Lethal Savage

by Dave Edlund

  “Of course. They have a clinic and the patients would be inclined to seek treatment. But being a native American reservation, jurisdiction would be complicated and likely to slow any coordinated response from government agencies.”

  “Not to mention the fact that American politicians really don’t care much about what happens on the reservations, as long as it stays on the reservations.”

  Peter shook his head. “Like father, like son. You don’t value life at all. Unless it’s yours, of course.”

  Ming’s mouth drew back in a smirk that, paired with his black, beady eyes, reminded Peter of a serpent. All that was lacking was a thin, forked tongue flicking in and out. “Come now,” he said. “Can you honestly claim to be any different? After all, you were instrumental in the murder of my father, as well as the destruction of his life’s work.”

  “You can’t succeed. I know your plan. And others will figure it out pretty fast. It just isn’t that sophisticated.”

  “You flatter yourself. But, there is one more thing I want to show you before my men—dispose of you.”

  Peter swallowed the lump in his throat.

  Ming rose and faced Roger Corbett. “Bring him to my office.”

  With Ming leading the way and well out of reach, Corbett prodded Peter into the house, his pistol pressed firmly into Peter’s spine.

  His office was immaculate and decorated in a decidedly masculine tone. A large bay window on one wall overlooked the open grassy space all the way to the barn. The walls were painted a deep burgundy red, with white-oak trim and polished oak planks covering the floor. Occupying the exact center of the space was a massive desk constructed of ebony and carved in an intricate pattern with dragons scaling posts at each corner.

  Ming was already seated as Peter entered. He swiveled his head, taking in the beautiful surroundings. “You have good taste,” Peter said. “Perhaps that’s the only thing we can agree on.”

  “I couldn’t care less about your approval.”

  “Spoken like a true psychopath.”

  Corbett rammed the gun barrel painfully into the lower vertebrae of Peter’s back. “For a man whose life expectancy is measured in minutes, you might want to show more respect.”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder at Corbett. “Would it matter?”

  “How you die is my choice. So yeah, I’d say it matters.”

  “Enough,” Ming said, and he flicked the fingers of a raised hand dismissively. “Do you believe in an afterlife, Mr. Savage?”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed, uncertain where the question was leading. “I believe in God, if that’s what you mean. Good and evil—and that good will always prevail.”

  “Hmm. I thought as much, and very soon your beliefs will be tested. So, I want to give your spirit or soul, whatever you would call it, something to contemplate after death.”

  In a gesture of defiance, Peter raised his chin and pulled his shoulders back.

  “Step closer. I have something to show you.”

  He turned an open laptop so Peter could see the screen. It was logged onto a page that appeared to list items and services for sale. “So?” Peter said.

  Ming’s reptilian smirk returned. “This is where I posted the contract on your life. Only after Mr. Corbett assured me he had you—alive and well—did I cancel the contract.”

  “How thoughtful. Am I supposed to say thank you?”

  Ming chortled. “Well, I don’t think you’ll want to thank me after you take a closer look.” His index finger moved to a particular line at the middle of the monitor.

  Peter took a half step forward and leaned closer, reading the post. He raised upright and attempted to lunge toward Ming but Corbett’s hand clamped hard on his neck. At the same time, he thrust the SIG Sauer pistol deeper into his flesh. “You son of a bitch.” He spat the words out.

  “Oh really, Mr. Savage. You must have known that I had no choice but to issue contracts on the lives of all the men responsible for my father’s murder. Let’s see. I have Todd Steed, Gary Porter, Jim Nicolaou and the entire SGIT team—oh, and last but far from least, your son. Ethan Savage.”

  Peter struggled against the vise-like grip on his neck. “Do me a favor and go up against Jim first.”

  “Maybe, but probably not. All these contracts have been issued. Just a few minutes ago. Before long, hired killers will be rushing to get to each mark first. The exceptionally large monetary bounty on each man assures these contracts will get an enormous amount of attention—and from the most skillful assassins.”

  Peter glared at Ming. What could he say? As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t attack Ming, not with a gun in his back. But he couldn’t ride it out either. Time wasn’t on his side.

  “Oh, don’t fret, Mr. Savage. There really is nothing you can do to stop me. I suspect your friends and son will be murdered first. Then, one by one, the SGIT team will be eliminated. They have no idea this is coming, and every man has his moments of vulnerability.”

  Chapter 39

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  Peter was escorted from the house just as the drone helicopter lifted off from the lawn. He watched it rise slowly straight up until it blended seamlessly with the cerulean sky. Then the buzzing sound of the six fans slowly faded away, and Peter knew the aircraft was flying toward the target. What that was, he could only guess, but he had a pretty good idea.

  On the large porch, Corbett turned him over to the two guards, who each trained their handguns on the prisoner. “Heinrich,” Corbett said, “take Mr. Savage to the pit. Logan, you go with him. When you get there, shoot him and kick his dead body in with the other garbage.”

  As the name implied, the pit was simply a deep hole in the fertile valley soil. Having been dug with a backhoe, it was located a hundred yards beyond the barn and out of sight of the ranch house. Peter approached with his hands raised. He smelled the rancid odor of rotting garbage. Since the property was well outside the boundary of any incorporated city, there were no municipal services. Water was pumped from a well, sewage flowed into a septic tank and drain field, and trash was buried in a deep hole.

  Now, Peter was about to be added to the refuse.

  “Step up to the edge,” the guard named Logan said, his voice cracked with uncertainty. He was thin and sported a thick mane of wavy blond hair. His face was pock-marked from a bad case of acne, and he didn’t appear to be a day older than twenty. In the brief moment when Peter had looked into his blue eyes, he saw a rebel, but not a killer.

  Heinrich stood ten paces to the side, his SIG Sauer pistol aimed at Peter with a solid, two-handed hold. Logan held his ground as Peter stepped forward several paces until he was at the edge of the deep hole. He peered down. The cavity appeared to be ten feet deep, and across the bottom was strewn all manner of refuse. It reminded Peter of a city landfill, only on a tiny scale. Motion caught his eye, and he saw a rat dart under a folded sheet of cardboard, only to emerge a short distance away and feast on spoiled salad greens.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Peter said, his hands still held above his head. “You can let me go and no one will know. But if you kill me, there’s no going back. The police will eventually find you, and you’ll get the needle.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Logan said, his head twisting toward Heinrich.

  “Never mind. Just do your job.”

  “Don’t listen to him kid. They have the death penalty in this state, or didn’t your boss tell you that? Lethal injection. You know that isn’t always quick and painless. They say it can be pretty bad, with the convicted screaming for ten or fifteen minutes until they die. I’ve heard it feels like your whole body is burning from the inside.”

  “Mr. Heinrich? Is that true?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Heinrich is setting you up kid. Can’t you see it? You kill me, and he shoots you. No witnesses.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Logan. Just do your job. It’s as simple as pointing and pullin
g the trigger. We get this done and go back for a cold beer. What do ya say?”

  “There’s no walking back, kid. He’s using you. You kill me, and you die about two seconds later.”

  “That’s enough lip from you, Savage. There’s two guns trained on you. And from this distance, there’s no missing.” Heinrich shifted his eyes to Logan. He read uncertainty in the face of the young man as his gun arm sagged a little. “Logan, we’ve discussed this already. You know what you have to do, right?”

  Peter couldn’t see Logan’s face, but he sensed what the young man was feeling—uncertainty, fear, trepidation. All emotions Peter had felt before he’d killed for the first time.

  “Listen to me, Logan,” Peter said.

  Heinrich interrupted. “Logan, you have three seconds to either shoot Mr. Savage and throw him in with the garbage, or I shoot both of you.”

  “Logan, you have a choice.”

  “Shut up!” Logan said. “I’m not listening to you.”

  “One,” Heinrich said, his voice even and confident.

  “Have you ever killed a man before?” Peter continued. “It doesn’t just end with the bullet. It will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  “Two.”

  “Talking is over,” Logan said. Then he raised the pistol in one hand, extended his arm, and cocked the hammer.

  Peter recognized the distinctive metallic click, and knew that in a second, two at most, his life would abruptly end. He glanced down at the rotting, fetid garbage, knowing that would be the last thing he would see.

  s

  Danya had tracked Peter’s cell phone ever since leaving Bend a couple hours earlier. When the icon slowed and remained in a small area not any larger than a football field, she concluded he was no longer traveling by car. Trouble was, the icon did not appear on any mapped road on the phone app. She navigated secondary country roads that should bring her in close proximity, and then she would have to wing it.

  The road she was following had skirted just south of the icon, and she slowed, looking for an unimproved road or driveway that might head off in the right direction. Ahead and to the right she saw a gated driveway that looked promising. She slowed her red pickup, noticed the camera on the gate post, and made a snap decision to keep driving onward. A half mile beyond the gate she pulled off the road.

  A barbed wire fence with “No Trespassing” signs paralleled the shoulder of the road. A quick examination indicated the wire wasn’t electrified. She parted the lower strands and Diesel slipped through. She followed right behind him.

  “Diesel,” she called, and the canine stopped. He looked back at her, waiting.

  Danya entered the woods outfitted for combat. The FN shotgun was slung from her shoulder. A bandoleer of shells was draped diagonally across her chest. The combat tomahawk was sheathed at the small of her back, and a SIG Sauer pistol was secured in a tactical holster on her right thigh. She quickly left the road for the deep shadows in the timber, picking a direct route toward the beacon on her phone that should indicate Peter’s location.

  Initially, the understory was thick—a combination of dense brush, blackberry vines, rhododendron bushes, and evergreen trees. But as she closed the distance to the icon, the brush gave way to clearings. That made movement easier, faster, but it also left her vulnerable. Clothed in blue jeans and a drab green hoody, without the thick brush she could be easily spotted by stationary or roaming guards.

  Staying at the edge of the clearing, and using the brush for cover, she unlimbered the shotgun, deriving confidence from its close-range stopping power. Ahead Danya spotted several goats at the edge of the clearing happily munching away on everything green, even the blackberry vines. She slowed her pace, hoping not to spook the goats for fear it might give away her presence. Diesel stayed close by her side, ignoring the temptation to chase the four-legged herbivores. As she passed, two goats looked at her momentarily and bleated, then lowered their heads and continued grazing.

  Soon a barn came into sight, and beyond it, a ranch house. Both structures appeared to be in very good condition, a rarity for farm buildings in the wet climate of western Oregon. She spotted two satellite dishes mounted atop the gabled roof of the barn. There were no windows in the barn visible from Danya’s position. But she saw a row of four air conditioning units against the nearest wall. Odd, she thought.

  Stretching before the front of the barn was a large open space. As she watched, several men dressed in light blue coveralls were servicing a sizable drone. Then the drone took to the air. After it flew out of sight, the men entered the barn.

  Danya paused again to study the phone and judged that the icon indicating the location of Peter’s cell phone was close, probably just beyond the barn. Preparing to move, she glanced to her side—Diesel was gone. “Diesel!” she said as loud as she dared, and then waited several moments, expecting the brush to move and the red dog to rejoin her. But he didn’t. He had simply vanished.

  It was a setback, but she’d come too far to give up. Besides, quitting wasn’t in her playbook. She crouched and resumed her stalk. Her pace became more deliberate with care going into every footstep, the foliage breaking up her silhouette.

  She swung a wide circle around the barn, checking the tracking app on the phone frequently. The distance to the blip was decreasing with every step she took, but it was also taking her away from the two buildings. Then she scented a pungent odor and halted. It was not the normal musty smell characteristic of the woods. Rather, it was the strong, fetid odor of rot. She resumed her advance, even more cautious than before. After another dozen steps she came across a road that had been cut through the forest using heavy machines.

  She followed it to the left, and soon she heard voices. Danya cocked her head to capture the soft sounds. The voices were masculine but too distant to understand.

  Wishing Diesel were still with her, she slowly but steadily advanced another forty yards, following a sweeping bend, before halting again. The talk was louder, and she was certain she recognized one voice as that of Peter. The other two were unfamiliar.

  But the message was clear. One of the men was going to kill Peter.

  With a renewed sense of urgency that bordered on desperation, she moved deftly through the brush toward the voices. Her footing needed to be certain as she angled and threaded her body between evergreen branches and dense shrubs. To become reckless and noisy now would mean disaster. After covering a dozen yards, she caught a glimpse of Peter and a second man with an unkempt mass of blond hair. Danya slowly parted rhododendron branches to get a better view.

  Only ten yards away, a guard stood with his back toward Danya. He was facing Peter and very close. He appeared to have a weapon trained on Peter, but his body obscured any details. Judging from the conversation, she concluded his name was Logan.

  Farther to the side was a second guard, bearing a semi-automatic pistol in his hand, pointed in Peter’s direction. She knew he would not have the weapon in his hand if he did not anticipate using it very soon. He was definitely the one in charge, and there was no doubt about their intentions.

  About ten paces separated the two gunmen, making it difficult for Danya to take them both out before one of them fired. Even worse was Peter’s location. He was on the other side of Logan, the man who was moments away from executing him. Clearly, Logan was the highest priority threat, and she could shoot him easily with either the tactical shotgun or the SIG Sauer pistol holstered to her thigh. But the human body seldom stops modern ammunition, and at this close range she knew that to shoot the gunman would also mean striking, and likely killing, Peter.

  Danya was mentally running through her options, considering and discarding plans, when the gunman to the side said, “Logan, you have three seconds to either shoot Mr. Savage and throw him in with the garbage, or I shoot both of you.”

  She judged the distance again—yes, it could work. Silently laying the shotgun on the ground, she shifted her weight and tensed her muscles.


  “Talking is over,” Logan said.

  With a feeling of foreboding, Danya watched Logan raise his arm, point the gun at the back of Peter’s head, and cock the hammer.

  s

  Inside the barn, two guards were watching remote camera feeds on a bank of color monitors. Several feeds showed the two-lane road approaching the property as well as the driveway leading up to the ranch house.

  One of the guards leaned closer to the monitors, looking for something that wasn’t there. “Hey, did you see a red pickup on camera 14?”

  The other guard shook his head. “No. Should I?”

  “Yeah. I picked it up approaching the driveway. But it didn’t turn off the main road. It’s not coming to the house or barn.”

  “So?”

  “Well, camera 14 is what—two hundred yards past the entrance gate? If it didn’t turn onto the driveway, and you didn’t pick it up on 14, then what happened to the pickup?”

  Chapter 40

  South of Eugene, Oregon

  March 29

  As Peter gazed into the pit, the silence was cut by a swoosh, the whisper of a combat tomahawk slicing through the air. The spiked end planted deeply at the base of Logan’s neck. He collapsed immediately, his muscles unable to respond once the hardened steel severed his spine at the base of his skull. The kid was dead even before his knees buckled and his body fell to the ground.

  Heinrich had seen it all—the shiny blade tumbling toward its target, sunlight glinting off the razor-sharp edge. And then Logan falling dead.

  He spun in the direction the edged weapon had come from and caught a glimpse of a human form running between cover. He swung his handgun and snapped off a shot before Peter’s shoulder rammed into his abdomen, knocking the wind from him.