by Greig Beck
Franks’s face turned a couple of degrees harder. Oops, Logan thought, and dropped his smile and cleared his throat. He made another note: FBI sense of humour = zero.
Jack Hammerson had stopped talking, but Logan continued to stare into the agent’s unwavering eyes for a few seconds. His police nose told him something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what that might be. Still, they were the good guys, so they said, and they certainly looked formidable. Every man, woman and dog was welcome to join his investigation right about now.
‘Thank you, Agent Hammerson,’ he said. ‘Let me make a few calls and I’ll be right back.’
As he got to his feet, he noticed both agents watching him like they were hungry predators, as if studying every inch of him to identify his strengths and weaknesses. The woman, if that’s what she was, made him feel especially uncomfortable. He hoped they checked out; he didn’t want to have to try to put cuffs on either of them.
* * *
Hammerson and Franks waited in silence while the Asheville police chief went out to check their identification. The FBI profiles they’d provided were perfect, and their reproduction IDs came with a divert and intercept technology net over the whole area, which meant any reference checks would be re-routed to their own information centres in Nebraska. Their back stories would survive a far more detailed scrutiny than Chief Logan would be able to bring to bear.
Hammerson reached forward to touch the gouge in his thigh — as expected, no pain and no stiffness. Both he and Franks had covered their wounds with battlefield skin-sheets, plastic-like adhesive patches that were infused with steroids, painkillers and antibiotics. The wound simply felt like it ceased to exist, and rapidly healed beneath the synthetic polymer sheet.
Logan came back into the room with two of his officers, and handed back their IDs.
‘Sorry for the inconvenience, but it’s unusual for the Feebies to pay us a visit,’ he said. ‘Especially over a few simple disappearances ahead of the coming snow season.’
Hammerson got to his feet as he took back the small leather ID wallets and studied Logan’s face. He liked the man; he seemed old school, just like himself, although he was clearly out of condition. He also seemed in a hurry and under pressure. Hammerson didn’t have the time to spend waiting for the man to open up; he needed to give him a little push.
‘We’re always happy to help the locals — offer our expertise, technology and hardware,’ he said, looking the chief in the eyes. ‘Now, tell us about Kathleen Hunter. The information we received is that the disappearance was far from simple. In fact, all the disappearances are about as far from simple as you can get.’
Hammerson was fishing; all he knew was that Kathleen Hunter disappeared in undefined circumstances, but the man was too edgy over a single case. There was a lot more he was keeping bottled up.
‘We don’t have to tell these stiff-collars anything, Chief,’ the smaller, moustachioed officer cut in. ‘This ain’t a federal issue, it’s Asheville jurisdiction. End of story.’
Franks got to her feet. ‘Wanna bet?’
‘Shut up, Markenson,’ Logan said, without turning to his officer.
The officer glared at Franks, who smiled. The second, taller officer stepped up beside Markenson and folded his arms. Franks turned side-on and flexed her hands, still smiling.
Hammerson spoke to her. ‘At ease.’ He could tell she was still pissed after the roughing up Senesh had given her. Nothing she’d like more than an opportunity to let off some steam by caving in a few heads.
He turned back to Logan, his eyes boring into the man. ‘We know the disappearances are not routine; we know there have been several abductions. There are identical MOs all over the state. We’re here to help, but we’ll only offer it once, Chief Logan.’
The chief held Hammerson’s eyes for nearly a full minute, before exhaling — probably with a great deal of relief, Hammerson thought. He motioned to the couch. ‘Sit down, Agent Hammerson, Agent Franks. Fact is, I could do with your help, and I’ve got a story to tell that’s getting weirder by the hour.’
Logan talked for fifteen minutes, detailing the missing cattle and domestic animals, the disappearance of the Wilson girl, and then the bloody scene at Kathleen Hunter’s place and her disappearance. He frowned as he ran through the scientific information he’d been given, seeming doubtful of its veracity, and finished with Amanda Jordan’s description of the thing that had attacked her and her husband, who was still missing.
Hammerson sat like stone as he absorbed the information. When Logan had finished, he said, ‘Tell me about the scientific consultants again.’
Logan repeated the names, and Hammerson nodded and smiled. Logan lifted his eyebrows. ‘You know them?’
‘I know one of them — Matthew Kearns.’
Markenson, perched on the edge of Logan’s desk, scoffed. ‘He’s a know-it-all asshole.’
Hammerson ignored him. ‘We’ve worked with him before; he’s okay. Where is he now?’
‘In town, I hope,’ Logan replied. He turned to his deputy. ‘Call them will you, Ollie — make sure they’re not planning on doing anything stupid.’
Markenson got to his feet. ‘Sure, which one?’
Logan scribbled down some numbers and handed the paper to him. ‘All of them.’
Markenson headed out, and Logan turned back to Hammerson. ‘I gave ’em a blast after they brought me their cockamamie theory on the disappearances.’ He snorted with remorse. ‘Now I’m thinking I’ve got a problem on that mountain that looks like it might just be…’ He grimaced and raised his hands palms up, before interlocking his fingers and bringing his large hands down onto his desk.
Hammerson realised he didn’t want to put into words what his imagination was telling him.
Markenson poked his head back into the office. ‘No answer, Chief, for any of ’em.’
Logan sucked in a deep breath and Hammerson saw him sag. He sat forward. ‘What are you thinking, Chief?’
Logan shook his head and exhaled loudly. ‘It’s my fault — I kicked ’em out, told ’em they needed more proof for their theories. I bet they’ve headed on up to the high slopes to get that proof.’ He stood. ‘We need to get up there too, with some firepower, and head off Kearns and his team.’ He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘Problem is, they’ll have half a day on us — and there’s no phone reception up there. Best I can do is try to catch up with ’em before they get into too much trouble.’
Hammerson tapped his chin with a gnarled fist. He suddenly knew where Alex Hunter was going. If Kathleen Hunter had been attacked, perhaps taken, by whatever was up on that mountain, then Hunter would find her, or what was left of her. And then he’d take his revenge. If it was up on those slopes, then Hunter would be heading that way too. Hammerson smiled ruefully; send a beast to kill a beast, he thought.
‘We’ll come with you,’ he told the police chief.
Logan shook his head. ‘Not in that gear — you’ll freeze. Look, Agent Hammerson, with all due respect, this isn’t gonna be like tracking down some psycho on a New York street, or an accountant who’s swindled his bank out of a million bucks. The Dome will be freezing and pretty inhospitable, even at this time of year.’
Hammerson laughed softly. ‘I think you’ll find we’ll manage, Chief. In fact, I insist.’
Markenson eyeballed Franks and made a sceptical noise in the back of his throat.
Logan glanced from Hammerson’s rugged face to the brawny and fearsome-looking Casey Franks. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but at least allow us to supply you with some cold-weather gear.’
Hammerson shook his head. ‘We’ve got kit. Like I said, don’t worry about us, we’ll be ready.’
Logan nodded. ‘We should get moving. Gonna take us a while to catch up to them, if we can at all. I just hope we’re not too late.’
Hammerson got to his feet. ‘Would a chopper help?’
TWENTY-SIX
Sarah turned the car as Thoma
s directed, onto a track that was little more than a pair of ruts pressed into the cold, wet grass. Matt jammed his hands up under his armpits — they shook slightly, and much as he tried to convince himself it was from the cold, the knot in his belly told him otherwise. Matt peered through the windscreen from the back seat, where he and Charles were jammed in with their equipment. He noticed that the blanket the old Indian was draped in smelled like cigarette smoke and camphor. Next to him, Charles was holding a long handgun and what looked like a flat plastic lunchbox. As the car bounced into and out of a pothole, the gun poked into Matt’s leg.
‘Careful with that, cowboy,’ Matt said.
Thomas turned in his seat, looked briefly at the gun and made a small sound of contempt in his throat.
Charles shrugged. ‘It’s okay… tranquilliser only.’ He turned the gun sideways, forcing Matt to recoil to avoid the barrel. ‘It’s an X2 — aluminium, gas-based dart pistol. Twelve shots — short range but silent and very accurate.’
Thomas shook his head.
Sarah spoke over her shoulder. ‘What chemical mix are you using?’
Charles opened the small plastic case, and smiled down at a row of four pencil-long darts, each filled with a small amount of clear fluid. ‘I doubt we’ll actually find anything up there, but just in case I decided on a neuromuscular paralytic — Pavulon actually, 1.44 micrograms. It’s pretty powerful stuff, but a good choice for larger… um… targets. It should give us immediate knockdown, and, depending on the size of the creature, at least two hours for study.’
Sarah briefly turned, frowning. ‘Pavulon? That’s one of the drugs they use in lethal injections, isn’t it? How do you know the dosage is right?’
Charles shrugged. ‘I don’t — everything we’re doing is a first. I’ve prepared the dosage based on a 1200-pound animal. We just have to hope its physiology reacts like any normal mammal.’
Thomas Red Cloud looked at the gun again, then at Charles. ‘How big is your anus, Mr Schroder?’
‘What?’ Charles looked from Matt to Sarah, and then at Thomas. He frowned. ‘Uhh, I didn’t quite catch that, Thomas.’
‘I asked you how big your anus is. I just want to be sure the gun will fit there after you’ve fired it at the Chiye-tanka and it’s taken from you. ’Cause that’s where it’s gonna end up.’
Matt burst out laughing, feeling his anxiety lift a little, and patted Charles on the shoulder. ‘See, he likes your idea as well.’
Charles pulled a face before resting the long-barrelled dart gun on the seat beside him. ‘Very funny, Chief. At least I came prepared. What did you bring — some more magic spells and woofle-dust?’
‘Yes, Mr Schroder. I brought the dust of my ancestors, magic bones from Geronimo, and a spirit amulet made from the hair of a wild buffalo.’
Matt sat forward. ‘You’re shitting me. Really?’
‘No, you pair of assholes, I brought a .45 Colt Anaconda.’ Thomas looked into Charles’s face. ‘I do not intend to study this creature, Mr Schroder. It is the slayer of my ancestors. I intend to put a hole in it the size of a dinner plate.’
Sarah stopped the car. ‘That’s as far as we can go.’ She turned and raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay, I guess that’s the team-bonding session out the way. Anyone for a nice freezing hike?’
* * *
The three men returned to their vehicle. They had stuffed the veterinarian’s body into one of the cages at the rear of the surgery. It would be hours before anyone found his beaten and tortured remains, and by then they would be out of the city and closing in on their target.
The man in the back seat removed his sunglasses and cap and examined his ulcerated hands in the semi-light that came in through the tinted windows. ‘It hurts.’
‘Graham will fix us,’ said his colleague in the front passenger seat. ‘Put your gloves on, we need to hurry.’
The man in the back nodded and slowly pulled his gloves back on over the oozing flesh.
* * *
Casey Franks narrowed her eyes as the enormous chopper settled onto its three sets of double tyres. Beside her, Officer Markenson pulled his hood up to protect his ears from the biting down-draught.
‘Holy shit, do you think you could have gotten anything bigger?’ he said disagreeably, folding his arms against the swirling icy air.
The single pilot gave Hammerson a thumbs-up; the HAWC leader nodded in return.
Franks felt a surge of pride as the behemoth settled into the cold earth. At nearly 100 feet in length, the CH-53 Stallion had been one of the US army’s most formidable transport machines when in service. Despite the fact that Hammerson had raised it up from one of the aeronautical boneyards where newly retired equipment went to be deconstructed and recycled, the chopper still bristled with rocket tubes, machine-gun pivots and sensory equipment, and the tilted rear fin gave it a modern appearance.
She and Hammerson trotted to the open door, climbed in and waited just inside the frame. Logan took this as a sign to load his own officers and pointed to the door, his words lost in the swirling wind. His men ran towards the chopper in a hunched jog, even though the still spinning propeller was at least fifteen feet over their heads.
Franks dropped her duffel bag and flexed her hands to get the circulation going. Inside, it was warmer, but only just. Most of the equipment had been removed from the cavernous interior, leaving a row of attached metal seats down each side of the hold, a few small steel cabinets and netting on the walls, and two powerful-looking winches at either side door.
Hammerson motioned for Chief Logan to join him in the cockpit. Franks watched with amusement as Markenson and his fellow officers took seats along the opposite side of the craft from her. She doubted Logan’s men were keen on opening up the social lines anytime soon. Suited her; she wasn’t here to make friends.
As Hammerson passed her, he said briefly, ‘Suit up.’
She nodded and lifted the duffel bag to the metal seat and unzipped it. She caught Markenson looking at her and paused to smile at him and slightly purse her lips. The moustachioed officer mouthed, Fuck off, and stuck his hands in his pockets to keep warm, using his legs to hold his rifle.
Franks kept up her smile — she loved these hard cases. She turned to face him and started to remove her clothing. In no time she was down to her underwear. Most of the men acted like she was invisible, but Markenson shook his head and made a sour face at one of his fellow officers.
She caught one of the men sniggering and leering at her, and turned square on to him, her hands on her hips, displaying her muscled body, its skin crisscrossed and dotted with scars and burns and the swirls of multicoloured tattoos, her flattened breasts that were more like a weightlifter’s pectorals, the thick white bush crowding out of her underwear. She thrust her tongue out in an aggressively lewd gesture and the man quickly dropped his head to examine something on the floor.
Tiring of the game, she turned to pull her cold-terrain suit from the bag. The dark, close-fitting overalls looked like a combination of wetsuit and insulated body armour, with inch-thick flat ribbing around the torso, thighs and upper arms. The ribbing allowed for maximum movement, while its overlapping structure provided protection. The suits had built-in thermal controls and were fully woven through with a Kevlar fibre; they’d keep the wearer warm in temperatures down to twenty below and also stop a high-calibre slug.
Franks pulled on gloves with similar impact-resistant material over the back of the hand and knuckles. Then, machine-like, she slid two guns into holsters built into the low hips of her suit. She sheathed a long-bladed Ka-Bar into a holster on one thigh, and put a short-bladed Ka-Bar into a holster on the other. Finally, she inserted numerous electronics into concealed pouches and pockets.
She felt good, the suit’s warmth immediately infusing her muscles with mobility. She rolled her wounded shoulder, and threw a few air punches, her hands up in a fighter’s stance. She spun quickly and punched a metal cabinet, her fist making a deep dent in the steel.
>
She smiled and nodded to herself. ‘Oh yeah.’ Then winked at Markenson. ‘Let’s go do some damage.’
* * *
Jack Hammerson tapped the pilot on the shoulder and held up three fingers: Three minutes until take-off. The pilot nodded and began his pre-take-off check.
The blocky HAWC commander sat down, placed some earphones over his head, and motioned Logan to the seat next to him. The police chief strapped himself in and put on his own phones.
Hammerson’s voice came through the headset. ‘We’re in your hands, Chief. Where to?’
Logan pulled from his pocket a small map that had been folded open to show a topographic contour chart of greater Asheville. He placed the map on Hammerson’s leg and pointed. ‘Far as we can tell, everything seemed to start here.’ He jabbed his finger at the centre of a series of tight green circles that indicated a high, steep mountainous area. ‘The Black Dome. It’s where the Jordan couple were initially attacked. If we work through our incident timeline, everything seems to radiate out from that event.’
Hammerson read some of the numbers on the map, then looked out the window. ‘The Dome peak is over 6000 feet, and that cloud cover looks down to about 5000. We’re gonna have to do some climbing if we need to get to the top.’
Logan pointed at the map’s grid lines. ‘Too steep to set down up there. I’m guessing we’ll need to jump?’
Hammerson grinned and nodded.
Logan grinned back. ‘Pick-up?’
Hammerson shook his head. ‘Chopper’s heading back. We’ll be walking home, big fella.’
Logan laughed, then looked around the large military machine, and back at Hammerson’s hand where it rested on the map. The knuckles were raised and callused, the fingers large and blunt.
‘You’re not really city Feds, are you?’ he asked.
Hammerson seemed to think over his answer for a few moments, then smiled and shook his head.
