The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  He scrambled up, burrowed deeper into the undergrowth, and then paused.

  The forest was disturbed, filled with the complaints of birds and animals that had been roused by the tractor’s plunge through the trees.

  The helicopter was somewhere overhead, close, its turbines roaring and the rotors cutting noisily through the air.

  He heard something, saw a flash of movement.

  A deer.

  He saw the white-tail bob as it pranced out of danger.

  Another noise?

  He swung up the M16 and fired a burst into the bushes.

  Blind fear, the searing white heat of terror, burned through his mind so fast and so fiercely and so thoroughly that he almost forgot his own name.

  He remembered one name.

  John Milton.

  He stumbled forwards, the thorns ripping at his flesh, scratching his face and his hands and tearing his clothes, none of that as important as putting distance between himself and the tractor.

  Between himself and the Black Hawk.

  Between himself and Milton.

  He ran.

  Chapter 51

  MILTON PAUSED. Lundquist had barrelled across a space that had been cleared of trees. In spite of his urge to rush after him, he knew that he could not. The Black Hawk was overhead, the searchlight glaring down at them, its twitching light illuminating the space so well that there would be no way for Milton to pass through it unobserved. He had to wait until the chopper had passed over. Lundquist might not have been sprinting away; maybe he was pressed down on the ground, the M16 laid out before him, aiming.

  Milton heard a metallic, amplified voice. “Morten Lundquist! This is the National Guard.”

  Milton looked up. The Black Hawk was hovering fifty feet above the tree line.

  “Lundquist! You need to surrender.”

  Milton knew that there was little they could do. The clearing was much too small for them to land.

  There came the strobe of gunfire from the other side of the clearing, and he saw the sparks of impact as bullets struck the helicopter’s fuselage.

  The chopper slid away to the right and the clearing was plunged into darkness. Milton heard the crash of movement through the bushes and ran low and fast in pursuit. He stopped and listened and heard, not far up ahead, the sound of something crashing through more thick underbrush.

  He followed, staying low. Lundquist wouldn’t run forever. There would come a point when he would grow tired or impatient, and then he would stop. He would try to lay out an ambush, and Milton had to be wary of that. But the noise kept coming, the rustling of the undergrowth and the sound of boots splashing through mud, and as long as he could hear him moving, he knew he could follow safely.

  When the noise stopped, he stopped, falling to the ground and inching forwards on his belly, his eyes searching ahead for any sign of Lundquist’s passage. The Black Hawk came back again, the searchlight probing for them, the solid shaft of its light absorbed by the canopy overhead, so bright that Milton could see the veins of the leaves lit up from above. He heard the sound of a curse, and then the running started again, so he got up and ran, too.

  It must have been fifteen minutes before the noise stopped for a second time. Milton dropped back into the brush. He waited there, controlling his breathing, vigilant.

  He looked around, recognising his surroundings.

  Lundquist had been running in circles.

  The noise of boots slapping through water came from up ahead, and he followed again. The pursuit continued through a dense thicket of trees and across another open patch of ground. Lundquist led him to a long stretch of dogwood, crawling beneath the branches through the dirt and the muck, and then down a loose slope of scree to a stream, across that and then along the opposite bank. Milton stayed within the margin of vegetation. It would have been faster to run through the water, but he would have made too much noise and would present a target that would be impossible to miss.

  He would be patient.

  Lundquist was losing it.

  Wouldn’t be long now.

  THE SLEEVE of Lundquist’s jacket snagged on the thorns of a bush, and the fabric ripped as he tore it loose. He ducked down and cursed, not because of the jacket, but because he was beginning to feel desperate. The Black Hawk was still overhead, the searchlight questing for him, but he could stay ahead of it, and he knew that eventually they would run low on fuel and have to leave. It wasn’t the helicopter that he was worried about.

  It was the sure and certain knowledge that John Milton was behind him.

  He pushed up and tried to scramble away. The brambles, which he had forgotten about, lashed him in the face. Their spikes scratched into him, tearing the skin on his cheeks and throat. He covered his eyes and pushed through them, feeling the blood on his skin and ignoring it.

  He just needed to keep going. He had waited twice, settled down in deep cover, and turned the M16 to face the direction that Milton must surely be coming. But he did not come. The forest was full of noise, loud with panicked birds and animals and the noise of the Black Hawk overhead, but there was nothing that sounded like a man in pursuit. It was as if he had a sixth sense. Whenever Lundquist stopped, Milton stopped.

  Or maybe he was wrong, maybe he was paranoid, maybe Milton wasn’t following him after all?

  Lundquist stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He was winded, his knees were watery, and he had no idea where he was. He thought of just turning and firing in a wide arc, emptying out the magazine and trusting God, but he couldn’t do it. It would be suicide. He could fire for a week, and he wouldn’t hit him. And the muzzle flashes would just give him away.

  He set off again, following the course of a stream to the south, but his legs felt empty, and he had no strength left. He dragged his foot, and his ankle was snagged by a bare root, his momentum arrested as he slammed down onto his hands and knees. He dropped the M16 and tried to withdraw his foot, but he was panicked, and every yank and jerk seemed to jam it in ever tighter.

  Finally, he managed it. He scrambled backwards, to his rifle.

  Now, he thought. Now he would make his stand.

  He swallowed compulsively, his stomach an empty pit. He fumbled the M16 and aimed back down the stream, sweeping into the trees on the left and on the opposite bank to the right.

  And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul.

  He listened, but he couldn’t hear anything. Something was different. He realised what it was: the helicopter was gone. It wasn’t just away from him, for he would have been able to hear the engines from miles away, it was gone.

  It was just him and Milton now.

  But rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.

  He heard a crashing sound from the other side of the river, swung the rifle in that direction, and fired.

  The noise was terrifyingly loud, the echoes cracking around the trees, and he got to his feet and ran again. His foot slipped off a moss-covered rock, and he went flying through the air, legs flailing, and then he pounded back down on his back. His head smacked against a rock, and his vision fluttered, then dimmed. The stream ran around him as he lay there, his eyes squeezed tight. He could feel the sharp pebbles on the bottom digging into his back.

  And he said to them, ‘This kind cannot be driven out by anything but prayer.’

  He couldn’t breathe. He closed his eyes and prayed, again, for strength. He gulped for air, but his stomach muscles wouldn’t push out.

  He tried to roll over. He couldn’t.

  He couldn’t move at all.

  He opened his eyes and saw that John Milton was on top of him, his knee pushed into his chest and his arm braced across his throat.

  He tried to free himself.

  Milton was too strong.

  Lundquist looked up into his face, about to beg him for mercy, but he saw his cold blue eyes, and the words died on his lips.

  Milton grabbed him by the lapels o
f his jacket and hauled him further out into the stream. It was shallow at the edges, but a narrow channel in the centre was deep enough to reach up to Milton’s knees as he tugged him out with him. Lundquist started to float, no longer able to feel the pebbles against his back. The water splashed over his throat and onto his face, into his mouth and nostrils.

  He closed his eyes for the last time as Milton shoved his head below the surface. The water was icy cold, and Lundquist’s skin prickled with it. He felt, finally, shockingly alive just as he opened his mouth and drank it all in.

  Chapter 52

  SIX-THIRTY AT NIGHT, a snowstorm kicking eddies against the windows, and the restaurant was emptying out. It was on Lombardi Avenue, close to Lambeau Field, and the Packers were home against the 49ers. There were groups of stragglers at several of the tables, fans in Packers gear finishing their meals before bundling themselves up in their winter gear and heading out for the short walk to the stadium. The restaurant was a local destination, that was what Ellie had heard, a popular stop on the way to the stadium. There were signed pictures on the wall: Bart Starr, Brett Favre, Aaron Rodgers. A large portrait of Vince Lombardi had pride of place behind the bar, above the racks of bottles and the cash register. A sign above the portrait read TITLETOWN. Half a dozen TVs were tuned to the local FOX affiliate, the pregame shows well underway.

  She went to the bar and sat down.

  Green Bay. What the fuck.

  The five men at the nearest table to her were loud and irritating. She gathered from their conversation that they were in town for the game, a corporate box, a chance to shake hands with an old Packers alumnus in return for some astronomical payment. Lawyers or accountants, she guessed, cutting loose now that they had managed a night away from their wives. She’d noticed that they had stopped talking as she had walked past the table, and then, when they started up again, their tone was a little lower, conspiratorial, snide little chuckles and guffaws as they looked over at her.

  Like she wouldn’t figure out they were talking about her, or couldn’t guess what was coming next.

  She almost got up again and left. She wasn’t in the mood. But she decided to stay. She needed a drink and a change of scenery. She’d been staring at the same four walls for hours, the same bland conference room in the same bland federal building, and she was about to lose her mind.

  She had been practically breathing the case all week. The National Guard had found Lundquist’s body face down in a stream that ran through the woods. Drowned. An animal had started to make a meal of the soft tissue on his face. She had seen the autopsy photographs. Pretty grisly, his eyes gone, half of his nose, cheeks burrowed out. No definitive evidence of foul play, the pathologist said; he could easily have fallen into the stream and drowned.

  Ellie knew better than that.

  John Milton had been picked up on the road walking back in the direction of Truth.

  Orville had been predictable. He had done exactly what she had thought he would do: he swooped into town, flashed his badge like he was the director, made the calls, and started to look so busy with it all that people who didn’t know any better might have thought it was his bust rather than hers. He had made a ham-fisted attempt at a reconciliation, but his heart wasn’t really in it, not enough to give him the backbone to push on when it became obvious that she hadn’t changed her mind about what she’d said, and after she blew him off when he had suggested dinner so that they could “talk,” he had punished her by sending her to Siberia, otherwise known as Green fucking Bay.

  It happened fast. There had been no opportunity for her to speak to Milton.

  The media had the story by the time she arrived in Wisconsin. It was a big deal. The director went on the air and laid down the edict that the militia was going to be completely squashed. The US attorney lost no time filing charges against the twenty men and women they picked up in the forest, plus Morris Finch and another ten who were involved. They were looking at trials for attempted bombing, plus conspiracy and weapons offences.

  Milton was key to the case.

  Orville had decided to do the interview himself. Ellie would have loved to have been in the room for that. She had been given the play-by-play by another agent with whom she was friendly. Orville had put Milton through two solid days of interviews. Word was, he had tried to turn him into a cooperating witness, tried to persuade him that he had to testify. He hinted that charges against him were being stayed on the basis that he cooperated. It sounded like a threat, and she guessed that threatening Milton was not likely to be productive. And so it had proved. His answers became clipped and then monosyllabic, much to Orville’s evident irritation. Eventually, he just stopped answering, saying he would only speak to her. When Orville refused that, Milton had insisted on a phone call.

  What happened next had been plain bizarre.

  Whoever it was Milton had called, it had blown things up. The director had scurried to meet with him personally. There had been the suggestion of a medal, which Milton had rejected outright, and then a fulsome apology from Orville for the way in which he had been treated. The suggestion was that Milton had agreed to cooperate with the investigation on the condition that he was made a confidential informant. He wouldn’t be asked to testify, but he would share his knowledge of the militia without any risk of being charged. Ellie had even heard that the bureau and the attorney’s office were working on creating the fiction that Milton was working for them as an informer all along.

  After that, he was told he could go.

  He was last seen walking out of town, his pack and his rifle slung over his shoulder.

  And then, it got even weirder.

  Ellie had been called by the director. He told her that she was in line for a nice bump in salary. She said great. He said you’ve done well, but this is on two conditions.

  First, she had to play ball with the big media campaign they were planning. It was hazy, the details all to be confirmed, but it sounded like they wanted to make her into a heroine. Magazine interviews, morning television, the whole nine yards.

  The second condition?

  Milton’s involvement in the affair was not to be mentioned, under any circumstances.

  She knew how the game was played, and she didn’t know how she felt about it. Her dad would have told the director to shove his media plan up his ass, but Ellie was more practical. He had been jaded, plus he was a man. Ellie was still fresh and keen, and she had found not having a dick was an impediment to quick advancement. She could see the benefits in playing nice.

  One phone call from Milton had done all of this?

  Who did he know?

  She told the director she would think about it.

  SHE LOOKED out of the window. She could see her reflection in the glass, the smart suit and the sensible shoes, and staring at herself, she remembered the trek up through the wilderness to get to the Lake of the Clouds.

  It felt like another world.

  A man detached from the table of five and came over.

  “Excuse me. Mind if I sit down?”

  Ellie waved her hand absently. “Free country.”

  She was distracted. Orville and one of the bureau’s rising young stars, this fresh-faced ingénue flown over from Quantico, had spent several days shouting at the suspects. They had extracted leads, most likely wild goose chases, but they all had to be followed up anyway, just in case there was a grain of truth to them, some other wacko waiting in the shadows with a truck full of fertiliser and racing fuel. They had been told that there was another militia in Wisconsin, brave Christian soldiers waiting for the first sign of the Second Coming, ready to start the war. Ellie had been told to find them.

  These people who almost certainly didn’t exist.

  In Green fucking Bay.

  “Get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” she said.

  “I’m Frank.”

  He was wearing a Packers jersey with FRANK across the back. It was brand new, and he had forgotten
to take the tags off.

  The barman passed her a bottle of beer.

  “Put that on our bill.”

  “No,” Ellie said. “I’ll buy my own drinks.”

  The man shuffled a little awkwardly, but Ellie could see that his friends were watching the show, and she knew that he wouldn’t give up after the first brush-off.

  “You here for the game?”

  “No.”

  “Business, then?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “This and that.”

  “Mysterious.” He laughed.

  She ignored him.

  “You going to ask what I’m doing here?”

  “No.”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “There was a charity auction, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, my law firm bid for a box. I’m a partner there. It wasn’t cheap, never is, but we figured it was for a good cause, so why not, right?”

  “Right.”

  She noticed the small details: expensive shoes, designer denim, Rolex that probably cost the same as a small family car. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re around tonight and you’ve got nothing planned, we’ve got a spare seat. We’d be delighted to have your company.”

  Ellie was about to tell him to take a hike when she paused, the words dying on her lips. She saw the indistinct outline of a man standing outside the entrance. He was peering in through the glass, maybe looking at the menu they had there to tempt diners inside, maybe looking into the restaurant, she couldn’t be sure. There was a lattice of frost across the glass, and it was difficult to make out the details, but something about the man said that she knew who he was.

  “So?”

  She realised he had continued to speak. She hadn’t heard a word of it.

  “What do you say?”

  She stood quickly, her stool clattering back against the bar.

  Frank rested his hand on her elbow, blocking her way forward. “So, you gonna come and have a good time with us?”

  The man at the window turned and faded away into the falling snow.