THE PREDATOR HUNTERS AND HUNTED

by James A. Moore

  To that end they were training a select handful of Vietnamese in the fine art of terrorist explosives, and educating the same lot on propaganda and psyche techniques. It was grisly work, but somebody had to do it.

  Everything was moving along just fine until the first body was found hanging in the trees, skinned alive. It took them far too long to decide if the victim was American or a native. In any event, the locals bugged out so fast they practically left afterimages lingering in the air.

  There was no warning. The men they were dealing with simply disappeared. If they hadn’t taken their supplies with them, Elliott would have thought the Viet Cong had developed a disintegration ray like in the old films he used to watch at the drive-in.

  Carter looked his way and shook his head. Terrence Carter was in charge of the radio contact. He knew all the latest codes and could decipher them without even trying. Elliott told his radio man to communicate with the general in Saigon. The message was coded, of course. It was simple enough, really. When the locals bugged out, that frequently was considered reason enough for the local spooks to fade away.

  Not this time. The man in charge wanted them staying exactly where they were, regardless of a skinning. That was hardly the worst thing they’d run across, in any event.

  * * *

  The second night it was two of the Company’s boys that vanished. There were twelve of them left, so the response was immediate. Roger stayed where he was and coordinated along with Carter. Costanza took half the team into the jungle to look around and see what could be seen. Maple took the other half and actively went looking for bodies.

  Costanza found nothing. He reported in regularly, but the jungle was keeping its secrets. No Viet Cong, no locals to be seen. They ran across an entire village that had been cleared of people. A dozen huts emptied of their occupants. The only thing left in the area was a goat that had been clearly left out as an offering.

  Maple had better luck, depending on the definition of luck. His team ran across a collection of bodies that had been eviscerated. When he called in his voice was hitching and he was deeply unsettled. As a rule Maple did not get nervous, but his voice shook and he had to be cautioned more than once to remember the code they were supposed to be using.

  “We found ten people,” he reported. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. They’re all dead, and they didn’t die easy. I think most of them were alive when they got torn apart.”

  Carter shook his head. “Torn apart how?”

  “Two of them were skinned. At least three bodies without heads. There are fucking bodies here without spines. You understand me? Something tore their spines out. Broke the ribs away and tore the spinal columns free from the bodies. I don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, but these guys are animals. I’ve never seen anyone taken apart this way.”

  * * *

  Lying in his bunk, Elliott thought about the pictures they’d taken that day—the ones that Maple had brought back and developed for him to see.

  Remembering, he still got the shakes.

  * * *

  His bags were packed in short order, and Traeger took them with him to the transport. The general was already there, waiting with that same stoic look that marked most of their encounters.

  Woodhurst wasn’t a big man, but he carried himself like he was ten feet tall, and he was intimidating at the best of times. The general didn’t much like Traeger, he knew, and he was okay with that. Being liked had never been as important as being respected, and Traeger wouldn’t have been along for the ride if he didn’t have the man’s respect. It was that simple.

  “Is there a plan in place yet, General?”

  “Aside from offering the facts and doing what we can to smooth over the rough patches in the budget, not really.” He paused and looked at Traeger carefully, assessing him. “Once we’re in the air, I want to hear about your thoughts on outside help.”

  Traeger nodded his head and offered a smile. That was about what he’d expected. There was a reason he was along for the ride, and it had to do with his connections in all the right places.

  He took no particular credit for what had been done, but Traeger was why the Reapers were doing special ops work. It was his idea and his connections that enabled that to happen—with the general’s blessing, of course. He didn’t take credit because he didn’t have to take credit. Everyone who mattered already knew.

  Traeger did what had to be done in order to make sure everything worked. It was the way his mother had raised him. It was the way the world had shaped him. Get the job done and make sure every angle was covered. And if possible, make sure you were riding the crest of the wave that resulted, instead of being dragged along in the undertow.

  The general was looking out the closest window, though they hadn’t yet even begun to taxi. Traeger knew the score. Given a chance to socialize, the general would find someone else to chat with. That was okay, too. Traeger had work to do.

  “I can’t remember who is on the committee,” Traeger said. “Who the problem people are. Can you remind me?”

  “The big one is Raferty.” Woodhurst sighed. “The man wants to put all of his cards into tax cuts. He thinks we’re a burden that could be removed.”

  Traeger laughed. “We aren’t even a blip on the radar.”

  “You know that, I know that. Raferty sees it differently.” Woodhurst actually looked toward him, growing animated. “That’s what we’re up against.”

  “So, I think I might know who can help us with Raferty,” Traeger said, trying not to sound smug. He knew exactly who could help with the senator. The man had his weaknesses, and he’d been caught more than once with women who weren’t his wife, in situations that were dubious at best.

  “Really?” The general looked at him with new interest.

  “Well, it’s a little-known secret, but sometimes we in the CIA find out stuff and keep it to ourselves, for just such emergencies.” He flashed Woodhurst a smile. “I might be able to work out a conversation with the man.”

  The general nodded, smiled, and leaned back in his seat. It was a very small smile, and it was there and gone quickly. A step in the right direction then; a small victory. That was all he needed for now.

  He’d worry about bigger victories after they took off.

  The general had needs. Traeger intended to help him see those needs satisfied. In the process, he would forward his own agenda as much as he could, because that was the way the world worked. A man did what he had to do, so long as he could face himself in the mirror the next day.

  Traeger always liked what he saw in the mirror.

  5

  Devon Hill climbed out of the shower and dried himself quickly, his body shaking from the workout but his mind clearer for the effort.

  No one was saying it, but Project Stargazer was on the ropes. Oh, they were talking about budgets, but they always talked about budgets. This was different though. The words were the same, but the body language was a silent scream of panic.

  The Reapers? They were just fine. Tomlin was sweating it—he was worried about the chance to fight aliens. Hill wanted it too, but he didn’t need it, not the same way that Tomlin did.

  He sighed. “There’s a reason he’s in charge.” He dressed quickly, in black fatigues, which was damn near the unofficial uniform of the Reapers. Then he moved to his desk. Tomlin had filled out the reports. When he was done, Hill looked them over and took notes, then filed them. You want to know your enemy? You have to study him.

  Tomlin wasn’t an enemy, not really, but he was competition. Hill admired Tomlin too much to ever consider him anything less than an associate, and most days he could even call the man a friend. He would certainly follow his orders without hesitation, because the man knew his business.

  No, it wasn’t that Tomlin wasn’t good, it was that Hill needed to be better. No one seemed to want to understand that part, and it wasn’t a black-or-white thing, either, though maybe that had some small part in the equation. No, it was simpl
y that his mother had taught him to be the best he could be in all things.

  “You gonna do a job?” she said to him. “Make sure no one does it better. You gonna run a hundred-yard dash? Be faster. Work harder for it. Make sure that everyone knows who the winner is, even before you hit the finish line.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one remembers the guy who came in second.”

  Just that simple.

  Hill shook his head. Second place would do if it was all you could manage, but he had plans that went beyond that. He had no intention of sabotaging anyone. He knew a few who would, like Traeger, the ghost that ran around playing second fiddle to Pappy. Traeger was exactly the sort that liked to take each person’s measure to see who he could turn with a few words and a smile.

  Traeger wasn’t trustworthy. It was exactly that simple. He had the right idea—he wanted to win—but he had no sense of honor.

  No. Hill intended to do his absolute best as second in command to Tomlin. He just also intended to be prepared, if anything should happen to the man that meant he had to be replaced. That was the way it worked, in the military and in the real world.

  He scanned every line of Tomlin’s reports and examined them as carefully as he would study battle plans. The devil was in the details. He just had to figure out which details kept Old Scratch well hidden.

  He’d figure it out eventually.

  In the meantime, he had plenty to take care of. Orologas was busy with his pet project, trying to understand an alien voice—if that’s what it was. Strand was busy trying to find a way to be an even better marksman. Back in his college days the man had won a bunch of awards for marksmanship and quick-draw maneuvers. These days he was too busy worrying about whether or not someone would take away his rights as a gun enthusiast. There was no chance of that, but he remained convinced that his rights were at stake every single time a shooter went nuts somewhere in the US, which seemed to happen at least once a week of late.

  Pulver and Hyde were easy. They loved their work. If they had a care in the world beyond what they did for a living, they hid it well enough to fool anyone looking, and he made it a habit to look. Why? Because the job of the commanding officer was to command, and the job of his second was to make sure everything ran smoothly.

  King wanted world peace. He also wanted proof there was life on other planets. Hill wasn’t sure exactly what had happened to King in the past, but the man wanted to know about aliens the same way that some holy rollers wanted to know about God Almighty. King didn’t seem to care much what sort of aliens there were. It was more like the man was on a personal quest to prove something, if only to himself. He was a quiet fanatic.

  For King to be truly happy, there had to be some form of life beyond the Earth. There had to be, or what was all the fuss about? He claimed to be an atheist, but Hill suspected he was just looking for the right religion.

  Did that mean King would hesitate when the time came?

  No. Hill didn’t think so. If he believed otherwise he would have brought the matter to Tomlin’s attention, and to Elliott’s as well. King didn’t pose a risk to the team, nor did any other member. Not even Strand, though Burke worried about him from time to time. He had all the signs of a loose cannon, at least on the surface. Hill and Burke had discussed the man on several occasions, and as far as they could tell, despite his wild side, the man was loyal and did his job without reproach. He just needed to vent when he was done, and as long as that happened on the base, there was no harm.

  And if it happened off base?

  Well, then Hill would make sure he was there to handle the situation, or Burke would be there for the same reason. All in a day’s work.

  Hill leaned back at his small desk and contemplated the files he’d read. There were no inaccuracies to notice. He’d looked for them actively, and found none. That was a-okay. Devon Hill was nothing if not patient. In the meantime, it might be time for a few rounds with a punching bag, or possibly with a living opponent if he found one in the area.

  There was always time for training. Razor edges didn’t just happen.

  They had to be sharpened and honed.

  6

  Biker Week was coming soon, and that meant it was time to get the motorcycles overhauled and tuned.

  That responsibility fell to Andy Simon and he took it seriously. The local chapter of the Four Horsemen were the best of the best, and they were going to look like it, especially since they were hosting the event. Simon was a mechanic and he was one of the best in the area. His membership in the Horsemen was strictly honorary, since he did not ride a bike and couldn’t if his life depended on it. A wreck a few years back had ended his days of riding with the others.

  Despite many attempts to remember what had happened, Andy couldn’t have said exactly how he managed to get wedged between a tractor trailer and an SUV. He could just tell you that the end result was a pair of legs that didn’t work and a bike that had been scattered over a fifth of a mile along I-85.

  He was alive, and that counted. None of the guys made fun of him, or if they did, they were smart enough to do it where he couldn’t hear it and where the man in charge of the charter, Burly Hanscomb, couldn’t hear it either. Before the accident they’d been as close as brothers. Now it wasn’t quite the same, but Burly had a loyal streak half a mile long and no one got to mess with Andy and keep walking.

  To repay the loyalty Andy ran the garage for the club and he did it with pride. He made sure the bikes were in perfect order and spent a lot of time detailing them with the sorts of illustrations that would have cost a fortune for anyone who wasn’t a member. A knack for art and a top-of-the-line airbrush setup meant the boys were always glad to see him.

  Hell, they’d even put in a ramp to make sure he could get into the clubhouse with ease. Maybe not the best choice, considering what Stew had done with his Harley when he was a bit too drunk, but the door got fixed and Stew promised never to do it again, so there was that to consider.

  Tom-Tom Willis was sitting at the edge of Andy’s desk, his heavy posterior resting on a grease stain, and smoking one of his obnoxious cigars. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and his five o’clock shadow had progressed to the beginning of a beard. He was eyeing the work on his hog with the eye of a connoisseur, not that he would have known art from a postage stamp.

  “What do you think?” Andy asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  Willis squinted for a moment and then sighed happily.

  “Looks good as new, brother!”

  Andy nodded and grinned. “Well, the scratches were bad, but not enough to ruin the original work. I just sort of traced it.” That was a lie. He’d had to do some serious repairs, but he didn’t mind—Tom-Tom was one of the good ones.

  “Nah!” Willis shook his head. “I saw the damage. You can’t even see the scratches any more. That’s awesome.”

  Not far away the sounds of partying issued from the clubhouse. Andy figured to get himself over there just as soon as he could, but business first.

  “How much do I owe you?” Willis’s voice stayed cheerful. His eyes grew shrewd.

  “Call it two hundred?” Andy threw a low number. He hated haggling.

  Tom-Tom smiled. A second later the first scream came from the clubhouse. It was a raw, primal sound, a bellow of pain, and both of them looked through the glare of the midday sun with matching expressions of surprise.

  “Better not be anyone causing shit today.” Willis shook his head and started for the club. All of the pleasant faded from his demeanor as he walked, and the man moved fast, looking like nothing so much as a lumbering bear on the prowl.

  The second scream came from a different throat. Andy couldn’t have said who it was, but he knew the voice just the same. There was a .45 in his work bag, and he grabbed it as he started toward the clubhouse. The gun stayed in his lap, his hands pushing the wheelchair hard, following after his friend.

  Tom-Tom was through the door
and had it closed before he got there and maybe, just maybe, that was a blessing. He couldn’t see the fight but he heard it. It sounded like Billy was screaming something, but his words were too distorted to make out. Billy, who liked to talk about his time as a mixed martial arts tournament fighter, short-lived though it was. Billy, who bragged about his years of training.

  Billy, who came crashing through the window not far from the door, his face torn into shreds and his entire body twitching as he landed on the walkway and flopped around for a moment, like a fish out of water.

  “Bill? What the fuck!”

  “Ruh, Anny.” He was choking on blood. “Ruhhn.”

  It took Simon a moment. The words didn’t make sense at first. He had to think about it before “Run, Andy. Run” made any sense.

  Before Billy could say anything else something smashed into the wall and the entire house shook from the impact, glass fragments falling from the window. Rather than wait for an invitation, Andy rolled forward and pushed at the door. It didn’t budge at first, but after a second he managed to wrangle the door open, cursing his useless legs as he often did.

  The chaos inside was more than anything he could have expected. As he pushed the door open his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he saw more and more of the inside of the clubhouse. The pool table was knocked on its side, two of the legs broken away. One of the guys—it looked like Harry—was draped over it in a position that wasn’t natural. His back was bent too far for him to be alive, or at least functioning. He remembered when his own spine had bent that way.

  Harry was staring at the floor.

  He didn’t look to be breathing.

  Not far away, Sarah, Burly’s old lady, was staring at the far corner, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide and her fingers pulling her face into a mask of fright. Suddenly she collapsed to the floor in a faint.