It's good to be home.
No matter how he loved the Continent or exotic locales, nothing felt so good as to come home to the sights, sounds, and smells of Skye. He opened his eyes and stared up at the crystalline blue dome overhead. Thin, wispy clouds scudded across the horizon, far to the west.
That way, he mused to himself, lies trouble.
Jayne hadn't contacted him in over twelve hours. Normally, that would not concern him in the slightest as Jayne was his most experienced and resourceful field agent. If anyone could get out of a bad situation, it would be her—more than likely leaving a trail of blood and mayhem in her wake. The question remained when and where would she reappear—and how much collateral damage she would cause.
The roof hatch opened with a squeak behind him and Stefan's head appeared. "Shall I bring the luncheon, my lord?"
Reginald nodded absently. "Thank you, Stefan." He leaned his hips against one of the crenelations. Stefan looked not the least bit comfortable to be at such heights on a rickety, collapsing medieval tower, but gamely pressed forward and produced the silver platter with a flourish.
Reginald tucked the napkin into his shirt and rubbed his hands together. "You know, I find the air up here most refreshing. I've quite regained my appetite! What have you today?"
Stefan removed the silver dome from the platter and bowed. "Langoustine in feiulle de bric avec basil. Fresh caught, my lord."
"Excellent," replied Reginald. He reached for a garishly labeled bottle on the tray. "Is this…?"
"Irn Bru, my lord. I realize it is not exactly the traditional beverage paired with such cuisine but I thought you might like—"
"No, it's perfect!" Reginald took a deep drink from the ice cold bottle of Scottish fizzy pop. "God, it's just like I remember. You know how long it's been since I've had one?" Reginald laughed, looking at the five-star cuisine spread before him and the extremely sweet bottle of pop in his hand. "Thank you."
Stefan nervously glanced at the edge of the crenelation to the calm waters of the loch, some 80 feet below. "You're certain this tower's still structurally stable, my lord?"
Reginald picked up a succulent morsel of 'Norwegian lobster' and took a bite. He cheerfully replied around the food, "Not at all!"
Stefan's face paled. "Oh…that's…"
Reginald laughed. "Of course it's stable, Stefan. You honestly think that I would be up here risking my life for a good view?"
Stefan arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Reginald rolled his eyes. "Very well, I retract the question. But Dubai doesn't count," said Reginald, pointing a bit of skewered langoustine at Stefan. The steward merely inclined his head.
Reginald sighed. "You know me too well, Stefan. Well, you have me at a disadvantage—you win this round."
"Will my lord be needing anything else?" asked Stefan, already backing toward the hatch.
"No, I will not be needing anything else. You may go."
Stefan bowed and scrabbled his way down through the open hatch, letting it shut with a soft click.
Reginald chewed and let the ocean breeze carry his worries away. He needed exercise—yes, that's what he needed. As soon as he finished lunch he would head down into the practice yard for some calisthenics. He took a long swig from the Irn Bru and wiped the sweet froth from his lips.
The hatch opened behind him and Stefan's head reappeared. "I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you again, my lord, but you've received an important Class One communique."
Reginald looked over the edge and brushed the crumbs from his lunch into the water far below. "Class One? Who is it?"
"I'm afraid the young lady refused to divulge her name. The only word she said was 'treize'. I must say, it certainly sounded like Mistress Svea…"
Reginald felt his pulse quicken. 13—she's alive! "Don't just stand there gaping about like a shepherd, give me the bloody phone!" snapped Reginald.
Stefan offered the phone then gracefully disappeared, closing the hatch behind him.
"Is that you, dear?" asked Reginald when he put the phone to his ear. "Are you all right?"
The reception was scratchy, the signal bounced halfway around the world and back to avoid detection, but the voice was clear enough for Reginald to confirm.
"Yes…for now. I need clearance through British airspace."
Reginald smiled. "I have a lot of questions for you—chief amongst them is why you decided it was necessary to retire some of my best operatives?"
"Was the package not delivered?"
Reginald thought back to when Darius limped into his private chambers and handed over the USB drive with all of Dr. Boatner's vaccine research. "Oh yes, the package has been delivered," he replied.
"Then I see no problem," was the terse response. "If they were some of your best, you need to work on your training program. Now, are you going to give me clearance or not?"
Reginald stifled a laugh. "But of course I will give you clearance. You must return home straight away!"
"Thanks. ETA in four hours. Make sure there's a fire going in my room, please—you know how I hate winter in that dreadful chalet of yours," she said.
"Well, you're in for a pleasant surprise, then. When I say home, I mean home. The chalet is…closed for the season, shall we say?"
"Closed? What are you talking about?"
"My dear, you've been out of the loop for too long. I can see we have a lot of catching up to do. You have enough fuel in whatever vehicle you've commandeered to make it to the loch?"
"The loch?" asked 13. "I didn't realize things had gotten that bad."
Reginald sighed as he stared out over the dark, choppy waters. "Sadly yes. I'll give you a full debriefing when you arrive, assuming you're up for it."
"Oh, you know me, I'm up for anything."
Reginald beamed. "I look forward to the pleasure of your company. Do be safe and get home soon."
He shut the phone off then pushed a speed dial button.
"Yes, my lord?" asked Stephan.
"Did you hear that conversation?"
"Yes, my lord. The call was monitored."
Reginald nodded to himself. "Superb. Can you authenticate?"
"She's not using her standard communication frequency, but voice analysis confirms, it is our long-lost Mistress Svea."
Reginald closed his eyes and sighed. The first batch of good news all day. "Excellent. Make sure to give her whatever she needs, medical attention, food, clothing—everything but rest. When she arrives, I want her brought to me immediately."
"Very good, my lord."
Reginald pocketed the phone and stared out over the water into the blue expanse overhead. Somewhere out there, Svea was on her way. It remained to be seen whether she was loyal to him or a traitor, but either way, she brought a certain amount of excitement. It wasn't the same as having Jayne back in his immediate presence, but it would have to do.
CHAPTER 24
Salmon Falls, Idaho.
DENNY PEERED THROUGH THE pine branches and tried to force his heart to slow. Despite the snow on the ground, sweat trickled down his spine. He was taking a huge risk meeting Deputy Griswold like this. At least Anse would be present.
So why can't I get up and walk out to meet them?
Denny frowned, cursing himself for a fool as he watched Anse and Deputy Griswold shake hands in the little clearing. Anse carried his hunting rifle, what looked like an old .308, slung over his shoulder. Dressed in winter camo, he looked more like a yeti then the gym teacher Denny remembered from Salmon Falls High.
Deputy Griswold, a head shorter than Anse, stood tense in front of his beat up patrol car. It sported two spare tires and a busted red dome light. Bullet holes peppered the front right quarter panel and the rear window had been spider-webbed.
Neither of them kept their eyes still for long. Anse said something, making the deputy smile, but Denny was too far away to hear.
Something held Denny in place—something warned him. Of what? He slowly turned hi
s head to the left and to the right, scanning the forest for any movement.
Denny held his breath. He heard nothing—not the graceful muffled silence of a new fallen snow, but an eerie, unnatural silence when nature itself tells you something is wrong. Denny felt the hairs on his arm raise. Now he was certain something was amiss. He had to warn the others.
Denny slowly moved forward without brushing snow off the pine tree in front of him and emerged into the clearing. His eyes scanned the treeline. There's got to be someone out there.
"Jesus!" gasped Anse, "you scared the hell out of me!"
Denny shook off the feeling he was being watched and trotted over to Anse. He glanced behind the deputy. "Something's wrong. I don't like this."
"Ah, you're just jittery, Denny. This here's Deputy Griswold. Mark, this is Denny Tecumseh. Our history teacher."
The Deputy stepped forward and offered a gloved hand. Denny shook it, looking into the man's eyes. Griswold had gray eyes and a young face. A hard face, but one that held no deceit, Denny was certain of it. His handshake was firm and his eyes remained locked on Denny's. A good sign.
"Mr. Tecumseh, I heard a lot about you. It's pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Likewise, Deputy. Thank you for coming, both of you," began Denny. "I have many things to discuss with you, but something doesn't feel right. I think we better try again later."
Anse spoke in a quiet tone, trying to placate Denny, but he wasn't paying attention. Denny looked over his shoulder. His ears had picked up the faintest sound…a whisper.
Little Spear…
Denny abruptly turned the other way. The wind that rustled the pines behind him…he swore it sounded like Grandfather Red Eagle.
Little spear. You're not alone.
Denny drew his tomahawk from it's frog on his belt. "I'm serious, Anse. We need to get out of here. Now."
Anse looked around, and his face betrayed skepticism, but Denny noticed with satisfaction that his hands shifted to get a better grip on his rifle.
Griswold turned and pulled out his service revolver. "I think Mr. Tecumseh may be right. Something don't feel right about this, boys. Listen, we'll try again—"
A rifle shot scattered the silent birds in the trees. The windshield on Griswold's patrol car sported a new hole. The deputy dropped to the ground and rolled to place himself behind the left side of his car.
Without a word, Anse dove to the right but came up short when a man stepped around the tree and drew a pistol on him.
Ignoring the shout of warning from Deputy Griswold and the bark of surprise from Anse, Denny spun and crouched. As he turned, he spotted movement between two pine trees. There—the shooter. Denny sent his tomahawk sailing across the open distance.
Behind him, Griswold's revolver belched noise and fire. Denny threw himself to the snow-crusted ground and rolled left, trying to get clear of the crossfire.
Denny hit the ground and heard a shriek of pain from the woods in the direction he had thrown his 'hawk. Branches snapped, the pine tree quivered, and snow cascaded from its boughs as his target went down.
Behind him Anse and the stranger struggled, rolling in the snow, snapping and growling at each other as they threw punches and kicks. Another shot rang out, and Anse yelped in pain. Denny watched in horror as the stranger scrambled to his feet and aimed the gun at Anse's head.
Deputy Griswold fired his weapon and the stranger's coat rippled at the shoulder as he spun around and staggered into a tree. He grunted, then without looking back, pushed into the forest and disappeared into the pine trees. Griswold unloaded his revolver into the forest and yelled for Denny to get to Anse.
Denny scrambled through the snow on the ground to reach Anse. "You okay?" asked Denny as he rolled his friend over. The snow had already turned red. Denny feared the worst.
"Reloading!" Deputy Griswold called out as he flipped open the cylinder of his revolver with shaking fingers. He dropped in a moon clip and snapped the revolver shut, then crouched next to a tree, his weapon extended with both hands toward the forest.
"I don't see him… I think I winged 'im, but I don't know…"
"God damn it—that burns!" growled Anse as he gripped his side, his face clenched in pain. "Is it bad? Oh God, it hurts! It's bad, ain't it? Shit—I knew I shouldn't have come out here…God damn it!"
Denny ignored Anse's swearing and pulled his knife free. He cut away the blood-soaked jacket plastered to Anse's side. Blood had liberally smeared the snow, making Denny's gloves slick and hard to grip. In frustration he dropped the knife and ripped his gloves off to better examine the wound.
Anse continued to pepper Denny with questions about whether he would live or not and if the attackers were dead. At last, satisfied Anse would not expire in the next five minutes, Denny sat back on his heels and looked at the blood covered hands in front of him. He laughed.
"What the fuck is so funny?" demanded Anse. He groaned, "I've been shot and you're laughing?"
"It's just a scratch," said Denny as he got to his feet. He bent and scooped a clump of snow to wash the blood from his hands. Retrieving his knife and gloves, he trotted across the clearing toward where he'd thrown his tomahawk.
"I thought you were dying!" said Deputy Griswold in the distance. "Yeah, looks like he nicked ya. You're one lucky son of a bitch…"
Anse tried to sit up and yelled again. "Feels like I've been shot in the gut!" Denny blocked out their banter as he entered the pine trees where his tomahawk had disappeared. He immediately spotted a patch of red snow between two of the thicker trees. He found a rifle half-buried in a snow bank—a nice bolt action.
Denny held his knife in front of him like a dagger and inched around the next tree, following the trail of blood on the ground. It started out as a few drops, but by the time he rounded the next tree it became a river of red.
Denny found the body face down in the snow, his tomahawk clutched in the man's hand. The fool had pulled it out of his chest, creating a geyser of blood. He knelt to check for a pulse, the knife angled up behind the man's neck in case he tried anything. Satisfied he was watching a corpse, Denny pried the tomahawk from the man's grip. He scrubbed snow on the blade and wiped off most of the blood, then dried it on the attacker's jacket.
He sat back and sighed, trying to calm his shaking hands. A small part of him was alarmed that he was more concerned with getting Anse's blood off his hands. He took three deep breaths through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, hoping for calm.
"Time to see who you are." Denny rolled the corpse over. It was harder to do than he'd figured. When he'd hunted down the Russians, he'd left them for the scavengers, not bothering to bury them. Mostly, they fell where they'd been shot and that was that. They were strangers, invaders. He'd felt nothing but recoil when he pulled the trigger.
But this… He stared down at the body. "Why did you do this?" he whispered. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his nerves. The entire world felt as if it were pushing down on his shoulders. He struggled to keep his breathing from matching the pace of his racing heart.
Denny heard footsteps and spun, bringing the tomahawk up to throw. Deputy Griswold pushed back a bough from the nearest pine and stepped through the resulting shower of snow. He ignored the powder on his campaign hat and looked down, still holding his service revolver in one hand. "Nice throws, Mr. Tecumseh."
Denny stood and holstered his tomahawk. His hands shook even more now. "It's Denny. And thanks."
Anse called out to them from the clearing to hurry. "The one that shot me got away, remember? I don't want to be here when he gets back with his friends!"
Deputy Griswold sucked air between his teeth. "If half the town didn't hear that gunfight, the other half could probably hear him yelling his fool head off. I don't think we have much time."
Denny knelt again and carefully searched through the dead man's pockets. "You know who he is?"
"Nah," Griswold said after a moment of inspection. "I've seen him before around town,
but I can't say that I ever got his name."
Denny pulled out the man's wallet and keys, a few granola bars and a glow stick, then pocketed it all. He stood and looked at the Sheriff's Deputy. "This is Greg Abbott. He's the father of the smartest girl in my history class. Felicia. She was on her way to a 4.0 her senior year when everything around us went to hell." He sniffed and rubbed at his face. All he wanted to do was sleep.
"She had full rides waiting for her at BYU and USC—she just had to pick." He looked down at the body of the man at his feet. "He and his wife, Rebecca..." Denny glanced back at Deputy Griswold. "They had me over for dinner back in September when she got the acceptance letters. They wanted to discuss Felicia's decision to attend USC. They wanted me to convince her to stay closer to home and pick BYU…"
Anse pushed his way through the pine trees like a drunken bear. "What the hell are you guys doing…damn!"
Denny shivered as if stepping from a hot shower into a cold room, then stepped over the body to retrieve the buried rifle. He dusted the snow off and slung the long gun over his shoulder. A small strap attached to the stock held four more rounds. "As far as I know, Greg here never fired a weapon in his whole life."
"Probably why he missed," muttered Griswold.
"Jesus, Denny," exclaimed Anse, "you killed Greg Abbott."
Denny shot a withering glare at Anse. "You realize he came within a few inches of blowing Deputy Griswold's head off his shoulders, right?" Denny shook his head. He glanced around the snowy landscape, a familiar tickle between his shoulder blades. "If Townsen can get good, upstanding men like Greg Abbott on his side, we'll have a harder fight than I thought."
"So you want to fight," said Griswold as he holstered his weapon.
"I got a score to settle of those sons of bitches now," muttered Anse, gingerly checking his side.
"I wasn't talking about you," spat the Deputy. "I know you do—you'd pick a fight with a honey badger."
Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga Page 15
