by Matt Hilton
Bradley stirred beside him.
'Back with us?'
'Mmmmff!'
'Not yet, huh?'
Up ahead was a crossroads, giving him three choices. South, north, or continue heading west. Dantalion was all for choices, but occasionally you just had to throw the dice and go along with fate. He sped through the junction, the tyres kicking up gravel. The road ahead was as straight as an arrow's flight. Grass tall enough to conceal an elephant grew at both sides of the road, the upper reaches hanging over to create a natural tunnel.
The grass tunnel went on for the best part of a mile. Claustrophobia wormed at the base of his stomach, making him nauseous and out of breath. He was relieved when the Lincoln emerged into open space once more. A lake came into view on his right-hand side. Thousands of birds, myriad species he could not name, made the lake their home. Something splashed beneath the surface and moved away through the lake, leaving a wide wake on the surface.
There were trees ahead, then another one of those damn grass tunnels. Dantalion slowed the vehicle down and brought it to a halt. He'd seen something to his liking across the marshy field on his left. A collection of large red cubes surrounded by metal masts that glinted gold in the sunlight. Huge pylons made a forest of steel in the background. Power cables streaked away into the distant haze, and also towards him and over the Lincoln and across the lake. He could see another pylon on the far bank, standing tall above the slowly undulating marsh grass.
Dantalion nodded to himself, pushed the vehicle into drive and headed for the next grass tunnel. He had barely entered the green twilight when he nosed the Lincoln off the road and down the slight incline to the field of tall grasses. A flimsy wire fence was crushed under the tyres as he pushed the sedan into the grass's embrace. He didn't get far, feeling the car settling down almost immediately in the boggy earth. But he made it far enough into the tall grass so that the car wouldn't be immediately evident to anyone passing along the road. To make sure, he clambered out, wading through twisted stalks towards the road. His feet sank into the loam and were snagged by the tough grass, but he made it back to where he'd pushed over the fence. He righted the fence, even though it sagged from the nearby posts. Then he grabbed armfuls of grass and stood them upright against the wire. It wouldn't fool a determined tracker, but was good enough.
When he got back to the car, Bradley was gone.
38
Back in the day, I'd frequently been a passenger on various helicopters: primarily Sea Kings and Chinooks, AH-6 Defenders and Huey Cobras. On those occasions I'd been on missions, usually in hot zones where I'd rappel from the guts of the choppers alongside Rink and the rest of my team on reconnaissance or seek and destroy. I'd never been in a Jet Ranger before, and this helicopter was the equivalent of a sleek limousine next to some of the cramped flying buses I'd experienced.
The FBI chopper was a five-seater, two up front and three in the back. When we'd clambered inside, with Kaufman reaching for the controls, we'd discovered the pilot dead across the back seats. His undressed state explained where Dantalion had got his disguise from. I couldn't find any obvious injury on the man's body, but located a small puncture wound in his neck.
Kaufman had once been familiar with helicopters, but — like his on-the-street days — it had been some time ago.
'Don't worry,' he told me. 'It's like riding a bicycle — you never forget.'
'Don't mind falling off a bike,' I replied as I settled into the passenger position next to him, 'only not from hundreds of feet in the air.'
Kaufman laughed.
Then he was flicking buttons and pulling levers and I heard a whine that grew rapidly to a shriek. Over our heads, the rotors began to turn lazily, scything the air as though cutting through molasses. Then the engine noise changed and the rotors became a blur before our eyes, then they were above us and we were lifting off the floor. I experienced a moment of weightlessness before I felt my stomach press down into my pelvis, and we were going straight up.
Kaufman banked to the right, and the world tilted on its axis. The sea was a blue wall over his shoulder, while the Florida sky stretched away into the hazy west over mine. Then we banked left and the view was reversed. Next moment we were past the house and the bird righted itself and we were streaking towards the highway about fifty feet up in the air.
'See, I told you. Piece of cake,' Kaufman crowed.
'I'll take your word for it.'
We flew past the village, then used the exit drive as a locator for the gate. Before we even got there I knew which way Dantalion had taken Bradley. The traffic was backed up on both sides of the highway, but I could see a broad smear of blood where some hapless cop had been hit by the fleeing car. People were crowding round the dead officer. The TV crews encamped on the layover opposite the gate were charging across the road pointing their cameras at the victim. He'd been dragged about ten yards along the carriageway to our right.
'North,' I told Kaufman.
He was already turning the Jet Ranger in pursuit of the Lincoln. The nose of the chopper dipped, and then we were scooting along at top speed in pursuit of Dantalion. He had a good lead on us, but not for long.
When first we'd boarded the chopper, Kaufman had grabbed the co-pilot headphones. It left me without ear protection, and the sound was terrific. But I was fine; my head was ringing loudly with a jumble of chaotic thoughts anyway. Rather than recording Bradley's testimony on paper, the dead FBI agent, Leighton Knowles, had been conducting a taped interview with Bradley Jorgenson. When Dantalion had burst in on them, the recorder bore witness to the murders. Dantalion had neglected to turn off the recording device. Probably deliberately, as he'd spoken directly into it and said, 'The thunders of judgement and wrath are numbered. As are you, Bradley. Pretty Marianne Dean as well. All numbered. The same goes for your turncoat bodyguard. Hunter and Rink too. Do you hear me? Come to me, bring Marianne. Let's get this over with.'
When I'd first heard the recording I'd been taken aback. Dantalion had called me by name earlier, but I didn't at first understand how he could have known either my or Rink's name. It didn't take too long to draw conclusions. Your turncoat bodyguard, Dantalion had said. Seagram had obviously been involved with the plot to kill Bradley and Marianne. It explained why he had been at Petre's house when Dantalion had gone off on his initial killing spree. I'd known the man couldn't be trusted, that I should have had him cut loose the first time I saw him. It was apparent then that he was bitter about us usurping his status in the Jorgenson household. Worst, I'd missed taking Dantalion down because of his arrival, and maybe he hadn't been so blinded by impending death when he'd started shooting at me. The only thing I regretted now was that it was Dantalion and not me who'd put a bullet through the asshole's head.
Dantalion's words were a direct challenge. He was inviting me to try and take him down. He was confident. No bad thing.
He saw his escape with Bradley as a minor victory. He'd beaten me, yes. But minor victories never win the war. They breed self-confidence, which leads to complacency. And as any soldier will remind you, complacency will bring on your destruction.
Before boarding the chopper, I'd called Harvey. Now I used my mobile phone to call Rink. Shouting over the whine of the exhaust vents, I asked him if Harvey had done as I'd asked earlier.
'Yeah,' he told me. 'You know Harvey; he loves all that technical stuff.'
It was a ruse we'd employed once before to track the Harvestman. On that occasion, it had been doubtful if our idea would even work. But it had — until Tubal Cain discovered the mobile phone that we were tracking via satellite technology. Pretty soon after that I'd rammed a broken bone from his collection of skeletal parts through the monster's windpipe. Had Cain recognised the ploy earlier, maybe we would never have found him. Not until it was too late to save my brother John.
This time there was no concern about the killer spotting our makeshift tracking device. It was the phone in my hand that Harvey and Rink were vector
ing in on. All I had to do was locate Dantalion, and if I failed to stop him at least Rink would get the opportunity to avenge me.
'You in some kind of aircraft?' Rink asked me. 'I'm watching my GPS and the land's scrolling along quicker than I can keep up with.'
'Chopper. Remember that FBI agent I was telling you about?'
'The one with the stick up his ass?'
'That's him. Well, maybe I was being a little judgemental. He's a good guy. Flew UH-60s on a couple tours of Somalia before becoming a fed.'
'UH-60s?' Rink said. 'You're talking Black Hawks?'
'Like I said, he's a good guy. Could even have been your pilot on a mission or two.'
The UH-60 Black Hawk is the helicopter of choice of the US Special Forces. Delta Force and US Rangers, primarily. Before joining my team, Rink had belonged to the Rangers. Kaufman had just won kudos in both our eyes.
Beside me, Kaufman indicated the road ahead.
'Dantalion got away from us, Rink. He has Bradley with him as a hostage. I intend getting him back.' I saw a major pile-up of traffic on an intersection of the highway. Then more importantly, a silver Lincoln streaking west. Kaufman banked, following. He knew what I intended, so kept far enough back that we weren't obvious to the fleeing driver. To Rink, I added, 'Got him in sight now, buddy. Get to us as soon as you can.'
'Keep heading this way, and I'll be with you sooner than you think.'
I put the phone safely in my pocket. Took out my SIG and reloaded it.
Kaufman was busy calling up his own people. Nothing I could do about that. I only hoped that I could get to Dantalion before the FBI arrived in force and made a siege of wherever Dantalion intended holing up. Kaufman was an ex-Army aviator, used to working alongside the Special Forces. But now he was an FBI SAC and was governed by different rules. I had to give him his lead on this, as long as he gave me a few minutes' latitude before calling the shots direct from the FBI manual.
The Lincoln continued westward, passing through a couple of small towns, blew under the I-95 then continued going, out towards the wild lands that separated the coastal towns from Lake Okeechobee. The lake itself was a dark line on the horizon as we sped after the sedan.
Dantalion drove the Lincoln like a crazy man, careless of meeting any oncoming traffic on the single lane of tarmac. From our aerial perspective the land looked like it had undergone a barrage of meteors — a lush green version of the surface of the moon.
Fields of very tall grass spread out beneath us, and for a minute or so the Lincoln was hidden from view where the grass became a knitted roof over the road. But then the car was on to a clear stretch of road again and passing a lake. The Lincoln appeared to be slowing. I nudged Kaufman's shoulder and he banked away, taking the helicopter out of Dantalion's line of sight. We hovered where we could just make out a flash of silver.
'He's moving again,' Kaufman announced and he dipped the nose of the chopper and we moved forwards much slower than before. The Lincoln disappeared beneath a second field of long grass.
'You think he saw us?'
'Not likely. He maybe stopped to get his bearings.'
'Do you know where that road takes us?'
'All the way to Okeechobee. There he has only three choices. North, south or to the bottom of the lake.'
This latest field wasn't quite as large as the first. It should take Dantalion less than a minute to pass through it and come back in sight. We hung back, cautious, waiting for the Lincoln to reappear. I counted out sixty seconds in my head.
'He must have stopped again.'
'We can't be sure of that. He could simply be driving slower than he was before. Hold on, I'll get a little closer, see what's what.'
He put the chopper into a hover, then very slowly took us sideways. The helicopter began to rotate through a half-circle. It gave us a view of the entire field and where sunlight broke on the blacktop about three-quarters of a mile ahead.
'Don't see anything. I think you're right, Hunter. He's stopped somewhere along the way.'
'Can you put me down?' I asked. 'This end would be best. You can go to the far side and see if you can backtrack along the road.'
'He'll hear us coming. He could be waiting for us.'
'That's fine by me. There's no Seagram to fuck things up this time.'
'I know Walter Conrad said that you were one of the best that he'd ever worked with, but it'd be best to wait for back-up. I've a couple McDonnell Douglas 530s on their way here. We could round Dantalion up between us, no sweat.'
McDonnell Douglas 530s are commonly known as 'Little Birds'. They're the gunships employed by the FBI during aerial assaults; the type you see in movies with rocket launchers and men in black jumpsuits hanging out the side with sniper rifles. If Dantalion caught a glimpse of any of those, he'd kill Bradley there and then.
'Can't wait for back-up,' I said. 'He's stopped for a reason. Maybe he doesn't see Bradley as a hostage any more and wants to lighten the load. We need to stop him now, Kaufman.'
He knew that I was right, but I could tell he was considering all the different ramifications for his future career with the FBI. His decisions would be severely tested by his bosses up at Quantico and Washington DC, but in the end, I was my own man and not under his direct jurisdiction.
'Careful of those power lines,' I cautioned as we swung back to the open area next to the big lake.
'The ground is too boggy to land here. I'm going to have to look for somewhere firmer.'
'No time.' I took the Ka-Bar out of my boot and tucked it through a belt loop of my jeans. 'Just get us low enough so I can jump.'
He looked at me like I was insane. He probably had it in mind that I'd disappear up to my neck in a sink hole. But then maybe that would save him from the bureaucratic nightmare he'd have to face for allowing me to conduct my own vigilante action against Dantalion.
Suit yourself, Hunter, his expression said. Then he was going through the routine of bringing us down towards the ground. I pushed open the cockpit door and it slammed back against the side of the chopper. The downwash from the rotor blades flattened the deep grass beneath me. It lifted loose debris that swirled around us like we were in a cyclone.
'This is low enough.' I swung my legs out of the cockpit. I took out the mobile phone, held it tight in my left hand, and took my SIG Sauer in my right. Over the noise of the engine I shouted, 'My friend Rink is coming. Don't let any of your boys stand in his way. He's not as patient with people as I am.'
Kaufman gave me a tight-lipped smile. 'Just watch your ass, Hunter.'
I winked. Then dropped out of the chopper, hoping I didn't land in the gaping jaws of an alligator.
39
Bradley Jorgenson could not have got far in the time it took Dantalion to conceal the Lincoln from the road. A couple of minutes, that was all. In his drugged and disoriented state, it was highly probable that he'd managed to get as far into the long grass as one determined rush would take him, before falling face down and going back to sleep. His trail was easy enough to see; there were bent and broken stems of the bamboo-like grass angling away from the front of the Lincoln into the green twilight.
Dantalion took out the Glock 17 he'd liberated from Seagram and checked the load. He fed spare rounds into the magazine as he started after Bradley. From somewhere ahead the sound of a body pushing through the long grass came to his ears. Then something else: the whup, whup, whup of rotor blades.
He craned round to see the helicopter, but he was surrounded by the tall grass, looking up at only a tiny patch of blue sky. The walls of this maze had the effect of distorting and redirecting the source of the noise and made it difficult to pinpoint where the rotor sound was coming from. He couldn't get a location, but he knew that this was the helicopter which had been on the lawn outside Eunice Jorgenson's ramshackle home. Hunter was proving to be one resourceful dude.
Bradley Jorgenson was still alive only because Dantalion planned to use him to bait a larger trap. He'd hoped to torture
Marianne Dean's whereabouts from her lover, contact her, and then demand that she come to a prearranged location where he'd finish the two of them. Hunter and his friend Rink would be along for the ride, but Dantalion was capable of killing them all. He'd beaten Hunter every other time they'd met and felt sure he would do so again.
The sound of the chopper receded, and he assumed that Hunter would continue on towards Okeechobee, before backtracking this way. It would give him all the time he needed to catch up with Bradley Jorgenson.
Sure enough, he heard the drone of the chopper as it swung away to the west. Dantalion smiled to himself, then stepped into the tall grass.
Small biting insects called this grass home.
So did serpents and lizards and all manner of crawling things.
Not a place that Dantalion would choose to frequent. But he pushed through the grass happily, feeling that all was right in his world. The numerological equations in his book would soon be back in balance. He could write up the numbers of those he'd dispatched in the meantime, and he even made himself a silent bet that he was close to meeting the tally of the original Dantalion and his command of thirty-six legions of spirits.
The going was tough. The grass grew in great hummocks, but sent out feelers at ankle level that stretched taut across the clear areas, creating tripwires as effective as any he'd ever laid. The grass itself was as strong and coarse as hemp rope. Sheaves on the stems made long prickly spines where they frayed and split from the main growth, and they scratched and plucked at his flesh and clothing with each step. His hands were protected from the spearing grass, but his face was bare now that he'd ditched the helmet.
He couldn't hear the helicopter now, but he could hear Bradley's stumbling progress. Everything else was still and silent, the indigenous creatures of this sea of grass fleeing before the presence of alien invaders. There was an overpowering stench of rotting vegetation. A breeze touched his face like the caress of the lover he'd never known. Instead of following Bradley, he swung to the left and pushed through the grass towards a wide-open field. Separating him from the cultivated land flowed a sluggish stream, cut out of the earth to help drain the swamp this field had once been. The stream, clogged with black mud and decaying foliage, was the source of the stench. Across the field he could see the buildings and pylons that he'd noticed from the road. Strange place to have a factory, he thought, maybe some sort of electrical substation.
