Traeger smiled. “Naturally, General. The good news is that the CIA is very good at keeping and maintaining secrets. The better news is that a guaranteed budget is easy when you can promise a return on investment. Not every item that the Predator brought us is something that can’t be shared. Weapons, to be sure, and stealth devices, but there may be new energy sources, for example. Under the right circumstances, those sources could be used to improve the quality of life, and American companies could maintain a tight grip on their manufacture.”
Traeger smiled and continued. “Hell, we could find medical uses for most of the technology in the helmet alone. New ways to scan diseased tissues, perform diagnostics. According to the reports we’ve already read, the creature’s mask enables it to see across a much broader spectrum than human tech allows. There’s no telling how far the applications may go.”
Traeger leaned forward and stared.
Woodhurst leaned back, unblinking.
There it was, the look he’d half expected since the moment he met the young CIA agent. There was a deep and abiding hunger in those eyes. He’d hoped that, somehow, the man’s lack of communication had been an oversight, but he was pretty sure he knew better.
“Let’s not kid ourselves about the military ramifications, General,” Traeger said, pressing his advantage. “We all know that stealth technology, weapons that cast energy bursts strong enough to melt steel, are just the tip of the iceberg. We could acquire an edge greater than we’ve had since the days when the US owned all the nukes, and everyone else was forced to behave.
“Under my plan, we can guarantee that every last one of those military contracts stays strictly within the United States and is watched over by the CIA. Nothing gets out. Nothing leaks. We all win.”
“We can do that now, Will,” Woodhurst said.
“But not with the proper autonomy.” Traeger shrugged. “Presidents change. Congress changes, though not as often. If the current administration decides that everything should be manufactured in China, it all goes. That’s the way it works. But if the private sector— carefully selected members, of course—are paying the bills, you can bet they’ll fight to keep what’s theirs right here on US soil. We don’t have to ask permission, and no one has to lose sleep over the budget.
“How many times have you had to do this song and dance, General? Six? Ten? I’m just offering a solution that stops this from continuing to be a problem.”
That damned smile again. So calm and collected.
“Private businesses do not change,” Traeger asserted. “They might get new names, new personnel, but they all play the same game. Everyone answers to someone, General, and in this case they’d answer to us. We would be the final authority, decide what happens.” Traeger tapped the edge of his still-full water glass. “The private sector will be grateful for the scraps we give them, and they’ll pay handsomely to get in line for those scraps.”
And there it was, the man’s pitch to yank the power away from Woodhurst. Traeger didn’t have to point out that the right person—in the right place, at the right time— could turn a handsome profit by investing in certain companies. Were there rules about insider trading? Yes, but every person in the room knew the loopholes.
Nor did Traeger need to say who the “right person” was.
General Woodhurst sat back a little further and contemplated his options. Pappy Elliott was dead, and he’d miss the man very much, but at that moment he cursed the bastard for bringing this Judas into the fold.
* * *
Traeger walked from the room as calmly as he could. General Woodhurst was an old man, and not as much of a fighter as he wanted to believe he was. But he was also a man with very serious military clout.
Not surprisingly the general was waiting for him. His expression gave away nothing.
“Well done, Will.”
“It’s nothing personal, General. You have your job and I have mine. You’re still a part of the team, if you want to be. I mean that.” He looked the man over, and expected some response, but Woodhurst remained unreadable. “Listen, this is your baby. I know that and I respect that, but my superiors want to make sure that this is handled the way that they want it handled, and there isn’t much I could possibly say or do to dissuade them.”
“It would have cost you. I get that.”
“So, as far as I’m concerned, this is still your baby. I’m just the buffer you have to deal with between funding and reality.”
“‘Between funding and reality?’”
“Yeah. You want something, it has to go through me, but we’re on the same side here, General. We want the same things, though we might not agree entirely on the best way to get them.”
Woodhurst nodded slowly, his eyes never moving away from Traeger’s.
“I suppose I better pack my things.”
Traeger nodded and smiled. The man was not happy, but he’d recover. He’d been offered a bone instead of a steak, but the general was hungry enough to take it.
24
The rains grew worse. Devon Hill looked around and shook his head as the SUV slowed to a stop.
“Do we have any idea where we’re going?” Hill knew the answer, but he felt like asking anyway.
“We’re there,” Tomlin said, and he opened the driver’s side door. “Grab your gear and let’s get hunting.”
The helicopter was equipped with all kinds of fail-safes to guarantee that civilians didn’t pay it much attention, but that hardly mattered to the four of them. They’d followed it as best they could. They’d lost track of it a couple of times, but quickly picked up the trail again. On the best day their vehicle wasn’t as fast as the copter, but they had made good time just the same.
Hill didn’t much like it anyway. No promises of what they were going to run into. No guarantees that they’d driven out here for anything at all, really. There was a damned fine chance that they’d get to where they wanted to be just in time to see the Company men cleaning up after their prize.
It didn’t matter, not really, but it did, damn it.
The Reapers wanted this, they wanted a win. Needed a win. They’d lost half the team to the damned thing and it had got away. Before it escaped, it killed Pappy, and that was unforgivable. He wasn’t just a mentor. Not at the end of the day. He was the man who’d made them a team and trained them as best they could be trained—to fight something that wasn’t human, that was a killing machine.
Hill took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he climbed from the vehicle and grabbed his supplies.
Being scared sucked, but being scared also meant he was alive and that he’d be alert and ready. He’d been scared on every single mission he’d ever taken. That wasn’t going to change. He did what he needed to do on every single mission, and that wasn’t changing any time soon.
The remaining Reapers pulled their weapons, checked them, and tucked them where they needed to go. There were lights in the distance, weird, bright, and garish, flickering in the rain and the hard winds. It wasn’t a hurricane out here, but it felt like one. He staggered as a gust came through the trees and bent them down like a giant foot was pressing them toward the ground.
Pulver shook his head and muttered something under his breath. There were times when that would have had Hill calling him on it, but in this weather he could damn near yodel and no one would hear. Besides, this wasn’t exactly a formal mission. They were supposed to be in lockdown.
So much for regulations, he thought darkly.
Hill wondered what would be waiting when they got back.
Tomlin waved a hand and motioned them forward. It was time to hunt the fucker down.
Water crept past armor, helmet, and uniform alike, soaking them as they headed for the neon lights and what looked like a Ferris wheel. Hill shook his head. Long as there weren’t any clowns. He hated those fuckers.
* * *
LaValle shook his head and listened as the winds and rain threatened to knock down their meager shelter. The
heavy canvas rippled and snapped and the entire tent swayed almost hypnotically, even as water managed to find a way through and drip across the interior. The lights flickered now and again, but so far hadn’t completely failed.
“We gonna wait for the thing to come to us?” Ezquerra damn near had to yell to be heard over the building storm.
LaValle considered that question seriously. On the one hand, it would be easier if the thing came to them, and they could just work together to take it out. On the other hand, there was a very real chance that the thing was out there and watching them right now, waiting for them to make a move. Hell, it could have a space bazooka aimed at the tent, and that thought got his blood pumping and made his skin feel even tighter.
“No, we’re gonna move out,” he said. “Spread out and do your best to maintain radio communications. It knows we’re here. We aren’t going to be able to sneak up. Let’s make sure it can’t do that to us, either.”
That was enough of a motivator. One by one they left the tent, each peering through the gloom and checking on whether or not there was a Predator waiting. If there was, they couldn’t see it in the harsh rain.
Tanaka left first, moving out in a low crouch and heading for the far side of the small park, his head weaving left and then right as he scanned his surroundings. A moment later Anderson was on the move, heading in the opposite direction. The man only cleared about fifteen feet before he became an indistinct blur in the rain.
LaValle shook his head. How the hell were they ever going to spot the damned thing, now that it had removed the tracker? They couldn’t even see each other from a dozen yards away. Then again, what choice did they have?
He spoke into the radio. “Be careful. Don’t shoot each other, all right? I don’t want that kind of paperwork to file.”
Ezquerra nodded once and faded into the rain.
A moment later it was LaValle leaving, and he nearly flinched as the downpour soaked him again. The water was warmer than before, and the lightning, which had been present for a while, was closer—close enough that when he saw a strobe of light that erased the darkness, the thunder was less than a heartbeat behind and loud enough to rattle his eyes in their sockets.
Under normal circumstances it would have been time to abort the mission, but not this time. They had to get the alien back, and goddamned fast.
“I think I’ve got something.” Despite the rain and wind Tanaka’s voice was clear in his ear. “Definitely got something. It’s trying not to move, but I can see it in the rain. Maybe twenty feet away. If you can converge on me, do it.”
That was enough. LaValle seconded the command and headed in the same direction Tanaka had gone. He considered pulling down the heavy goggles on his helmet and switching to night vision, but the ambient light from numerous rides and displays would have damned near blinded him if he’d tried. It wasn’t dark enough to make the transition.
A small arena had been set aside for bumper cars, which were currently lying inert and covered with canvas. His skin crawled at the thought of how easy it would be for the creature to hide among the unmoving vehicles.
The water falling from the brim of his helmet was an irritant, but not enough to obscure his vision. It if had been, he might not have had to watch Tanaka as he was murdered.
The man stood stock still in front of him, his weapon down at his side, and then he rose into the air in one swift, fluid motion. Even as LaValle watched, twin blades punched through Kevlar armor and glistened in the neon lights. Dark stains ran down the length of those blades and tainted the water that dripped from the soldier’s twitching body.
Kenneth Tanaka. Wife Laureen, sons Ken Junior and Michael, first daughter on the way, and here he was, gutted like a goddamned fish by something that was hiding in plain sight. LaValle did not hesitate.
Taking aim at the air just above Tanaka’s head, he fired three rounds and was rewarded by a shower of sparks and a loud pinging noise. Tanaka fell to the ground and splashed into a mud puddle, his body twitching, his face a mask of pain.
He was alive, the poor bastard.
From behind where Tanaka had been, the air warped and shimmered as lines of electrical discharge surged over the shape of the Predator. It couldn’t be seen clearly, but it could be seen. Its war mask came into view, and LaValle thought he saw the fresh dent he’d managed to place over the left eye, and a matching dent across the forehead.
Pieces of a shape formed and vanished, leaving a picture painted from parts. Those parts made for a very large target. Knowing how big it was on an intellectual level wasn’t the same as seeing the thing up and moving. That mask turned to stare at him as the wave of energy slowly hid it away again, and LaValle took the chance to fire again, aiming at the body beneath the dented visage.
Green blood exploded from the thing’s fading arm and it roared, a deep warbling croak of a battle cry. Then it was moving. Adrenaline kicked into LaValle and a savage, primal thrill made him guiltily understand the excitement of the Predator’s hunt. He’d wounded the bastard and it felt good.
As the Predator moved to one side, it faded from view.
LaValle did his best to stay calm as he looked at what was presented to him. The creature was missing, but it wasn’t a ghost. It was just camouflaged better than any living nightmare had a right to be. He saw the water explode upward in a quick splash as one massive foot slapped down in the mud. Closer.
It was so damned much closer.
He set the rate of fire to fully automatic and aimed above that splash point. Bullets chattered and cut the air, but if the beast was hit, he couldn’t see another splash of the nearly neon blood.
Then the thing hit him like a Mack truck.
One second he was firing, and the next his weapon was slapped aside as something unseen crashed into him from the left and launched him from the ground and into the air. He didn’t land in mud, but instead crashed into the side of a bumper car, landing hard enough to rock the thing and very nearly knock it over. The force left him stunned. There was a loud crackling noise followed by a high-pitched whine—it was all the reception he got from his radio.
By the time he started to recover, the Predator was on him. He tried to move, but his body refused to listen to his demands. He could see the mud splashing closer, closer.
LaValle had always known the line of work he was in was dangerous, and he knew that, eventually, he would run into a situation where he wasn’t on top. He’d just hoped there would be a few decades before it came to pass.
Then Anderson lifted a shotgun as he stepped over LaValle’s body. He held the weapon in a proper position and pulled the trigger, unleashing an explosion of thunder. The flare from the barrel of the 12-gauge revealed nothing, but a secondary roar came back and a moment later the Predator was revealed.
Light arced and wavered around the creature’s body. Near as LaValle could see from his prone angle, the alien hadn’t actually been hurt by the shot, except perhaps for a few small wounds along the abdomen. The armor covering part of its broad chest had absorbed the worst of the damage.
Anderson pumped another shell into position and aimed. Before he could pull the trigger, the Predator reached out and grabbed the shotgun, close to the trigger, and twisted it sideways. Anderson let out a yelp as the alien’s grip overpowered his.
The monster’s other hand came down and drove a powerful fist into Anderson’s helmet. The helmet lowered by a few inches, as did Anderson’s head within it. Even over the rain and wind LaValle heard the man’s neck breaking. He dropped, his arms twitching as he slumped into the muck. If he wasn’t dead, he probably wished for death’s release.
The shimmering image of the Predator began to fade again. Whatever had happened to make its cloaking abilities falter, it was apparently already fixing itself.
LaValle willed his arm to move, and this time it listened. He didn’t try to stand up. Instead he gripped his Tavor TAR-21 and pointed the business end up at the spot where the creature was standing.
He pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Either it was jammed or he’d run out of ammunition. Then the creature was gone, lost in that damn cloaking technology, so he didn’t see what impaled his wrist and pinned his arm deep in the mud. He only knew it hurt more than anything he had ever felt before. LaValle felt his bile rise, and turned his head as his stomach rebelled. Nothing for it. The response was completely beyond his control.
He was dead and he knew it.
Ezquerra called out as he came closer. LaValle wanted to warn the man, but he was incapacitated. His stomach was still trying to void anything he might have consumed in the last few years, and his arm was pinned in place, locked against the mud. Prone as he was, LaValle was lucky to avoid drowning in his own puke.
The pressure didn’t leave his arm, but as the Predator moved, the cloaking field apparently left the spear that pinned him in place. The metal point and shaft suddenly appeared. He did his best not to black out. He felt the world receding.
“Ezquerra!” he called out. “He’s coming for you.”
Ezquerra looked his way for just an instant. The man spoke, but whatever he said was lost in the wind, and the damned radio offered only a static hiss.
LaValle forced his arm upward, trying to dislodge the spear that had him stuck like a bug to the muddy ground. The pain was a mule kick to his senses and he felt the world wobble toward the gray again.
Shaking it off as best he could, he pulled. The spear rose up with a sick squelching noise and dropped roughly down. The force with which the spear hit the ground spread the bones in his arm and LaValle groaned deep in his chest, even as he watched his last remaining ally face off against the thing they’d come to kill.
The Predator showed itself to Ezquerra, then vanished again.
The man looked around, tried to find the creature, and it appeared with another quick rustle of blue energies. Hector Ezquerra was a big man, close to six feet two inches in height and nearly two hundred and twenty pounds of hard muscle. He was trained, a capable fighter who could hold his own against some very unpleasant odds—and had, more than once in the field.
The Predator Page 17
