge of panic, ready to run or fight or kill again, because they were never sure of exactly how much you knew.

  "Anybody see anything?" Woeshack finally asked in a hushed voice.

  "Nothing here," Sam Jackson answered from his boat.

  "Nothing here either." Lightstone shook his head. "You're probably right. Just some guy out-"

  There was another splash nearby, and the fly rod suddenly clattered violently across the bottom of the patrol boat.

  "Hey!" Marie Pascalaura cried as she lunged across her fiance's lap and grabbed her fishing rod just as it was about to go over the side.

  The sudden pull on the line as the thirteen-pound, hooked rainbow trout dove for the rocks pulled Marie forward, causing her to squeal in surprise as the rod bent down toward the water like an eight-foot bow.

  "Hold on to it!" Lightstone yelled as he yanked the binocular strap up over his neck and reached for the waterproof case.

  "What do I do?" she gasped as she tried to get back into her seat.

  "Give him some line and watch out for those rocks," Sam Jackson advised, quickly securing his binoculars and reaching for his net. Thomas Woeshack got ready to pull up the light anchor and kick in the motor if the fish pulled them anywhere near the rocks that protruded from the water about fifteen yards away.

  "I knew your luck would change," Woeshack said cheerfully from the back of the rocking boat.

  "I hope you're right," Lightstone nodded as he looked one more time toward the distant southern shoreline.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "Do you see anyone?" Gerd Maas asked over the loud, angry roar of the bear.

  Up in the hills surrounding the southern shore of Skilak Lake, and about half a mile from the thick berry patch where the Kodiak sow had fought and died, the male grizzly bear had started to growl and slash at the cage again. But Maas was ignoring it, because he was still on a high from his more recent encounter with the enraged mother bear, and because he was much more concerned about getting the setting exactly right.

  "Just some fishermen. Four of them, in two boats," Kimiko Osan replied as she continued to scan the distant northern shore with the powerful spotting scope.

  "How far out are they?"

  "About a mile," she estimated. "Due north, just outside Doroshin Bay. One of them is wearing an orange survival suit. I think he's the refuge officer we've been monitoring. The one with the small dog. They are very busy. Three of them have fish on their lines, and at least two of the lines seem to be tangled."

  "Good. They shouldn't be too interested in what we are doing here," Maas nodded as he pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves over his muscular hands. Then he turned to Shoshin Watanabe.

  "What about the plane?"

  Watanabe spoke into his radio, listened for a reply, and then looked back up at Maas. "He is flying in a circle pattern approximately thirty kilometers to the south."

  "And the diversion team?"

  "Parker and Bolin are in position, approximately five hundred meters to the east. They are also ready."

  "Excellent."

  Twenty feet away and partially concealed in a clump of spruce and alder, the male grizzly roared out his anger as he continued to tear and bite at the aluminum crossbars of the portable cage. Several of the bars had already been bent by his furious mauling.

  Ignoring the bear for the moment, Gerd Maas walked over to where the two men had been secured to individual trees with lengths of wide medical gauze and hospital tape to eliminate the possibility of telltale bruising.

  Kneeling down before the younger of the two, Maas placed the long serrated edge of his belt knife against the man's neck-causing his eyes to bulge wide open-and then, with a savage twist of his wrist, he cut the gauze and tape wrappings away from Butch Chareaux's mouth.

  It took the younger Chareaux only a few moments to recover his composure, whereupon he began to curse wildly in his fluent Cajun dialect until Maas dealt him a savage backhanded blow to the side of his bearded face.

  "You will remain silent," Maa
s ordered in a raspy whisper as he cut the bindings away from Chareaux's legs. Then he looked up at Kimiko Osan, who was standing a few feet away with Paul McNulty's. 45 SIG-Sauer automatic and Sonny Chareaux's stainless-steel. 357 Magnum revolver in her small hands.

  "Are you ready?" he asked.

  "Yes. Are you comfortable with his boots?" Kimiko Osan responded. She was hesitant to question Maas, but she knew that timing would be crucial and that Chareaux's boots were two sizes too big.

  "They are fine," Maas nodded with icy-cold indifference.

  "Then I am ready also," she said calmly.

  "And you?" Maas turned to look at Shoshin Watanabe, who was standing next to the tree where McNulty was tightly secured with gauze and tape.

  "Hai!" Watanabe acknowledged with a sharp forward nod of his closely shorn head.

  "Good, then we begin," Maas said as he cut the last of Butch Chareaux's ties. Maas held him on the ground with a knee pressed into his lower spine and his unbroken wrist twisted tightly against his upper back.

  After dragging the Cajun about ten feet in front of the rocking cage, Maas took the. 357 Ruger revolver from Kimiko Osan and slipped it into the back waistband of his jeans. Then he looked up at his young, attractive, and absolutely lethal assistant and gave her the nod to proceed.

  Moving with a smooth, almost feline stride, Kimiko Osan returned to the tree where Paul McNulty was secured and slid the heavy SIG-Sauer into the front waistband of her jeans. As she did so, Shoshin Watanabe-a small man with exceptionally strong arms and hands for his size-cut away the gauze and tape restraints from McNulty's mouth, wrists, and legs.

  "Goddamn it, what the hell are you- Aaggghh!"

  Watanabe immediately caught McNulty in an extremely painful reversed wrist lock and then allowed Kimiko Osan to step in and take over the control hold.

  "Listen to me, goddamn you!" McNulty raged, but to no avail.

  Pausing only to be certain that Osan had McNulty fully in her control, Shoshin Watanabe walked over to the cage and placed his hand on the release lever, ignoring the fearsome thrashing and roaring and clattering of the cage sections as the infuriated grizzly tried to get at its tormentors.