As the car approached, he remained absolutely still. He was looking at a GMC Acadia, black, moving slow enough to avoid kicking up dust in the dry roadway.
Was this another attacker? Some sort of outlying patrol?
A shaft of moonlight rested on the driver’s face as the vehicle crept past. Flynn saw a woman’s hair, some kind of a sweatshirt, and a face with a distinctive, immediately recognizable profile.
He lay there in the ditch, his mind racing. Diana?
But no, it was impossible. She had recruited them all, she had created the team. But it was a very special team, wasn’t it, consisting exclusively of the few police officers who had complained to the FBI that the abductions were real.
They had all been slaughtered, all but one.
Had it been another deception, designed to silence the few people who had realized what was happening and were equipped to do something about it?
Still puzzling it out, he rose from the ditch and faded back onto the far side of the road, into the land that belonged to the state wildlife refuge.
From his experience as a detective, he knew not to draw conclusions until the facts came into focus, and they weren’t in focus now. In fact, they had just gone out of focus—way out of focus.
He had never known that it was possible to feel this isolated and alone.
He also knew from the bitter anger that he felt that he had begun to love Diana—not that she had replaced Abby, but that, as this ordeal went on, he had been finding a place in his heart for her.
But who did she love? Who was she, really? Cut away all the promises and all the claims, and what was left was an ID that she admitted was false.
He put some distance between himself and the ranch, crossing a limestone hill, stopping only when he reached a bluff. Far below was the lake. This was the bluff where he’d seen the caves. Were they of any use to him now? Maybe, but the chance of getting trapped was too great.
He had definitely been observed by the tiger and possibly in other ways, so he could not risk remaining on this side of the ranch. Also, he needed to regain his pace. The moon was already well risen, the land flooded with its glow. The more he hesitated, the more his danger increased.
Even so, this whole side of the property was now compromised. He had no choice but to descend the bluff, go back across the road near the marina, and climb up to the ranch from the other direction.
If he was fast, this might work.
He clambered down, intending to double back and make his way along the lakeside until he reached the stream, then cut through it and return in his earlier scent trail.
When he was about halfway down, there was a flash from below. It wasn’t bright but it was followed by a familiar electric crackle that surprised him so much that he almost lost his grip. Struggling not to fall, he turned to look down—and saw, incredibly, that the entire clearing at the foot of the bluff was filled with the creatures of the village with their great, stricken eyes. Four of them had Tasers, and a fifth had something that from this distance was far more dangerous. This was a rifle, probably one that he or Mac had brought into the village.
Laden with the machine gun, the heavy magazines, and his other equipment, Flynn nevertheless had only one maneuver. He had to climb back the way he had come.
Immediately, a rifle shot rang out. It was wide to the left, perhaps fifteen feet away and low. Knowing as much as he did about shooting, Flynn knew to move toward the impact point, not away from it. And indeed, this caused the shooter to miss again, this time by five feet to the right.
If he was lucky, this would work one more time, maybe two. The shooter was small, therefore clumsy with the rifle. But with unknown capabilities. He increased his speed.
Another shot struck the limestone, this one close enough for him to feel a spray of shattered stone against his cheek. The shooter was either brilliant or very poor, to be trying for a head shot.
Another shot, and this time Flynn felt the heat of it. Limestone fragments from the bluff stung his neck.
The next shot would make it.
He reached the lip of the bluff.
Pulling himself up with all his strength, he rolled onto the top as two shots in quick succession slammed into the limestone just below him.
The shooter had found his target, but an instant too late.
They were racing up the bluff with the ease of creatures made to climb.
He ran, speeding toward the road. He was desperate now and he knew it. His only hope was to make it back to the marina and get to the car. But they could flank him easily, and there were the dogs and there was the tiger, and Diana out there, who could be extremely dangerous, as much as she knew about the way he thought.
The car. Now. His last chance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
He stayed off the road itself, leaping stands of cactus, darting around cedar thickets, stumbling when he came upon a concealed draw, then picking himself up and continuing on.
He ran hard and far, passing through the silent countryside with the swiftness of a deer, quick but vulnerable.
He couldn’t hear a sound behind him or around him. It was as if he was entirely alone. And now he had to add a new concern, which was the silent helicopter. Now that they were certain he was here but no longer sure of his location, it might well become involved.
He reached the marina, which was closed and dark. He rejected the idea of taking one of the boats. Even if he had time to wire it, they would then know where he would appear next, somewhere along the lake.
His car was the only one left in the hard-dirt parking area. He ran to it and got in. As he inserted the key in and started it, he looked up and down the road, seeing no movement.
An explosion shattered the air, and for an instant he thought the car had been bombed. But it was a rifle bullet. It had shattered the windshield. The shooter was in the brush fifty feet away.
He threw the car into gear and floored it. As he accelerated, the little car fishtailed wildly in the dirt of the parking area. Fighting to regain control, he pressed the gas pedal and it leaped ahead.
Dust churned up behind him as he sped along the marina road. His plan was now to violate all the rules. Instead of running from this impossible situation, he intended to rush the house and just shoot until they got him.
But the moment he turned into the ranch’s road itself, the black GMC that Diana had been driving appeared, blocking his progress.
Hauling on the steering wheel, he turned into the pasture and went slamming through a mass of cactus so large that his tires spun in the pulp.
A second later, the truck was behind him, its grill filling his rear window.
As he maneuvered through the pasture, he fumbled the backpack open and worked the machine gun into his hand. To stop the vehicle chasing him, he needed a perfect burst. He levered the gun to semi-automatic mode.
Was he about to kill Diana?
He put the thought firmly aside. This was work, feelings came later.
The truck kept close, so close that he couldn’t see the windshield. The driver wasn’t a fool, he probably knew that if Flynn got a shot at it, he was a dead man, and also that Flynn wasn’t going to waste bullets firing into the radiator.
A series of cracks, nicely measured, resulted in his own rear window being blown away. A powerful round was in use, sounded like a .308, probably a NATO round. Blow his head right off.
He swerved around some cedar, then skidded into more cactus, then plunged down into a draw. Behind him, the GMC blasted through the brush, pushing dense cedar aside like it was grass.
Again there was gunfire, and this time Flynn felt the whole car tremble as it took the shock of a round penetrating the trunk.
So they were going for the gas tank. Smart enough. He still had no shot.
Something had to be done, or he was going to lose this thing right here and right now. He drove on, unable to determine a productive course of action.
Then he saw water, then again
, ahead and to the right, the lake, its surface far down another bluff.
Okay, here was a maneuver for him. He got the HK into the backpack and opened his door. Now he was driving fast along the bluff’s edge, doing forty, fifty, the car shaking itself almost to pieces. Outside his door, the cliff fell away.
This was going to be a very damn close thing. Very close. He didn’t often bother God with his crap, but he bothered God now. A lot.
He spun the wheel to the left, causing the Cruze to literally go into tumbling flight. As it did, he dropped out of the open door and onto the cliff’s edge.
The car went spinning into the lake.
He let himself fall and keep falling, breaking his plunge as best he could. Finally, he was sliding, then some roots and a loose boulder temporarily stopped him.
Far below, the car struck the water. Nothing left but a red trunk, then the night blue of the lake, the car gone forever.
He looked up, and saw five feet above him another of the caves. Yesterday’s deathtrap was today’s refuge.
As the truck snarled back and forth on the ledge, Flynn clambered into the cave. How well did they know him? If Diana was involved, they would be certain that he hadn’t been in that car when it struck the water.
A moment later, he had his answer. It came in the form of gravel dropping down past the mouth of the cave.
So they knew their man.
The air coming out of the cave was cool—too cool, in fact, for this to be a small place. Back there somewhere was a very large cave indeed. Limestone tends to cave out over time, and this was old country.
He took his binoculars out of his pocket and saw, stretching away behind him, a substantial cavern. Its ceilings were cracked, there was rubble everywhere, and the only access to deeper areas was through a series of openings that looked like real traps, the kind of places that would never let you find your way out.
No time to lose, though. As somebody dropped down outside the mouth of the cave, he plunged into the opening with the strongest breeze, and found himself squeezed tight as he forced his way along.
Confined spaces were never pleasant, and he had been sensitized by that damn coffin, but he kept pushing, dragging the backpack behind him, one of its straps around his left ankle.
He came out into a larger space—and saw all around him huge, glaring eyes. His heart practically exploded out of his mouth, but he choked back the scream as he realized that these were not living creatures but paintings of the gods of some forgotten tribe of Indians. They were beautiful, tall, staring balefully, their arms pointing toward the ceiling—where, when he raised his head—he saw a magnificent representation of the night sky.
Scraping echoed through the cave as his pursuers started down the shaft he’d just come through.
He headed deeper, walking, stooping, running when he could, not really keeping track of his movements. He could get lost in here, no question. But no matter what kind of twists and turns he took, he always heard behind him the scrape of their footsteps, and their quiet grunting as they negotiated the next narrow passage.
No more than one or two of them, he thought.
He smelled dry grass—just a whiff of it, but it was there. That bit of air had come from the surface. So there was another entrance ahead.
Sucking air, painting the way ahead with infrared, he was soon moving steadily upward.
Behind him, the sound of their scrabbling had grown louder.
A glow ahead, then a faint voice from behind shouting at him to stop. He did not stop. Then there came the crack of a shot. The bullet was wide, but not very. He ran away from the sound and toward the glow—and found himself clawing his way out through a big stand of cactus, clawing and pulling at it, and forcing his body out to the surface.
Ignoring the torture of a thousand needles, he came up through the cactus—and saw, not fifty yards away, the truck. As he trotted toward it, he could hear that its engine was still running. He didn’t wait, he ran toward the vehicle, putting every single bit of strength he still possessed into the sprint.
The truck was empty, so he now had two choices. He could take the truck and head back to the highway and get the hell out of there. Or he could rush the ranch compound with it.
He turned the truck toward the house. His job. His battle.
He did not see the two figures in the road behind him, did not see one of them yank an old Stetson off his head and hurl it to the ground in frustration.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
He stopped just out of view of the ranch to check his weapons a last time.
The HK was in good shape, and you wouldn’t expect a weapon this durable to have any problem with a little fall down a cliff. All the magazines were there.
He stuffed the AMG into the pocket of his jeans and transferred the extra machine-gun magazines to his belt. Not the most secure way to carry them, but it was what he had. His most critical moments would be during exchanges. He’d trained with an HK and knew that he could pull and set two magazines in just under three seconds. Good time, but maybe not good enough.
He pulled the vehicle forward until he could see the compound. The house appeared quiet, the lights out. Beyond it, the barn was also dark. To every appearance, the place had been abandoned.
He took deep breaths, cleared his mind, and concentrated his attention on the world around him. He saw, just for an instant, some camouflage in motion about two hundred yards away. Somebody was in among a stand of mesquite, using the mottled shade as cover against the moonlight.
If he’d seen them, they could see him. He put the truck in gear and began moving toward the house. He drove quickly. There was no way for him to know whether or not they had realized it was him in the truck. He also didn’t know how many people here were capable of putting up a defense, let alone what form their weaponry might take, except that it would be exotic and it would be devastating.
He took the HK in his left hand and steered with his right. He passed the house, heading toward the area beside the shed that covered the entrance to the underground chamber.
Methodically, as he prepared himself, he tried once again to put aside his policeman’s confrontation training. He could not announce himself. He had to just do this.
He got out of the truck and held the HK ready.
As he’d driven across the compound, there had been no movement from either the house or the barn.
Something hit him in the right shoulder with such force that it spun him around. A flash of pain shot down his chest and up his neck, but he regained his balance, turning to face the direction the blow had come from.
There was no nearby cover. He looked farther, and there, in the shadows of a cedar thicket, he saw a darker area that a careful observer could see had a human outline. He must be using some sort of stun weapon.
Just briefly, Flynn squeezed the HK’s trigger. It blared out a burst and the figure sank. Just that quick. That impersonal.
Four shots, so twelve still in the magazine.
He moved closer to the shed, preparing for a reaction to his burst of machine-gun fire. But nobody moved in from the perimeter and the house and barn remained quiet.
He considered going down the ladder into the storm cellar, but decided to explore the shed first.
The door was unlocked, so he pushed it open.
This was probably an old well house. Before entering, he looked up at the grandeur of the sky. This was probably the last he would see of the world. He hoped that there was some sort of afterlife. That was all, hoped.
He entered the shed. Again, absolute quiet. There was an old stove pushed against one wall and a wooden trapdoor in the floor. Beneath it, there had to be opposition. That was fine by him. Just as long as he got to Morris, he didn’t care whether he survived or not.
He lifted the ring, then hefted the door slightly. It wasn’t barred from below. No, this was obviously the path they wanted him to take. The guy in the thicket had probably been out there to incapacitate him
with the stun gun and carry him down.
When he pulled it up, the door made no sound. Well-oiled hinges, lots of use.
He climbed down the old ladder to what had once been the root cellar, then took a narrow spiral staircase, much newer, that led deep.
The closer he got to the bottom of the narrow space, the stronger the odor became of blood and burned flesh, of burned hair and another stench that cops come to know. It doesn’t have a name, but it’s the smell of things that have gone horribly wrong, that clings to places where violence has taken place. It’s made up of sweat and blood and shattered lives, mixed together as the odor of fear.
The room glowed with soft fleshy light that came from the walls themselves. It was not a normal room, not a human room. Like the village, like all the rest of this place, it was an outpost of another world.
There was also a sheen of blood on the floor, and the stink of the place was so powerful that he had to fight hard not to gag.
Again, he heard the distant pulsation. He began moving toward it.
Machine gun at the ready, he went deeper. The pulsation became more and more distinct. Now it didn’t sound so much like a boiling pot as a thumping assembly line.
Ahead there was a figure, short, quick, dressed in black, opening a box of a familiar kind.
A moment later, something that looked like a glowing fireball sizzled into existence immediately above the body inside the box, which was a young woman, very pregnant. She was motionless but she did not look dead or even asleep.
Certain insects, he recalled, paralyze their prey so it will remain fresh for use later.
Her face was in shadow, but when he saw it clearly, he was confronted by such beauty that he gasped.
Immediately, the creature in attendance turned toward him, its movements snapping fast, like those of a quick snake.
Hunters Page 25
