Hunted

by William W. Johnstone

  Darry cut his eyes to Rick. “You going to make it?”

  “Oh, yes,” the ranger said, his voice surprisingly strong.

  Darry looked down at Sam Parish. “Sam, as a revolutionary, you are a total bust.”

  “I reckon,” the man said. “I think I’ll go back to cleanin’ out septic tanks. Standin’ in shit all day was a picnic compared to the last few weeks!”

  31

  By the time the sheriff and his people arrived at the ranger station, Darry had vanished into the rain and the mist of the wilderness area.

  Rick and Alberta were helicoptered to a hospital, Sam Parish and his people were taken into custody, and the bodies of the dead were body-bagged and hauled away.

  “I’ll stay here until a ranger shows up,” Johnny volunteered. “I’ve got to wait for a tow truck anyway.”

  Sheriff Paige looked at the man. “Aren’t you the one who jacked the jaw of that fed a couple of weeks back?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Should have done it in my county. I could guarantee you no jail time.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Johnny called the number Alberta had given him and spoke to the district chief. “It’ll be a day or two before I can get someone in there,” Tom told him.

  “I’ll stay,” Johnny said. “If you trust me to look after things, that is.”

  “Oh, I trust you. Chuck says you’re an all-right fellow. See you in a day or so.”

  Johnny stepped out onto the porch. “Come on in, Darry. It’s all clear.”

  “Right here, Johnny.” Darry spoke from the edge of the building.

  Johnny turned. Darry stood there, Johnny’s suitcase in one hand, the Winchester in the other.

  “I got your things out of your car. I thought you might stay around for a time and you’d need them.”

  “Thanks. Rick’s clothes ought to fit you. You sure look like you need a hot shower and a change of clothing.”

  The men took turns showering, and while Johnny was toweling off, Darry made coffee and turned on the satellite system. Another special report from Coyote News was on. Johnny came into the room just in time to watch it.

  The reporter was verbally clawing away at the back of big government, and was pulling no punches. Darry had not heard about the killings in Texas and New York, and he was saddened by them, but not surprised by the viciousness of the government in dealing with citizens who, for whatever reasons, were unable to pay their taxes. The sight of the girl, just barely in her teen years, lying dead, half her head gone, touched him deeply.

  “Pitiful. Just pitiful. The government is out of control,” Johnny said, during a commercial break. “I’ve seen it coming for a long time. What surprises me is that they’ve let the Coyote Network alone for this long.”

  “You can bet the government is working frantically to find some way to shut them down . . . without further pissing off a large chunk of the American population.” Then he told Johnny about Robert Roche.

  Johnny smiled. “You’re real good, Darry. You would have had a bright future in the Company.”

  “No, thanks,” Darry said drily.

  “What about the other mercenaries Roche hired?”

  “They’re all dead. Their bodies will never be found.”

  “You buried them?”

  “No.”

  Johnny decided not to pursue that any further. “Roche has publicly committed himself to backing the Coyote Network. He can’t pull out now. He’d lose too much credibility with the American public. Mr. Big-shot has backed himself into a corner.”

  “That’s my thinking.”

  “Are you aware that the judge who issued the order allowing citizens to use deadly force in defending themselves against mistaken entry by officers of the law was just struck down a few hours ago by a higher court?”

  “No. But that doesn’t surprise me. Big government at work.”

  “Coyote News is planning to jump on that decision with both feet.”

  “I expect so.”

  “I hope Coyote understands they’re going to piss off a certain breed of cop when they do.”

  “Law enforcement can’t afford to make mistakes. When a cop makes a mistake, someone is likely to get hurt or killed. What the courts need to do is untie cops’ hands on some issues and shorten the leash on a few other issues.”

  “What happens to you now, Darry?”

  “I fade away, if the government will let me.”

  “And you think they’ll let you?”

  Darry smiled. “No government ever has.”

  “What about Max Vernon?”

  “He’s still in Idaho. But north and east of here. I’m told that Max blames me for all his problems. Max and I will meet, sooner or later.”

  “You don’t sound too upset about it.”

  “I’m not. I never worry about death, Johnny. Why should I?”

  * * *

  Due to the unrelenting pressure from the Coyote Network, all charges were dropped against Kevin Carmouche, Vince Clayderman, and Todd Noble. The Collier family’s assets were freed, and they went through a very quick audit by the IRS and came out owing nothing. Charges against Paul Collier were dropped.

  Beverly Stevens, the schoolteacher from Kansas, settled out of court with the government.

  Rick Battle recovered from his wounds, and he and Alberta Follette were married. Together they run the ranger station.

  Johnny McBroon got some truly remarkable close-up pictures of the wolf packs now living in the Idaho wilderness (thanks to a little help from Darry), and left to write the text of his book about the Wolves of Idaho.

  George Eagle Dancer stayed on, working for Chuck the outfitter. Chuck said since he was getting on in years, he just might someday sell the place to George.

  As of this writing, the government still hadn’t decided what to do, if anything, with Sam Parish and his group. The film Ki shot of the agents attacking an unarmed group of men and women was just too damning. Sam and his CDL did kill some government people, but only after being savagely attacked and illegally detained. The President’s advisors felt that since the mood of the American people was overwhelmingly antigovernment, the whole damn “incident” had best be quietly forgotten.

  The President’s plan to move against Darry Ransom was never put into operation. The Pres was too busy fighting for his political life to worry about one man.

  Inspector Hank Wallace and Special Agent Carol Murphy remained with the FBI, as did Jack Speed and Kathy Owens.

  Tom Sessions was not forced to retire, not after he went to the Coyote Network and told them his story. The government said it had all been a mistake. Welcome back, Tom.

  The Coyote Network didn’t do many stories about Panga-Panga, or yak drivers, or despots in Africa, but they sure as hell kept the United States government’s feet to the fire . . . and never let up. Their evening news and their news specials continued to be the most watched in TV history, and never lacked for sponsors. The other networks just could not catch up to Coyote. Or would not.

  The bodies of the dead mercenaries were never found.

  * * *

  Autumn’s colors were just touching the land, and nature’s paintbrush was busy and beautiful. Ki had a “little thing” going with Johnny McBroon and was with him, and Stormy was spending a few days with Darry at his cabin. At her stubborn-as-a-mule insistence, Darry had hauled in a generator and a TV satellite system and had hooked it up. When Stormy was visiting she now had electric lights and television, and hot water to bathe in that she didn’t have to heat on a wood-burning stove.

  “I’ll bring you up to date and into the twenty-first century yet,” she told Darry.

  “I’ve already been through seven centuries,” he told her. “I’m going to be rather hard to impress.”

  The couple was sitting on the front porch of the cabin, watching the sun go down, Pete and Repeat sleeping a few feet away.

  “I think the government is finally seei
ng the light, Darry.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “A lot of senators and representatives have approached Coyote, and outlined legislation they plan to introduce. It looks real good, Darry. It’s a start.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “But they’ve promised, Darry!”

  “They’re politicians, dear. It’s like George says when he’s feeling in a humorous mood: ‘White man speak with forked tongue.’ ”

  “But you’ll agree it’s a start?”

  Darry said nothing for a moment. How to make her understand that he’d lived through centuries of seeing governments start to do lots of things the majority of their citizens wanted; but once momentum waned, the promises from the mouths of noblemen, knights, and kings and queens vanished like smoke in a breeze.

  Darry took a sip of coffee and said, “All right, Stormy. It’s a start. But you people at Coyote can’t let up for an instant. Don’t cut the government any slack—ever. You people have the government on the ropes now, and you’ve got to keep them there. Your cameras have to be there every time a citizen gets fucked over by the government. Hell, Stormy, why am I telling you your business?”

  “I guess for many of us this is something new, Darry. In the eyes of the public, the majority of the press have always taken the liberal slant to most issues. We’ve never really gone in-depth on welfare cheaters, confronting them face-to-face and taping it. We’ve never taken a hard law-and-order stance. Not to my knowledge. We’ve always run hanky-twisting, sobbing-sisters stories about the poor, poor, underpriviledged lives of criminals. Looking back at them now, I have this urge to puke . . .”

  Darry watched as Pete and Repeat both suddenly lifted their heads, staring out into the dark timber. Darry hand signaled them to stay on the porch. Stormy did not see the signal.

  “What the public doesn’t know is that there were some stories we couldn’t broadcast. The network wouldn’t let us.”

  “How many lawsuits does Coyote have against it now?”

  “They were stacked up a mile high. Some people take exception to being asked why they lay up in public housing, on welfare, and continue to have babies they can’t afford, while the working taxpayers have to foot the bill.”

  Somebody was prowling around in the timber. “You said were stacked up?”

  “Most of them were thrown out of court for lack of merit; others never made it that far. But to tell you the truth, I still feel uncomfortable asking questions like that. It isn’t the fault of the kids.”

  “It isn’t the responsibility of the working taxpayers to have to pay for someone else’s careless fucking, either.”

  She giggled. “I can just see me going on the air and saying that!”

  Whoever or whatever it was in the timber was staying there. So far. “But it’s the truth. And you know me well enough to know that color has nothing to do it.” Darry could feel the tenseness in the hybrids. Whoever or whatever it was out in the darkness was not friendly. The hybrids were signaling danger.

  “Take Pete and Repeat and go into the house, Stormy,” Darry said softly. “Lock the doors and get the shotgun I taught you with. And be ready to use it. Don’t question me, just do it. Right now.”

  Without a word, Stormy rose from the chair and went into the cabin; only one lamp burned. The generator was not running. She blew that out after taking the shotgun out of the rack. At Darry’s signal, the hybrids rose and went into the house. Darry sat on the porch and heard Stormy close and lock the front and back doors.

  Darry silently rolled off the porch. An instant after touching the ground, his Other took shape. The huge gray wolf entered the timber as silently as stalking death . . . which in this case, it most certainly was.

  Darry smelled the strong and unwashed odor of man and knew instantly that Max Vernon had made up his mind to end this stalking game of wait and see . . . one way or the other. But only Darry was certain of the outcome.

  Darry picked up six distinct odors, each as different as DNA. That was something else that science had yet to learn, but they could, if only they would grow closer to the animal world and learn from them . . . and not break their promises to them.

  “Why aren’t those goddamn big-ass dogs barking?” a hoarse whisper cut the night air.

  “Because Darry and the cunt took them inside the cabin, that’s why. Darry is shoving the meat to that bitch right now. We set the cabin on fire and shoot them as they come out.”

  “Let’s take the reporter alive, Max,” another voice was added. “I want some pussy. Then we can kill her.”

  “Suits me. Just be sure those damned dogs are dead.”

  “What if it’s true about Darry, Max? Maybe he is immortal.”

  “That’s horse-shit, Marty. We’ve been over and over this.”

  Darry sprang at a dark shape. He hit him so hard and so viciously the man went down without uttering a sound, which would have been impossible anyway, since he now had no throat.

  “Fred?” The one-word question was whispered.

  Silence greeted the men.

  “Check on him, Sonny,” Max said.

  Sonny eased his way through the darkness of brush and timber and was bending over the motionless body of the rogue agent when Darry leaped, long fangs glistening wet-white in the dimness. When his paws touched the ground, the fangs were crimson.

  Marty Stewart saw the flash of gray and the spray of blood as the throat was ripped out of Sonny. He opened his mouth to scream, but he was so frightened no sound could push its way past fear-constricted muscles. Darry struck with blinding speed, and the man was dead seconds later.

  The smell of blood was sharp in the clean, fresh air.

  Pete Elkins began firing blindly all around him. Several of the rounds slammed into Richard Adams, killing him instantly. The great gray wolf leaped at Elkins and rode him down, ripping and tearing at the man’s neck.

  Out of the darkness Max Vernon saw a man’s shape rise from the ground. But when he lifted his M-16 and fired, the shape was no longer there.

  “Ransom?” he yelled. “Goddamn you, Ransom.”

  “Behind you, Max.”

  Max spun around and blasted the night with automatic weapons fire. But he hit nothing except trees and rocks.

  Darry heard the man cussing and the clank of an empty magazine striking the ground. Darry came through the darkness running all out. He leaped, and one boot struck Max in the face, knocking him backward, his nose broken, and loosening his grip on the M-16.

  Max staggered to his feet and took a wild swing at Darry. Darry sidestepped and clamped powerful fingers on Max’s throat. Max tried to knee him, but that was blocked. Max tried to club him with his fists, but all he could hit were thick arms and powerful shoulders.

  Through a roaring in his head, Max heard Darry say, “You really should do your homework better before you assault innocent people, Max. But now it’s too late, isn’t it?”

  Darry’s fingers tightened, and Max felt his throat being crushed.

  Darry released the man and let him fall. He stood over Max until he was sure the man was dead; then he turned and walked back to his cabin.

  * * *

  Three days later, at his home in Virginia, the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in his study and looked at the envelope on his desk.

  Mail from home, he thought.

  It was common knowledge that the DIR/FBI was adopted. It was common knowledge that he’d been found by a couple on their front porch one morning. Back in Idaho.

  It was also common knowledge that when the DIR/FBI became very angry, his eyes could turn a strange shade of yellow/brown, almost like an animal.

  He opened the envelope and read:

  Dear Cousin:

  You had six rogue agents left out here. They ain’t ever gonna bother no one else again. Hope you and yours is well and happy. George Eagle Dancer is working out fine. Me and him get along. Buckskin sends his best.

 
; Chuck

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 1995 William W. Johnstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL PRESS, LYRICAL UNDERGROUND, and the Lyrical Underground logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Office.

  First electronic edition: May 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3530-7

  Notes

  1 Watchers in the Woods—Zebra Books

  2 September 1994—Shreveport, Louisiana

  3 Watchers in the Woods—Zebra Books