Joe tapped Mike's shoulder, pointing to a stand of trees up ahead, alongside the road. "Pull over there, behind those rocks."
Sudden dread welled within Robin.
"How close are we?"
"Less than fifty yards from the first of the three cabins I told you about. We're on Missionary Ridge. The cabins aren't far apart. We'll go in from here on foot."
Mike parked the Jeep and they gathered in front of it. Joe drew his knife. Robin noted that Mike did not draw the pistol Joe had given him.
Joe whispered, "We have to be cautious from here on. And I might as well tell you one other thing Gray Wolf told me in my vision. He said that he would not be the last one to die fighting this evil." He stared pointedly at Mike. "Mister, you'd better be ready with that weapon."
"I'll be ready," Mike said. But still he did not draw the pistol.
Joe motioned for them to separate, but not too far apart; to stay abreast of him. They began advancing through the trees.
The world around them was alive with the chirping of birds. Here and there sunlight pierced through the branches overhead; a lush, richly-textured place, a world removed from town, from the wide-open high desert that stretched out from the base of the mountain. Robin understood why a twelve-year-old boy would find this world so intriguing. For her right now though, anxiety, a fear of the worst possible outcome, cramped her stomach into a painful knot.
Joe held up a hand for them to stop.
She and Mike drew forward to where he stood, and she then saw the cars and a RV parked in front of a rustic cabin. Smoke curling lazily from the chimney.
Mike said, "This isn't it. Paul said the cabin was unoccupied, and there's no overlook like he told us about."
"How close are we to the next cabin?" Robin asked. "Coming up," said Joe.
They withdrew, circling away from the cabin site. Mike still hadn't drawn his pistol. Robin recalled his vow, made over the graves of his parents, never to kill again, not after what he had been through in war. With everything else unfolding so rapidly last night and this morning, she hadn't recalled that conversation with him until now. She had not thought to ask Joe for a weapon when he'd handed the pistol to Mike. She herself had never fired a weapon, had never even held a gun, and for the first time in her life she wished now that she knew something about firearms. An extraordinary set of circumstances had drawn her to this point in time and space with these men, moving stealthily through the forest on the side of a mountain, searching for her missing son, and it all boiled down in her mind to one bitter truth. She had always thought of herself, had always prided herself, on being self-reliant, independent. Yet she lacked even the most rudimentary, fundamental knowledge and means with which to defend herself and her child at this most basic level of survival.
Something, a movement seen from one corner of her eye, arrested her attention.
"Look!"
They paused, looking in the direction in which she pointed.
At the base of a tree, a gray timber wolf stood poised no more than seventy paces from them. The animal's breath formed small white clouds in the cool air, its eyes clear and piercing, observing them, not in the least intimidated by their presence in this, his domain.
Joe whispered, "Grandfather," the word heavy with awe and reverence.
Standing beside him, Robin barely heard him.
The wolf heard. With its head cocked at an angle, unhurried, the animal backstepped. Then, with one rearward look from those piercing eyes, the animal trotted gracefully away, vanishing into the depths of the forest.
"A timber wolf," said Mike. "They're common enough in the high country, Joe. You know that. Don't let it throw you."
Joe calmly looked away from where the wolf had disappeared into the trees. "Don't worry. It doesn't throw me. I expected to see Grandfather up here. It doesn't matter what you believe."
"You're right about that. All that matters right now is Paul."
"The cabin is beyond those trees."
Joe led them to the brow of a ridge that overlooked another cabin. There were no vehicles in sight. A driveway connected with a gravel road. Power lines bordered the property line. The cabin overlooked Devil Creek, a rectangular pattern of streets and buildings in the distance. Between the town and the mountain was the small landing strip used by local flying enthusiasts. A pair of men in camouflage fatigues, each armed with a rifle slung over his shoulder, stood lookout, one to either side of the cabin.
"Bingo," said Mike.
Robin tried to speak. The words wouldn't come. She cleared her throat and managed to whisper, "Paul . . . do you think he's inside?"
"Let's find out," Joe said. "Hey, Mike. You ever kill a man?"
"Some."
"Ready to kill one now? I say we split up and cut along the tree line. You take the guy in the driveway, I'll take out the one behind the cabin. Can you do that?"
Mike drew the pistol. "I'll take him out. But we don't have to kill them. We're not killers."
"They are."
"We can neutralize them without killing them."
Joe frowned. "I thought the life of this woman's child was at stake. I thought you asked me along to even up the odds, so we'd be able to save his little ass. Did I get that right or wrong?"
The harshness of the words slapped Robin across her face like an open palm. Indecision rippled through her.
"Of course Paul's life is at stake," she said, "but Mike is right. There's been so much killing. Isn't there some other way?"
"There is," Mike pressed. "A blow to the back of the head, right behind the ear. You were Special Forces, Joe. You can do that. Do it my way."
Joe's eyes grew unreadable, alternating between them. "No. We do it my way. I'll tell you what I learned, and I learned it the hard way. When it's your life or their life, you off the bastards. There's no in-between. You want me in on this, it gets done right."
"It'll get done right," Mike said.
Robin said, "But are we sure Paul is down there? I don't want you risking your lives if we're not sure."
Joe ignored her. He glanced at his wristwatch. He spoke to Mike. "Mark time. We hit them in sixty seconds." Mike glanced at his watch. "Mark."
"Both of you, please be careful." Now it was fear and apprehension that engulfed Robin. "And thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you're doing."
"Save that for when the job's done," Joe said. "Keep your head down."
"I will." There was nothing else she could do sensibly. Half-remembered moves from a half-baked martial arts class a few years ago would be a laughable match against armed, professional soldiers.
Mike went one way with the pistol, Joe gliding in the opposite direction, holding the knife held as if it were an extension of him. It was the biggest, meanest-looking knife Robin had ever seen. Neither man made a sound, their footfalls deadened by fallen leaves and pine needles. They faded into the forest.
Chapter Forty-Two
Beneath the bed, the dust and the semi-darkness pressed in on Paul. He slipped in and out of consciousness, as he had last night. Nausea and delirium made him lose track of time. He knew only that he could not stay hidden here forever. A complete silence enveloped the cabin. Eventually, probably because he had remained stationary for so long, the pain of his wound subsided somewhat and full consciousness returned. Were the men dressed like commandos still around? They were not inside the cabin. He was sure he was alone. What should he do? Where was his mom? Where was Mike? Were they on their way? Would they find the cabin? Would they find him? The questions swirled through his brain. He had to find out what was happening.
Using his elbows and knees, he crawled, inch by slow inch, out from under the bed. The throbbing agony returned as soon as he began moving. At last, though, somehow he was standing, supporting himself with one hand gripping the bed's headboard. He paused like that, waiting for the bedroom to stop spinning. When he thought he could manage it, he crossed the bedroom to the stairs and started down, one agonizing st
ep at a time. The pain grew worse.
He would go down the driveway, to the road. He would walk along the road. Someone would come along and help him. That is, if his mom and Mike didn't come first. He would make it. He'd have to be extremely careful, but he could make it. He was going home.
When he was halfway down the stairs, the scab across his wound broke open and fresh blood oozed from his side. The pain was excruciating. He reached the bottom step and started toward the front of the cabin. When he was less than five feet from the front door, the world began spinning crazily. Sunlight faded. The world became a darkening place. Almost to the door, with his arm outstretched, his hand reaching for the doorknob, Paul's knees buckled.
He pitched forward onto the floor.
Chapter Forty-Three
Taylor stood near the sun deck at the side of the cabin. The panorama of the town beyond the base of the mountain, and of the high desert beyond the town, green with scrub brush and pinion, seemed to stretch into infinity. His gaze followed the direction taken by Bittman and Mace. No sign of them yet.
What a pair, those two. A couple of psychos. But Taylor told himself that his predicament was his own damn fault. He should've learned from experience. Sign on with psychotics and it becomes a whole different ball game. He knew Mace's reputation in the merc network, of course; knew how totally amoral the guy was. But he was flat-ass broke when the offer came, so he'd signed on anyway.
Taylor was a man who, in his thirty-seven years, had done many bad things in many hells on earth. But he had never done what he'd seen Hickey do last night. He'd never killed a child—even though he had fired on the other boy, God help him. What would happen when Bittman and Mace returned from not finding the kid? And of course they wouldn't find him. How could they, when the boy was hidden under the bed upstairs in the cabin?
Taylor wished Bittman and Mace would hurry the hell up so they could withdraw to the van and get the hell away from Devil Creek. Or maybe when those two psychos got back, they'd smell something wrong because of before when he'd stupidly sounded off on them what he thought about hunting down and killing children. That had been real dumb. What if they made their own search of the cabin?
When they found the kid, both he and the boy would become dead meat real fast. Bittman was nuts and so was Mace. The unit should already have been long gone, as originally planned. There was such a thing as being too careful. Bittman was endangering everything with his phobia about tying up every loose end. Taylor wished he was back in Tucson, home with his Lisa.
He'd promised her that he wouldn't take any more merc assignments after they were married. Then he told her, when he'd signed on for this job, that it would only be a two-week deal, which is what Mace had told him. Taylor realized now, in retrospect, that there had been more than enough strain on his marriage due to their financial problems. He'd screwed up royally and had surely only made matters worse, disappearing the way he had, leaving a note telling Lisa how much he loved her and that he'd be home soon. Maybe she'd forgive him when she saw the money, but he didn't think so. He loved her precisely because she put more stock in things like honor and trust, and with this job he'd let her down big time on both counts. Since the day he left he'd felt nothing but disappointment and disgust with himself. He submerged these emotions because he was a professional. A job was a job, once you signed on. But the death of the chubby red-haired boy last night would haunt him until his dying day. And he'd be damn lucky if his darling Lisa was waiting for him whenever he did return.
He decided that he'd better check around the front of the cabin, where he'd left Hickey near the driveway. He was just rounding the corner when he saw a figure materialize from the trees behind Hickey. Hickey had no idea that a man was rushing in from behind him, raising a handgun to use as a club. Taylor started to shout a warning. Then he became aware of someone swooping down on him from behind and he knew in that instant that he was not going to make it home alive; that he would never see his Lisa again. Before he could spin around or react in any way, a knee came to the base of his spine. A powerful arm snaked around his upper chest, pulling him off balance. And he felt the cold kiss of a razor-sharp blade slitting his throat, ending his life.
Joe stepped away. The dead man collapsed to the ground, bright red blood spurting from a severed jugular vein. Joe bent over, wiped his knife blade clean on the shirt of the man he'd killed.
Mike stepped away from having struck the other man sharply behind the ear with the butt of his pistol. His man tumbled to the ground, unmoving.
Robin left the spot from where she had witnessed everything. She ran into the clearing. She had never seen a person die before. Everything was happening so fast.
When she reached them, Mike was glaring at Joe, saying, "Damn it, why did you have to do that? I was hoping you'd change your mind. You didn't have to off him."
"When I do a job," Joe said, "I do it right."
Mike sighed, an infinitely sad, weary sound. Then he said, "Let's search the cabin."
They did not see what Robin suddenly saw. The man Mike had struck was not unconscious. He was remaining face down on the ground, but he had reached out to grab hold of his rifle. When Robin happened to see him, he was in the process of bringing the weapon around.
"Look out! He's going to shoot!"
The warning came too late.
Mike and Joe pivoted together toward the man. The rifle spat a bright orange flash and a sharp crack! and the bullet struck Joe in the chest with an ugly, sucking splat! sound.
An expression of shock made Joe's face unrecognizable. A jet of thick, red blood spewed from his back. He stumbled one, two, three lurching steps backward.
Robin heard an anguished cry and realized that it was her, her hands raised to her face.
Cursing, Mike speed-tracked his pistol at the man upon the ground. But before he could squeeze the trigger, Joe, with his final breath, raised his right arm even as he stumbled back under the impact of the bullet, coughing, hacking, gore bubbling from his mouth, and managed to throw the knife, the blade flashing like a meteor across the sun-splashed clearing, burying itself to the hilt in the prone man's throat.
The sentry let go of his rifle and reared up onto his knees, both hands clenching at the knife handle that protruded from his Adam's apple. Gurgling, eyes rolling back in his head, he pitched onto his face, trembled once and did not move.
Robin and Mike rushed to where Joe had fallen.
Joe's boots were drawn together, his arms outflung like a man crucified, his head moving slowly back and forth upon the ground.
Mike reached him first.
Joe looked straight up at him through pain-squinted eyes. "You should have taken him out." The rattle in his chest made the words almost inaudible. Joe's body convulsed once, and the life surged from him.
Mike knelt down beside Joe. "Joe . . . Joe, I'm sorry." His voice trembled. "God, man. I'm so sorry. . . ." Robin had never seen such torment and anguish on anyone's face.
She touched his arm. "Mike, it's not your fault."
"Hell yes, it's my fault," he said evenly. He straightened to his feet, turned to the cabin. "Let's find Paul." It was as if a curtain had fallen over his rioting emotions, replacing them with a stoic, determined demeanor.
A voice snapped harshly from behind them.
"You will stop right where you are. Not another step. Mr. Landware, drop the gun, please."
The two men must have come up over the slope behind the cabin, wary after hearing the rifle shot, and crept through the trees.
The one who had spoken, who wore a brown corduroy jacket, western-style jeans and boots and a Sherlock Holmes-style cap could only be Dr. Horace Bittman. The pistol he held was pointed at the ground.
Beside him stood a blond-haired man, wearing commando fatigues and aiming a large revolver at Robin from a distance of no more than five feet away. The blond man ordered Mike, "Drop the gun, bud, or I'll blow this lady's head clean off. Or maybe it won't be so clean."
Paul regained consciousness lying on the floor of the cabin's living room, inches from the front door. The sunshine beaming in through the windows warmed him comfortably. Then he glanced down. He saw his blood, drip-drip-dripping onto the polished wood floor. He forced himself to his feet, reached out and grasped the doorknob. I'm going home, he told himself. Mom. Mike. Where are you? His hand was slippery with his blood, making the knob difficult to turn.
He thought he heard voices from outside, from right outside this door, right in front of the cabin. He couldn't tell what they were saying. Using his other hand, he managed to turn the knob, drawing the door inward, leaning against the doorframe for support. His knees buckled. He did not allow himself to fall. He stepped through the doorway, crossed the porch, emerged into the sunshine. He thought he saw people standing there in front of the cabin.
The sky was bright blue. The world was green and smelled of pine. But things were starting to come and go for him again. His side hurt so much. It was like last night, scrunched beneath that rock when he thought he'd heard the wind carrying the voices of his mother and Mike. He was that close to delirium now. He did not know what was real. He thought he saw bodies, the bodies of dead men, three of them sprawled around the four people who stood facing each other.
The four people were so interested in each other that they were not even aware of him. He recognized two of the men from last night, the blond-haired commando and the one who had worn the white smock and given the orders. And Paul thought he saw Mike. Mike stood with both arms raised. The blond-haired man was aiming a gun. Paul shook his head to clear his vision and this brought into focus the fourth person standing there.
"Mom!" Paul's voice shattered the taut tableau.
Mike hadn't wanted to drop the pistol and raise his hands, but what could he do with the blond-haired hardcase aiming a .357 right between Robin's eyes? Play for time, he told himself. That was their only chance. God forgive him, he'd already gotten Joe killed. So he dropped the gun and raised his hands, as Bittman ordered.
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