Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  Her eyes moved back to the dimly lit guard shack. It looked like an unassuming little stone house, only a mile north of Reginald's castle. To the untrained eye that's exactly what it was.

  The thatched roof and white-painted stone walls screamed 'crofter's cottage'. A small, hand-painted sign out front proclaimed the proprietors ran a small art store inside. Perfect cover for one of Reginald's security outposts. This one happened to be on the main route between the northern half of the island and the castle.

  She knew Cooper and his men were perhaps an hour behind her, traveling quietly with their night vision goggles through the forest, creeping closer to their target. She checked her watch again.

  Shit. I'm late for dinner. I need to do this quick.

  She ran out of the woods and up to the front door, feigning fatigue. She called out for help and collapsed to her knees against the door.

  "Help! Is anybody home?" she called, laying on the accent.

  After a moment, light poured out from behind the curtained window to the right of the door. The hard, angular face of a young man appeared. He didn't look to be the artistic type.

  She composed herself, listening to several latches and locks disengage on the other side of the thick wooden door. At last it opened. Before her stood a tall, athletic man, dressed in the simple clothes of a farmer who stood ramrod straight with wide shoulders. He looked more like a soldier than a shepherd.

  "What's wrong?" he barked in a soft brogue.

  Not very friendly, are we? Danika smiled. We'll see about that.

  "It's my leg…" she gasped for breath and made sure her chest heaved. "I got lost in the woods…I'm trying to find my bed and breakfast. I went for a run, but…I have no idea where I'm at…" She forced herself to cry.

  It had the desired effect—the man knelt next to her. "Hey now, no need to cry," he murmured. He put one strong arm around her shoulder and helped her stand with a gentle touch. "Och, there now lassie, dry your eyes…you'll be okay. Dinna fash yourself."

  Her smile was genuine. She had always loved a good Scottish brogue. It was a shame this man had to die—he seemed like a nice enough fellow.

  He led her into the cottage, taking the first door on the left. The simple room held a few pieces of amateurish art in rough-hewn frames over a fireplace dark with soot. The beams overhead were stained black from what she guessed had been generations of use.

  "Sit yourself down, now. I'll no' be a minute. Let me get ye something to drink and a phone."

  She assumed there were cameras in the place watching her every move. She'd have to be fast. As he turned to leave, she stood. She lifted her foot up, drew the thin knife from of her ankle sheath, stepped forward and shoved it into the base of his skull.

  She cursed—he was heavier than he looked. When the knife blade severed his spinal cord, his body crumpled—dead weight. He fell forward, and she barely caught him before he crashed through the coffee table. She lowered him to the floor on the off chance he was only one part of a team.

  Danika rolled him over, removed her knife, and cleaned it. Under his fleece jacket, she found a concealed handgun in a shoulder rig. She examined the Glock and ejected the magazine, noted it was full and slammed it home. She racked the slide to put one in the chamber and got to her feet, pistol in her right hand, knife in the left.

  Moving back to the front door, she cleared every room as fast as she could, cornering with the pistol out and her knife in a reverse grip, her left arm under her right wrist to give the pistol extra stability.

  One more door to go—it's got to be in there.

  The house looked as advertised from the road. Nothing but folksy art, tired furniture, and a few worn books on rickety homemade shelves. Anyone in Scotland could've claimed it as their grandmother's cottage.

  She crept up to the final uncleared door leading out of the kitchen. It was heavy, made of reinforced steel that opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges with only a gentle push.

  Danika stepped into an elaborate surveillance room. Another man sat at a desk, his back to the door. He scribbled away in a notebook, oblivious to the outside world, his hand perched over a newspaper. She stood still and watched him, pistol aimed at the back of his head. Before long, she realized the man was looking up words in a dictionary for the newspaper crossword puzzle.

  "…e…i…l…" he muttered.

  Her disdain for the two-man surveillance team knew no bounds. Unprofessional hacks. A quick glance at the bank of monitors surrounding the man showed only one camera inside the house, aimed at the foyer just inside the door.

  Reginald had stations all over the estate, though. The path she'd taken from the treeline to the front door had been ignored. She'd hoped coming down the rocky slope would be seen as a long shot and not covered—she didn't like to gamble but it had been a snap decision. This time she'd gotten lucky. She frowned.

  I don't like luck.

  Danika took two quick steps across the room and tucked the pistol into her belt. No sense in using the gun here. If there was any kind of live feed from this room, someone would definitely hear a gunshot. She walked up behind the man, clamped her left hand over his mouth and as his body stiffened in surprise, she inserted the knife blade at the base of his skull, just like his partner.

  After a few seconds his body stopped twitching, and she laid his head down on the desk and jerked the knife free. Danika stood there for a second, thinking.

  She only had a few moments. There was no sense in returning to the castle armed, so she tossed the gun on the floor. She wiped off the knife on the man's back and replaced it in her ankle sheath. Now for the fun part.

  Danika shoved the man out of the chair to fall unceremoniously to the floor, then sat in front of the main computer terminal. Pulling up the software code, she sifted through initialization files until she found one she liked. She shook her head as she worked—reprogramming was a skill she rarely used.

  Reginald's operator training had been extensive. Among the sessions on how to avoid capture and resist torture, there were elaborate training courses taught by the most pre-eminent hackers in the world. She and the other operatives in her class learned how to infiltrate computer systems and change security algorithms. It had never been her strong point, but Danika still had more knowledge than the average IT worker.

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she rewrote bits of code and changed the initialization file. She rebooted the system and after a brief flicker, everything came back online. Her eyes swiveled to the phone on the desk next to the dead man. If it rang in the next 30 seconds, she had failed. Everything depended on who monitored the command and control room at the castle.

  If her guess was right, the little cottage out in the middle of nowhere suffered numerous power fluctuations. That meant the feed from the cottage might be interrupted enough that those back at the castle paid little attention.

  She waited, her heart keeping time. A clock on the wall continued its doleful ticking as the seconds slipped away.

  No phone call. I'm in.

  She left the terminal and dragged the body of the first guard into the room with his partner, then shut the door and locked it. Danika snapped the key in the lock to make sure no one found them anytime soon. The heavy steel door would have to be cut from the frame for someone to get inside.

  She made her way to the front door, slipped out and shut it. After a quick look around, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. The pines around the cottage sighed in the quiet evening breeze. In the distance, a loon cried.

  Now that the cameras had been set to run on an incessant loop showing the last hour of footage, she had nothing to worry about. She sprinted down the road back to the castle, hoping to make it in time for at least part of dinner.

  A little more than ten minutes later, Stefan met her at the gate, his brow creased in concern. "Mistress Svea—are you quite all right?"

  She put her hands on her knees and bent over. "Yes…Stefan," she gasped. He steadied her as sh
e tried to straighten. "I'm sorry…time got away from me. I'm not used to having the light fade so quickly. It just felt so good…to run…" She tried a weak smile.

  "I never understood why anyone would enjoy running…" replied Stefan.

  "Did I miss…dinner?"

  Stefan nodded as he helped her down the hall toward her private suite. "Unfortunately yes, Mistress Svea. However, the Earl and Mistress Jayne have retired to the sitting room for after-dinner drinks. He insisted you join them as soon as possible."

  "Okay…" she gasped. "Let me catch my breath and take a shower. Tell him ten minutes."

  Stefan nodded from the hallway. "Ten minutes—very good, Mistress."

  Exactly ten minutes later, she stepped out of her room to find Stefan waiting. "My goodness, you're prompt," she blurted, smoothing her dress over the small knife she'd just hidden on a silk garter strapped to her thigh.

  Stefan sniffed. "Of course I'm prompt—I'm Austrian. It's a matter of national pride," he said with a smile. "This way please."

  She finished the final adjustments on her v-neck, ice-blue silk halter dress as she followed Stefan. She had time for one final check of the quick French braid trailing down to the middle of her exposed back before he opened the door to Reginald's private study with a flourish. Stefan announced her presence then swept her into the room with a bow. She held her chin up, squared her shoulders, and marched forward.

  Her training kicked in and she swept the room with her eyes, automatically seeking out expedient weapons and tactically advantageous positions. Immediately before her in the square shaped room, sat the service cart loaded with a crystal brandy decanter, several glasses and a silver platter with small desserts and chocolates. Further in to the room, nearer the massive stone fireplace built into the far wall, sat a trio of high backed, thickly padded leather chairs that gleamed with age in the fire's warm glow.

  She ignored Jayne's acid gaze and turned her attention briefly to the side walls—both lined with built in bookshelves sagging under the weight of dozens upon dozens of books. On the left wall, below the books sat a Chippendale accent table, richly carved and holding a notebook and a few pencils.

  Her eyes darted across to the other wall as she took her first step into the room but movement from Reginald's chair stopped her evaluation. He looked up over his glass of amber brandy and smiled. "My dear, are you quite well? I was beginning to worry."

  "Yes, we were both most concerned," Jayne said under her breath.

  Danika smiled at Reginald and shot daggers at Jayne. Liars, the both of you. She strolled forward as if she hadn't just been cataloging everything she could use as a weapon against him. Reginald had trained her well.

  "Oh, this will be fun, I can tell…" he said as he handed her a full glass of brandy. "'56 Royale. I've been saving it for a special occasion. The reunion of my best operators fits that bill rather nicely."

  Jayne raised her half-empty glass in a lazy salute. "Skål," she muttered.

  Danika raised her glass. "Cheers," she replied, clicking her glass against Reginald's. The brandy left a warm trail down her throat and a glow in her stomach, but Reginald did not lie. It was exquisite.

  She closed her eyes and savored the taste as the slightly fruity liquid left her mouth warm and tingling. Reginald smiled as he took his seat by the fire.

  He's trying to get me drunk…she thought, looking at the full glass in her hand. He knows I missed dinner.

  A cold sweat broke out between her uncovered shoulder blades. What game are you playing? Her hand itched for the knife strapped to her thigh under her dress but she pushed the impulse away and moved over to a third chair.

  Danika lowered herself into the seat, daintily adjusting silken blue folds of her dress. Her fingers brushed a little nub of metal woven into one of the pleats. As she adjusted the dress and crossed her legs, she gave Reginald a peek up her long, slender thigh.

  He's getting suspicious. It's time. While his eyes were occupied, she squeezed her fingers together and snapped the little hidden transmitter.

  A powerful radio pulse from her transmitter activated the satellite phone back in her room. She counted down the seconds until the sat phone would send out an automated call to the receiver on the propane tanks she'd rigged in Uig.

  Jayne continued to make snide remarks and Reginald persisted with his witty banter. Danika said little but maintained an even tone and chatted amicably enough. A minute passed, then two, three, then four. She worried that something had gone wrong—there should be an alarm by now if the propane tanks blew on time.

  She was calculating how to take out Reginald and Jayne by surprise when Stefan burst into the room. "A thousand pardons, my lord—"

  "What is it?" Reginald asked, already on his feet, his dinner jacket slightly askew.

  "There is a matter that requires your immediate attention."

  "Is it the Council?" he demanded, adjusting his jacket. "Have they made a move against me?"

  Stefan inclined his head. "Unknown, sir. There's been an explosion."

  "Where?" asked Jayne.

  "Uig," replied Stefan, his eyes still on Reginald.

  Reginald paused at the door. "The mines?"

  Danika didn't hear Stefan's response—he'd already shut the door. The merrily crackling fire provided the only sound in the room.

  "Well, well, well," said Jayne as she rose from her chair. The flame red dress she wore was slit from the floor to her waist on the left side, revealing a mile of tanned skin. "I never liked you—and I never trusted you—but I never thought you had the stones to pull off something like this."

  Shit. Danika smiled. "Why, whatever are you talking about?"

  "Cut the bullshit…Svea," Jayne said as she walked casually from the fireplace toward Danika. "I know what you're doing."

  Danika stood. At her full height, she was at least a head taller than Jayne. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Fitta.

  Jayne sneered. "Reginald may be too blind to see it, but you can't fool me, you Swedish bitch."

  "Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" asked Danika as she took a sip of brandy.

  "It sure does." Jayne threw her glass at Danika's face and lunged.

  CHAPTER 38

  Salmon Falls, Idaho.

  DENNY CROUCHED AT THE rear of his hunting camp. He was using the same park service station the Rangers had taken for temporary refuge when the Russians had attacked. He was the only one in town that remembered its existence. He never even told the Andertons where it was. It was safer for everyone that way.

  He stared into the fire, grateful for the fact he didn't need his coat inside. Outside, the temperature continued to fall. Winter had finally arrived and punished everything caught outdoors after sunset. He sighed and checked his watch. Still another half hour before John called for his evening chat.

  Denny pulled out his tomahawk and sharpened the blade. The whetstone made a familiar, comforting sound and before long, he'd lapsed into the hypnotic rhythm.

  Shnnick, shnnick, shnnick. Flip the blade over. Shnnick, shnnick, shnnick in the opposite direction. Flip the blade over again.

  Shnnick, shnnick, shnnick.

  As he sharpened, Denny's mind wandered back to the events of the previous night: The Battle of the Cabin, they were calling it in town. He closed his eyes and tried to put the memories to rest. He had to think about what to do next, not wallow in what horrors had already taken place. That way lied madness.

  Denny paused in his sharpening and stared at the smoky ceiling. If only they'd listened to reason. If only Townsen hadn't been such a megalomaniacal fool—power-hungry and greedy.

  If, if, if. Denny sighed and put the tomahawk aside. He gripped the whetstone and squeezed until his hand burned. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

  All those lives wasted—and for what? Townsen was still in control, the people were still starving. They were still on the cusp of a civil war.

  Well, maybe not anymore. Maybe we're past the c
usp.

  The radio chirped and shook Denny from his thoughts. "Denny?"

  Denny sighed and picked up his radio. You're early. Again. "Yes, John."

  "That you?"

  Denny rolled his eyes. "Last time I checked."

  Denny waited for a moment in silence. That wasn't fair. John had nothing to do with the events at the cabin. He pressed the transmit button again. "John…look…" He released the button, trying to think of what to say next.

  "Hold your horses, I'll be right there."

  Denny stared at the radio for a second. "What?"

  The frequency stayed locked. He heard nothing. Denny shook his head. "John, I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to be snippy with you."

  He waited for John to acknowledge. Still nothing. This is strange.

  "John? Are you there?"

  He waited another full minute

  "John! You're making me nervous. Come in, John."

  "That's awful kind of you to care," said a new voice. Younger, stronger, harsher than John Anderton. "But you got the wrong John, Denny boy."

  Denny felt a chill creep through his body. "Townsen?"

  "The one and only!" He sounded drunk.

  "Where's John?"

  "Oh, the greedy little traitor's right here. Go on, piggy—say something."

  "Denny! Run!"

  "John!" Denny shouted. Townsen had also found out about John's bunker. "Townsen, listen to me—don't hurt them! They had nothing to do with the cabin."

  There was a moment of silence before Townsen's voice returned. "Nothing to do with it, huh?"

  In the background, Denny heard Ruth crying. "Don't hurt Ruth, she's innocent…" Denny released the transmit button. He closed his eyes, sending a prayer heavenward. He dreaded what he would hear next.

  "Whaddya think I am, some kinna monster? Maybe one that kills boys?"

  "John, I'm sorry Jeb got shot, but I didn't do it!"

  "You're real funny for an Indian—you know that?" asked John, his words slightly slurred. "You can't lie—I can smell a liar, cain't I boys? A mile away!"