by L. S. O'Dea
“That’s not good enough.” Benedictine began to pace again. “I must have her. Alive.”
He couldn’t swear that the Tracker wouldn’t be killed during the capture. Anything could happen but Benedictine expected a guarantee no matter how unreasonable or unlikely. “No harm…well, no permanent harm will come to her.”
“Good, good. The Handler won’t deal if she’s dead,” said Benedictine.
“You expect the Handler also?” No one had said anything about the Handler showing up. If they were a pair, like in the legends, he didn’t want to be in the same area let alone be responsible for the trap.
“Yes, but not right away. At least I hope not. Can you manage if they arrive together?”
His jaw dropped but he quickly snapped his mouth shut. If that happened, he wouldn’t have to worry about Benedictine’s wrath. The Tracker and Handler would kill him. “Sir, I honestly don’t know. I’ve never dealt with a Tracker or a Handler. I assume they will be working together as one unit.”
Benedictine walked up to him until only inches separated them. “Yes, and you will handle it. If you don’t think you can, change your trap.”
What an ass. “We don’t have time; unless we can delay.”
“It must be done now. Everything depends on it. If you can’t deal with it, I’ll find someone who can.” Benedictine slowly ran his finger down the scar on Jackson’s face.
He tensed, not daring to move away from the Almighty’s touch. He steadied his breathing and repeated in his head every reason why a Guard did not attack his master. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good.” Benedictine stepped back, smiling. “Let’s begin, shall we?”
“It would be safer, if you waited inside.” He would be better off if Benedictine died. He brushed that thought aside. Kim would be crushed if anything happened to her father.
“You do have a point.” Benedictine walked over to the window and pushed aside the curtains. “I will supervise from here.”
Typical. He bowed and went outside. The Guards stopped talking and turned to him.
“I want all my Guards to hide in the brush. Spread out.” He pointed to the area behind the cages and buildings. Hopefully, the Tracker would be too focused on the camp to notice the Guards in the woods. “Once the wild Tracker shows herself, I want you to slowly make your way back to the camp until she’s surrounded.” He nodded to the hunting and Tracker Guards. “You are all to remain visible. She'll be suspicious if she doesn’t see any Guards.”
The Trackers in the yard paced on their chains, snarling when the Guards stepped too close. The three caged Trackers sat still, observing the activity.
“Subdue the large male,” he ordered.
While Trip, the leader of the Tracker Guards, walked to the enclosure containing the russet colored male, Jackson crept behind the cage off to one side. The Tracker bared his teeth at Trip but one ear tipped back listening to Jackson’s approach. He waited while Trip placed a needle in a tube and held it to his mouth. Timing was everything. He had to shoot his dart at the exact moment when the Tracker’s focus was elsewhere. The other Guard blew hard and fast into the tube. The needle flew out and the Tracker jumped to the side, successfully dodging the dart. Now. He fired his needle as the Tracker landed, fighting back a grin of triumph as it lodged in the creature’s shoulder.
The Tracker leaped and growled, swatting the needle away, but it was too late. As the drug took effect, the male began to wobble and stumble. A few minutes later, he dropped to his knees and then flopped on the cage floor. The other two caged Trackers huddled together, hissing and baring their teeth at anyone who looked their way.
Jackson waited several minutes; the only movement was the Tracker’s steady breathing. He took a deep breath and walked to the front of the enclosure. It was his plan, so he’d take the risks. He took the keys from Trip and carefully opened the door. These damn creatures were lethal. If the Tracker so much as snorted he was slamming the cage shut and waiting longer. The creature remained impassive. He stepped inside and nudged the Tracker with his boot. It still did not move.
“You four”—he pointed to nearby Guards—“get the Tracker.”
The Guards carried the creature to a tree where they strung him up with chains around his neck, torso, wrists and ankles. Jackson pulled on each one, testing to ensure that they were secure. He didn’t want to be halfway into this and have the creature break free. That would be a blood bath, his blood bath. He injected the Tracker with another shot and then stepped back to wait.
The second injection was fast acting and soon the Tracker’s head bobbed and his eyes opened. The creature was groggy but awake. It was time to begin. He tipped his head from side-to-side, cracking his neck. He rolled his shoulders as he stepped forward and punched the Tracker in the stomach.
The creature didn’t even grunt.
“You’re supposed to hurt ‘em, not tickle ‘em,” said Trip who stood a few feet away, warming his hands at a small fire.
The other Guards laughed.
“We use these to keep them in line.” Trip handed him a club from his belt. It was over a foot long and about two-inches thick with knots on it.
The club sat heavy in his hands. There was no fear in the Tracker’s gray eyes, only defiance. He didn’t like hitting a restrained creature, but he needed it to scream in pain and his punch, obviously, wasn’t going to do it. He took a deep breath, pushing aside his distaste with the task, and swung the club hitting the creature on the hip.
The Tracker hissed.
Benedictine stormed out of the building, carrying a fireplace poker. “Build up the flame.”
A Guard near the fire stoked it until it was raging.
“Sir, please, I can do this.” This wasn’t good. Once the Almighty started torturing, it was hard to get him to stop and Benedictine would blame him if the Tracker ended up dead.
“You’re worthless. Get out of here.” Benedictine placed the poker in the fire until the black, metal tip gleamed red.
Jackson stood undecided for several moments. He shot a sympathetic glance at the Tracker and backed away. All around, the Guards’ eyes glowed with anticipation. Blood was coming. His nose twitched at the scent of fear. The Tracker stared at Benedictine, apprehension replacing the defiance in his gaze.
Benedictine approached the restrained creature and held the poker up by its face. “Can a Tracker still track without his vision?”
The Tracker stared straight ahead, past the poker, past the Almighty. Benedictine laid the poker gently along its cheek. The creature screeched and tried to pull away, but the chains held him in place.
The scream sent chills up Jackson’s spine. His hand drifted to his scar. He was not going to watch this. This had not been the plan. He walked to the Guards’ building and leaned against the wall, facing away from the yard.
The two caged Trackers cowered in the back corner of their enclosure, holding hands through the bars. There was another agonizing scream. The smell of burnt fur and skin permeated the air. The female Tracker pressed her face into the bars, trying to reach the other caged Tracker. It reminded him of the Producers in the slaughterhouse. He turned back around. The chained Trackers had abandoned the yard to hide in their huts.
Benedictine was reheating the poker in the fire. When it was white hot, he pulled it out and turned back to Tracker. He glided the poker from the creature’s face to just above its knees. “Where shall I make the next mark?”
Jackson wanted to leave, but then he’d be punished. He sensed movement in the cages and turned his head slightly toward the enclosures. The female Tracker stared into the forest, ears perked. As she turned to the Tracker next to her, her eyes skimmed over Jackson. She stilled and their gazes locked for a second before she quickly looked away. His heartbeat quickened. There had been triumph in her expression. He pushed away from the building. Something was coming.
“How about we neuter you?” Benedictine held the poker near the Tracker’s groi
n.
Jackson was on full alert, studying the woods where the female had been watching. He sniffed. Pine and herbs. He’d smelled that before. A movement in the brush caught his eye. He started to yell a warning when a whirlwind of fur and fury sped through the yard, obliterating everything in her path. He’d never seen anything like it. She was extraordinary, pure efficiency of motion. In the time it took him to grab the blow gun, she’d moved through the yard, snapping the necks and backs of all the Guards in her path.
Three of the hunting Guards were first to go since they attacked her. Then she caught Trip as he fled. At the same time, the youngest Tracker Guard, Chubs, raced past her. She hissed at him as he disappeared into the forest and then used her teeth to tear out Trip’s throat. She dropped his lifeless body and grabbed Benedictine, who stood frozen in fear.
As Lead Guard it was his job to protect Benedictine. His muscles trembled as he made his way carefully toward the wild Tracker, trying to stay out of sight. So far, she hadn’t noticed him. He was a goner if she did. The hunting and Tracker Guards were either dead or gone. He hoped his Guards hadn’t fled. They were well trained and loyal but this was beyond their experience.
The Tracker held Benedictine with one hand around his throat, his feet dangling at least twelve inches above the ground. “You dare hurt Nirankan,” she whispered, her face covered in blood.
“Mirra watch out,” yelled the caged, female Tracker.
His Guards were closing in from the forest. Relief washed through him. He wasn’t alone. He continued to move closer.
Mirra glanced around and bared her teeth. She tossed Benedictine across the yard like he was a rag doll, and then turned to face the approaching Guards. Behind her, Jackson pulled a dart from his jacket and yanked off the seal. He was almost ready. All his Guards had to do was keep her attention for another couple of seconds. The Guards continued to move forward, surrounding her. She launched herself at the closest one at the same time he raised the tube to his mouth and fired. The dart stuck in the Tracker’s hindquarters.
She spun in mid-air and swatted the needle away. She landed in a crouch, hissing and spitting at the Guards surrounding her. She wobbled, her breath coming in short pants. He held up his hand and motioned for his Guards to give her some room. There was no reason to panic her. She dropped to her knees and then tried to stand, losing her balance and falling face first in the dirt. She struggled to rise but was too weak, collapsing in a heap on the ground.
His heart pounded in his ears, as he waited several minutes to be sure she was unconscious. Her breathing was fast but steady. Dirt and blood marred her silky fur. He crept up to her and gently poked her with the dart tube. She didn’t move.
He nodded and three Guards came forward. The four of them carried her to the cage next to the russet male’s empty one. Benedictine brushed the soil from his clothes as he followed them to the enclosure.
The large male Tracker hung limply from the chains. Probably passed out from the pain, but it could be a trick.
“Put him under before moving him back to his cage.” The torture was done. The wild Tracker lay in a heap on the cold concrete floor. His plan had worked. He had proven his worth to his master, but he did not feel victorious.
“I want a chain around her neck, arms and legs. I want the other end of the chains hooked to those machines,” commanded Benedictine, pointing to five pulleys that were sitting behind the cages.
“Sir, she’s caught. You’ve won.” What was Benedictine up to now? It was done. Over. All that was left to do was wait for the Handler.
Benedictine turned on him, eyes gleaming with hatred. “I have not won until I have the Producer. And this, this thing dared to accost me. Touch me with its dirty paws. It will die for that and it will die slowly.”
That was not the plan. They were to use her to force the Handler to cooperate and then turn her loose, not kill her. Even drugged, she was an extraordinary creature, all long sinewy muscles and fur. She should not be destroyed for being wild, for not bowing to the Almighty’s whims.
“Regroup,” ordered Benedictine. “It won’t be long before the Handler arrives. I want a Guard stationed on each machine.
The Guards had just stepped behind the pulleys when the Trackers in the yard crawled out of their huts. They began to sniff excitedly and growl. Soon, the growls turned into howls.
The Handler stepped into the clearing, a gray fog surrounding him. Or was the fog actually coming from him like steam? His long hair, beard and clothes were the color of the mist. His arms hung low to the ground and his body looked as solid as a brick wall. He appeared larger and more dangerous than he had at the pub. Two Guards stepped forward.
“Stay back, or you die,” growled the Handler.
“Now, now, Gaar is that any way to treat an old friend?” asked Benedictine.
“I come for Mirra.”
“As you can see, she is tied up at the moment.” Benedictine waved toward the cage.
Jackson shot Benedictine a quick glare. They were down in numbers and no longer had the element of surprise on their side. This was not the time to agitate the Handler.
Gaar snarled, showing large, sharp canines but didn’t move any closer.
“Come inside and we can discuss what you need to do in order to get your lovely Mirra back.” Benedictine walked over to the building and opened the door.
Jackson positioned himself between the Handler and Benedictine, signaling to his Guards. Except for the ones by the pulleys, they backed toward the perimeter and fanned out. If the Handler made a move toward Benedictine, they could intercept as a group.
“Here is fine,” said Gaar.
“Suit yourself.” Benedictine closed the door. “I’m sorry to have to do this, but you left me no choice.” He laughed. “I bet you wish you’d taken the job when I offered.”
“I wish I had taken your life,” said Gaar in a soft rumble.
“Threats will not be tolerated.” Benedictine nodded at the Guards manning the pulleys.
They began to turn the handles, tightening the chains. Mirra, still unconscious, was pulled to the back of the cage.
“Stop!” Gaar stepped forward.
“Apologize,” said Benedictine as he studied his nails.
“Sorry,” said Gaar, distaste marring his features.
“I guess that will do. This time. I’m feeling generous today.” Benedictine motioned for the Guards to stop as he walked over to Mirra’s cage. “Such a lovely creature. Her fur would make a nice rug to warm my feet on cold mornings.”
Gaar’s nostrils flared but he remained still.
The Handler was going to snap if Benedictine didn’t stop poking at him. If that happened, it was going to turn ugly fast. The Handler looked more than capable of taking out quite a few Guards. Jackson patted his pockets, checking for another dart but he had none.
“What? No comment. You really should have a sense of humor about this. This is your doing. We wouldn’t be here if you had cooperated,” said Benedictine.
“What do you want?” asked Gaar.
“You know what I want.” Benedictine ran his hand along the cage, caressing the fur on Mirra’s back.
“Okay. We’ll find her for you.”
“We? There is no longer any we. You had your chance to work with your pet. Now, I keep her until you bring me the Producer.”
“I’m a Handler, not a Tracker.”
“Too bad. If you had handled your pet, she wouldn’t be in my care. As it stands, if you want her back alive, you’d better bring me the Producer.”
“It will take me longer to find her on my own,” argued Gaar.
“I’d hurry if I were you.” Benedictine turned to address the Guards. “How long does it take for a Tracker to be drained of blood?”
“Don’t,” warned Gaar.
Jackson’s stomach churned. He was responsible for this. He should have known Benedictine wouldn’t be satisfied until the Tracker was destroyed.
“Ti
ghten the chains on her arms,” ordered Benedictine.
The Guards turned the pulleys until Mirra’s arms were tight against the bars of the cage.
“Hook up a slow drip,” said Benedictine.
The Guards looked to Jackson for guidance, but he could only shrug. He had no idea how to hook up a needle. Chubs, the young Tracker Guard who had escaped Mirra, stepped into the clearing and walked to the building. He came back out with a bag and began setting up the equipment to drain Mirra’s blood.
“How fast do you want the drip?” asked Chubs.
“Slow, for now.” Benedictine stared at Gaar.
“If she dies, you die,” said Gaar.
Jackson cringed, threatening Benedictine was never good and it was he and his Guards who would suffer if this situation became violent. Benedictine would run and hide while they lost their lives protecting him. It was his purpose, and he didn’t mind dying, but doing so for Benedictine was a fate that was getting harder and harder to accept.
“What did I say about threats?” Benedictine turned toward the Guards at the cage.
“Don’t. Wait. I’m sorry,” said Gaar through gritted teeth.
Benedictine faced the Handler. “Then you better run along and find the Producer.”
Mirra opened her eyes. She shouldn’t be awake for hours. Jackson had misjudged her metabolism by a lot. Luckily, they’d caught her near the cages, or they’d all be dead.
She flexed her muscles and sprang forward, yanking the chains. The pulleys slipped out of the Guards’ grip and unwound. She grasped the bars at the front of her cage. “No. Do not bring her. Mirra die first.”
“Mirra,” said Gaar, his face an expression of anguish.
“Gaar-Mine, no do this,” she begged.
The Guards regained control of the pulleys. Mirra fought savagely as she was drug backwards.
“I’m sorry, Mirra.” Gaar turned and disappeared into the forest.
Jackson leaned against the building. The Tracker had said not to bring her. It didn’t make sense. Why would the Tracker care about the escaped Producer?
CHAPTER 22
