by Ilsa J. Bick
Wow. She was transfixed. If that doesn’t get someone’s attention...
Something snapped by her ear and then she heard a strange sound, a kerSHAW. The air split as something very fast whirred past and then there was a dull pock and a small geyser of splinters as the bullet burrowed into a tree.
Oh God. She’d been so awestruck, she’d forgotten about Oz and Lambert. She also did exactly the wrong thing. Instead of dropping, she tried to both unlimber Mark’s rifle and turn. Her boots tangled, and she stumbled, pitching forward. A lucky thing, actually, as another bullet snapped past the space where her head had been a second before.
What am I doing? She wasn’t a soldier. Risking a swift peek, she spotted Lambert on the porch, rifle socked to a shoulder. Damn. He must know Mark was no threat. He might not know exactly why, but at the sound of that explosion, Mark should have come crashing through the front door. But he hadn’t because Mark’s body was stashed behind crates in a far corner.
She felt the shepherd beside her, pressing close. The dog hadn’t made a sound. “Good boy,” she said, turning her head in time to see a small white spume of snow jet up from a place perhaps ten feet from Soldier’s left shoulder. That made the dog flinch, but he didn’t break.
What was she going to do? For once, the voice was silent, which meant her own mind was fresh out of ideas. This was not how it had been supposed to go. And what if Bayles wasn’t knocked out or on fire or whatever? No one was screaming. The only sounds from the tower were the crackle of flames, the hiss as debris hit snow. The explosion’s echoes had long died away.
Another shot, another miss, but only by inches this time. It helped that the snow was deep, but that couldn’t work in her favor forever. She felt her lungs squeeze down in fear. This was all going to hell. If she didn’t do something about Lambert and Oz, they were going to kill her dog. It suddenly hit her that, if he’d survived or was only knocked out, all Bayles had to do was shoot down. She’d been so stupid stupid stupid!
All this passed through her mind in less than five seconds, and then she did the only thing she could think of. Sighting down the barrel of Mark’s rifle, she popped off a quick three-shot burst. Her aim was wild; she knew that. All she wanted was for Lambert to stop shooting for a few seconds, long enough for her and Soldier to get behind something. And where was Oz?
On the porch, she saw Lambert half rise, scuttle back, put a hand on the doorknob—
Oh! She watched, nerves tingling as the door swung in but only a few inches, just wide enough for Lambert to squeeze through if he wanted, but he stopped midway. No. That brief flicker of hope guttered. No no no no!
She was about to fire again, when Lambert jerked around fast to face into the cabin, the sudden movement making the door yawn wide open, and she just had time to think, Oz...
There was a distinctive boom as the Remington discharged. The sound rolled across the plateau. A spray of long splinters burst from the cabin’s door. Hit from behind, Lambert went down, dropping like a sack of potatoes to sprawl, unmoving, on the porch.
Oh my God. Her jaw unhinged. It had worked. It had actually worked—the pulleys, the wire. The tinkering with the trigger screw to make the pull as light as possible so when the door was opened and slack in the wire threaded over pulleys and through joists to wrap around the Remington’s trigger was taken up, the shotgun would go off. All right, maybe not everything was fiction. If she lived, she was so writing John Sandford a fan letter.
On her feet now, she started for the cabin. She knew Oz must be in the house; that was why Lambert had turned and opened the door without realizing Oz was trying to warn him. Would Oz now go through to the front or backtrack through the bedroom to the woodpile? She bet he went to the front. That’s where the action was. She knew the plateau and what he could see. If she could just circle fast enough, get to the woodpile, she could slip in behind—
“Help!” A man’s voice, shrill, terrified. “Help me!”
Turning, she looked back. Undeterred by the cold and wind, the top of the tower was engulfed in flames. Grayish-black smoke billowed. She’d made sure that would happen, too, smearing the wood with that old, sludgy engine oil then following up with every single bottle of cooking oil she had. At the end, she’d thrown on kerosene from her lanterns for good measure.
“Help!” Arms wrapped around a metal pole, Bayles clung to a stretch of railing near the trap. The railing itself had come loose; its moorings in the wood catwalk had been eaten away by the greedy flames and detached to hang free. Bayles dangled, boots kicking at thin air as smoke swirled and the fire consumed the tower. He must’ve had the same idea she’d thought of earlier: monkey under the railing, hook her legs onto a strut then swing onto the stairs. She’d discarded the idea because the steps would be slick, and the absolute best she could hope for was ending up with only one broken leg. Bayles had tried the same out of desperation but picked the wrong spot. He hung too far from the stairs, with no way to get back up to the catwalk. “Please!” he bawled. “Help! Help—”
She felt something, a hard slap in her right side just above her hip.
What was that? Surprised, she took a step, staggered, and then went down, thinking, absurdly that maybe she’d turned an ankle. She lay there a split second as Soldier, alarmed, nosed and pawed at her, and tried to think what was wrong. Her side...she put a hand to her hip, felt a warm liquid slick. Jesus. She stared at the blood shellacking her palm. I’ve been—
The pain hit then, molten and searing, storming through her veins, racing up her throat to choke off her breath. Gagging, sick, her mind already trying to spiral down the deep well of unconsciousness, she dragged her head to look toward the back of the cabin.
She’d guessed wrong. Oz hadn’t gone through the front room.
Clad in his winter camo, Oz strode toward her from his hiding spot behind the woodpile. After that shotgun blast, he must’ve backtracked, thinking to come around and take out whomever was shooting out front. His own rifle was unclipped and at hip level because she was on the ground now and an easy target.
She watched him come. By her side, she heard the deep rumble of Soldier’s growl. Where was her rifle? As if nudged into being by her thought, she felt it digging into her chest and stomach. She’d fallen on it. Could she pull it out, get off a shot? She didn’t think so. She bet even Pete couldn’t.
“Show me your hands.” When she complied, he said, “Where’s your gun?”
“Under me.” She was shocked at how weak she sounded. Her voice trembled.
“Uh-huh. Where are the diamonds?” He’d stopped perhaps twenty feet away. “I found Hodges and I found his stuff, but I didn’t see no packets. Only I know he got to have at least twenty, maybe thirty. Where are they? Where’s the other girl, the one got shot?”
Hodges, not Mark Mitchell. Another lie, not that it mattered. Oz was coarse, with a big nose, a rich thatch of stubble, and the pitiless gimlet eyes of a wild boar. He wasn’t going to kill her right away. He wanted information first. Then he’d put a bullet in her brain and go after Tien. He’d probably kill Daisy, if she was still alive. Soldier, for sure.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Oz took the barrel of his rifle from her to the still-growling Soldier. “You tell me, I won’t shoot the dog.”
She didn’t believe him. She could spill her guts and he’d probably splatter Soldier’s brains all over the snow out of spite. She listened to her dog growl, felt the tension rolling in waves from Soldier’s body. Here was a man pointing a gun at her, but he hadn’t shot again and there’d been several shots before. Soldier would think only that this was normal combat and stay until told otherwise.
The trigger, then, had to be gun, shot, threat. Soldier had reacted to that precise sequence with that little boy, Douglas. If the truck hadn’t backfired, she doubted Soldier would’ve reacted. But she really didn’t want to be shot again to test that out.
Still, there was a way. She’d watched it time and time again with Pete down i
n Texas.
“Well?” Oz said.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.” She fixed her eyes on Oz. “Soldier, go get him!”
Chapter 15
Soldier exploded, eighty pounds of coiled muscle and taut sinew and as perfectly constructed for his task as any weapon. He took off like a missile, catapulting from the snow, erasing the distance between her and Oz in the blink of an eye.
Oz shouted something formless. Blundering backward, he had time to bring up both arms, an instinctive move, before Soldier’s teeth sank into the meat of his right forearm near the elbow. At that, Oz bellowed; a spurt of blood jumped in a crimson spray and then Oz was suddenly on his back, squirming back and forth like a worm, battering at the dog with his left fist. He’d dropped his rifle as the dog came, but the weapon was within easy reach. A man less panicked might have thought of using that as a club.
“Get him off! Get him off me!” Oz screamed. His free hand was knotted in the fur of Soldier’s neck, trying to wrench the dog away. Blood from where Soldier’s teeth had surely found an artery—Sarah thought it must be the ulnar—pulsed and painted his face in drips and long splashes like a crazed Jackson Pollock. Soldier’s muzzle was now crimson, his teeth a smeary orange. “Get him off!”
Pushing to her hands and knees sent black spiders scuttling across her vision, and she nearly did a belly flop right back into the snow. Instead, she hung there, panting like one of her dogs, her blood drizzling in warm rivulets down her right thigh. A startling red puddle was growing around the point of her right knee as if the snow had opened its mouth in a bloody scream, maybe to keep Oz company. It took her two tries to slip her own rifle from the hollow where she’d lain, and she was just fumbling it to her shoulder when there was a crack.
Soldier shrieked. The shot didn’t knock him off his feet, but he yelped that high-pitched wail of a dog in pain. Releasing the still-screaming Oz, the dog reeled, made it a step then collapsed.
No! Horrified, Sarah saw a bloody eye high on Soldier’s left hip where the bullet had drilled into his flesh. She imagined the bullet blasting bone, maybe shredding an artery or clipping the dog’s spine or both.
She dragged her head around a shoulder then felt her heart cram into her throat.
“Don’t.” Lambert trained his rifle. “Don’t even think about it.”
Chapter 16
Lambert was alive. How? The shotgun had blown through the door. She’d watched him go down, and she now saw that he was definitely hurt. He’d dragged off the hood of his winter-camo parka, which was splotchy with blood. More showed in lurid red streaks along the exposed skin of his neck and his left ear was shredded, probably by wood splinters.
Then her eyes clicked down to his chest, saw the bulk, and then she understood. She should have thought of this, too. She hadn’t, and now she was dead.
“Kevlar’s worth its weight in gold,” he said as if she’d spoken. “Nice trick, though, rigging the shotgun to go off. I’m curious. How’d you think of it?”
“I read it in a book.” The words came out with difficulty. Her lips were starting to numb. Losing blood. She’d pass out soon.
“Boss.” Oz was still on his back, lying in a puddle the color of a raspberry snow-cone. “You got to pack this. Man, you got to throw on a tourniquet, stop this fucking bleeding.”
“Yeah, Jesus, you’re right,” Lambert said. “You’re all messed up, man.”
He popped off a shot. Oz’s head jerked back and then he was staring at the sky, a new red eye opening in the nude space above his nose and a spray of chunked skull and brains wreathing his head in an obscene halo.
“One less split.” Lambert turned the rifle on her. “Where are the diamonds? Where’s the girl?” He waited a beat. “I got time. I can rip the cabin apart, of course, but I’d prefer not to. I’ll probably find the girl, too. You’re smart, but you’re no soldier and I don’t make threats I don’t intend to act on. I will shoot your dog again, only I’ll be careful, take my time, maybe just take off a foot. Or part of his tail. Or maybe”—without looking, Lambert pulled a knife from a leg scabbard with one hand—“I core out an eye.”
“In the cabin,” she blurted. “The back storage room. A big old coffee can on the third shelf.” She’d booby-trapped that with a snap trap. Too bad she wouldn’t be around for the satisfaction of watching him break a finger.
“Good.” Lambert had a gangster’s air and very thin lips. When he smiled, he looked like a lizard by way of the Miracle Mile. “The girl?” He listened as she lied about where to find Tien and Daisy—hell, it didn’t matter because Lambert could only kill her once. “Thank you. I keep my promises, too.” Shifting the rifle to Soldier, he said, “You might want to close your—”
There was a rifle shot, short and sharp. The lower half of Lambert’s face was suddenly a crater, and he had no nose. A shower of tiny bits of ivory pattered to the snow in a bloody shower. Lambert pitched forward and was still.
And that was when Sarah realized. Wrong, again.
There hadn’t been three bad guys.
There’d been four.
Chapter 17
The fourth man was big and she knew a soldier’s stance when she saw it. He was also a ruin. Half his face was a gargoyle’s mask of scabs and blistered skin. That right eye was swollen nearly shut. Livid bruises splashed over his cheek and scalp, though from the mottled yellow and green, she knew his injuries occurred days ago. She had enough veterinary forensics under her belt, and from the burns arcing along his scalp over his right ear, she thought he must’ve aimed for the temple but jerked at the last second as he pulled the trigger.
As her rifle wobbled in his direction, the fourth man raised both hands. “Relax, it’s okay. I’m a friend. I’m not with them. I’m putting my rifle down. Don’t shoot me.”
“Who...who...” She was working hard to stay conscious. Gray nibbled the edges of her vision. Her brain felt as nimble as a slug. Somehow, she was half on her back...when had she fallen again? She watched her rifle making woozy little circles. “Who are y-you?”
“My name’s Gabriel.” When he smiled, his scabs stretched until it looked as if his skin might split. “I came as fast as I could.”
Came as fast as he could. The sheriff? Looking for Hank? “Are you s-search...s-s-search and...”
“No, I’m not search and rescue. I’ll explain everything, but right now I need to take care of you and then get us some help. You’re really bleeding bad and your dog needs attention, too. This dead guy.” He nodded at Lambert. “I think he’s got stuff in a leg pouch we can probably use. But you need to lower the rifle. I really don’t want to get shot.”
Shot. Soldier. She dragged her head around. The shepherd was on his side, blood matting his black fur. His breath came in short, sharp, shallow pants. She wasn’t aware she’d even lost her rifle until she’d rolled onto her belly and stretched for her dog. Smeary with her own blood, her fingers brushed one of Soldier’s paws. At her touch, the shepherd cracked an amber eye. His tail thumped once then stilled.
No. Her heart was breaking. Tears coursed down her cheeks. No, what have I done?
“Okay, okay, good.” Gabriel was on his knees, a MOLLE pouch in hand. Ripping this open, he let out a relieved sigh. “Good, he’s got QuikClot, bandages...just hang on.” He was pushing her parka up. “I’m going to pack your wound so the bleeding—”
“N-no,” she whispered. She should tell Gabriel about Tien and Daisy, about Mark’s medic’s pouch and her own vet bag. She pushed at Gabriel’s hands, though feebly, her strength draining away with her blood. “M-my dog. Take c-care of my dog f-first.”
“Sure.” She could tell from his tone he wouldn’t. “This won’t take but two seconds and then I will, I promise.” Then, under his breath: “Jesus, I don’t know if I can—”
“H-how?” She felt herself spinning away. She was cold, so cold. The lick of flames from the still-burning tower grew distant and so did the sky, and she was falling away, she was losin
g her grip. It was as if the earth beneath her were going as soft as a marshmallow, and soon she would sink and sink and keep on sinking. But she’d thought of something else which didn’t make sense and now her mind grappled for a handhold. She had to know this one thing and then, maybe, she could rest.
The tower was a distress signal, yes. But it had gone up less than ten minutes ago. There was no way Gabriel had come from town.
“H-how?” Her voice was so airy and so small, and she was so cold. She struggled to focus on Gabriel’s ravaged face. “How d-did you know?”
That stopped him for a moment and then, Gabriel cupped a surprisingly gentle hand to her cheek.
“Hank,” he said, “sends his love.”
Ghosts In The Macine
Chapter 1
Dead Man, 2017
What about the tracker, Jack? Perched on a cold thumb of rock far from the others, she swallowed against the fist in her throat and tried again, spidering her fingers along the base of her skull until the tips burred with a light vibration. She toggled through the access code. For a brief second, the tracker, which was now on, flickered, dropped out then blipped back on—and then off. Then on once more, and stayed that way.
Crap. What was going on here? The thing kept toggling on, off, on, off. Like a kid playing with a light switch. Why can’t I get in?
“It’s as I said, Kate.” Jack sounded weary. “It’s either something I can’t crack or—”
She waited a beat. Or what?
“Or this is a preprogrammed fail-safe. It’s something Hacker might have done as a bit of insurance. It’s not as if your rep doesn’t proceed you.”
