Butaninni recognized the tension in Mitchelli’s face and stopped talking she went to him and stood by him touching his forehead. She looked into his sad, frowning eyes; she sensed his pain. She wondered if it was the side effects from the narcotics. Depression, anxiety, and illusions were all possible side effects, in addition to many others. Mitchelli faltered, grabbed her waist and pulled her close to him, looking into her deep brown eyes. He held her firmly and kissed her. She resisted, no man was going to dominate her, but her reluctance faded.
Their lips separated. “Did you…you’re not good looking…what the hell.” She said quietly, her fingers delicately touching his lips. Mitchelli held her tight, her neck tilted he kissed her again. “What took you so long?”
Mitchelli stuttered, “Melanie…” Embarrassed, he couldn’t talk; he didn’t know what to say. The man that had been fighting death, running, racing, shooting, and flying to stay alive was confounded, speechless. “I’m not sorry.” He turned to walk away.
Butaninni whispered softly, “Peter…destino.”
Mitchelli barely heard her voice. He stopped and asked, “Destino?”
“Don’t leave, not like this.” Her tone was uncharacteristically pleasant.
“Melanie, I’m in the middle of a tsunami. The pills do calm me down, there’s no doubt about it, but they also confuse my feelings and change my personality. I’m not sure who I am, or what I’m thinking or doing when I’ve taken them.”
“I don’t care if it’s the pills or you that kissed me. You don’t have one damn thing to regret. I didn’t want anyone in my life, then you drove into my tree. Why?” Butaninni spoke softly and reserved, her disposition had softened.
“I don’t know.” Mitchelli turned and faced his caregiver. “I don’t believe in destiny, damn it, I don’t believe in much anymore.” Butaninni opened her mouth slowly but didn’t talk, for the first time since they met she was speechless. She did not cry, her personal strength impressed Mitchelli. He gazed at the simple beautiful woman, her husband taken from her in the service of his country. She lived in a modest farmhouse with a dog and few material items. He thought of Ann and the simple stress free life she wanted. No fancy cars, houses, or clothes; those unnecessary luxuries created stress, which was her husband’s weakness. It was more than Butaninni’s physical similarities to Ann that captivated Mitchelli; it was also her simple life and personal strength. He admired her and was grateful for her care. He walked over to her, studying her face. She said nothing and he held her in his arms as she placed her head on his chest. Their embrace released her tension; her body relaxed, her arms wrapping around him. The widowed soldier and the developer held each other reflecting on their lost spouses and discussed what events brought them together on a secluded country road.
***
Butaninni agreed to let Mitchelli leave his truck in her barn although, with one caveat: Mitchelli had to check in with her everyday. In light of his recent medical condition, Mitchelli agreed it was a prudent precaution. With his UTV’s lights off, only the moon lit his way as he traveled slowly up the logging road. He carefully studied his GPS, which was leaving an electronic breadcrumb trail of his journey making it easier for him to find his way back to Butaninni’s farmhouse. Mitchelli was careful, applying minimal acceleration in an attempt to reduce the engine’s acoustic signature. He focused on the road, straining his eyes in the dark and shutting one eye to retain its night vision when he looked at the bright screen of his GPS. He thought of his children; he reluctantly convinced himself the FBI had assigned more than enough agents to protect them. MacJames would make sure the agency protected his children.
With that single reflection of MacJames, his thoughts quickly ran amuck. Ann, Angela and now Melanie. He didn’t need another woman in his mind. Nevertheless, it was too late, it had happened: Melanie Butaninni may have saved his life. He would not apologize to Butaninni for their kiss. Peter Mitchelli normally would have never taken advantage of a woman. He was not in a normal state, if there is such a thing he was far from it. Delicately stable before his involvement in the investigation, the last several weeks had transformed him into a volatile physical and mental timebomb. No Las Vegas bookie would dare to give odds on Peter Mitchelli’s outcome driving up a logging trail in the dark into harm’s way. The hill where his friend Leonard Divido was shot while piloting their plane was just over the treetops.
The machine straddled the mud ruts left by the large logging equipment. Occasionally, the machine would jerk to a stop when it would hit a large log. If his headlights were on he could have seen the obstacles, but Mitchelli felt he had to drive in the dark. He would shift the machine into reverse and steer around the obstacle each time it happened. He checked his GPS. He was within a mile of the camp. He pulled off the logging road and into the woods. The branches scraped down the side of the machine like fingernails on a chalkboard. Mitchelli couldn’t help but wonder what damage was being done to his immaculate machine. Like his other vehicles, his ranger was spotless. He had to continue his journey to the camp on foot. He was in his element in the woods; he had spent years hunting in the southern tier. He drove a quarter mile into the woods from the logging trail so his base camp would not be seen. The large tree trunks, in addition to the foliage and bushes, would conceal his camp from the logging road. Mitchelli stopped his machine between two large maple trees and some bushes. The thick foliage blocked the moonlight. He used a small red light to find his backpack, which was loaded with his surveillance equipment, water, and protein bars. Before leaving his machine, he saved his coordinates so he could find his way back in the dense woods. Mitchelli began his quick pace up the hill. Every five minutes he would check his GPS to confirm course; he would make the necessary adjustments and begin walking again. His eyes were adjusting quickly to the dark; his pace was steady. The forest had not been logged in quite some time and the canopy from the large trees limited light and restricted underbrush growth, allowing Mitchelli to move unencumbered by bushes and small trees. Sweating, he moved quickly up hill. His wet t-shirt stuck to his body. He could hear his heart beating harder and harder as he climbed. He could not stop to rest until he made it to the top. Grateful of the weight he had lost in the last three weeks, he was sweaty, his heart was pumping, but he was not fatigued.
Suddenly, Mitchelli tripped over a fallen tree and his body tumbled head over heal. He focused on not dropping his GPS attached to his wrist with a lanyard, but his backpack flew through the air to the forest floor. Without it, his endurance on the hilltop was limited to less than a day. He had a two-day supply of water and food in the pack. For what seemed as an eternity on his hands and knees, he searched the forest floor, his fingers raking through the brush for the nylon bag. Within two hundred feet of his destination he could not risk turning his flashlight on. He started to panic and began nervously scrambling across the ground, hunting for his bag. He could feel his hands bleeding from the rocks and Hawthorn bushes. He had to calm down and take control of his emotions before his Mind Kill took over. He stopped moving and breathed slowly on his hands and knees, pacing his breaths slowing his heart and his mind. He convinced himself he could find his backpack; it had to be near him. He remembered how two days ago on his boat, overwhelmed and sick from his thoughts, he had set small goals to get his boat sea worthy. First goal: calm down. Second goal: slowly look for your food and water. Confident his Mind Kill was controlled, he slowly moved his leg and heard the high-pitched sound of nylon rubbing on a twig; a sound all too familiar to him hiking through the woods with his backpack. He moved his leg again, and heard the sound a second time. He carefully moved his hand along his leg where he could feel his nylon pack under his foot. He hugged the bag with both arms while lying on his back. He reached into a side compartment of the bag, and pulled out a water bottle for a drink. He stared through the foliage to the heavens above, reminiscing of a time in his childhood when he went camping with his cousins and searched the night sky for a shooting star. His chest rose and fell, tak
ing in much needed oxygen. His breathing was the only sound in the forest. Quickly, his mind drifted to stargazing with Ann on their first date. Lying in the bed of his pickup truck holding hands, confident they had all the answers to what life had to bring. Get to the top of the hill.
Mitchelli was on the move. As he neared the top of the hill, he slowed his pace. Moving slowly, he made less noise. He sounded like Samba the circus elephant when he ran, breaking branches and twigs. He reached his waypoint. He crouched on one knee looking for any signs of a camp. There were no structures or anything remotely indicating there was a camp. He removed from his bag a ten-inch long hand held scope that was four inches in diameter. He scanned his surroundings discovering nothing and quickly placed the scope in its case and stowed it in his backpack. Rather than continue to fumble through the woods at night, he convinced himself he had reached his objective, the hilltop. He would hunker down in a fern patch and wait for sunrise. In the morning he would cautiously continue his search. He lied on his back, his head on his bag and he drifted off to sleep…
***
He woke to the sound of engines, ATVs racing through the woods and quickly approaching him. The machines were racing up the hill. Mitchelli opened his eyes to the rays of the morning sun burning through the forest canopy. He moved to cover behind the trunk of a large maple tree, kneeling at its base. He looked for movement. At first he saw nothing through the dense woods and then noticed the dark green machines with their large black rims meandering their way up the hill on a deer trail, several hundred feet from him. The drivers wore blue jeans and tan button-down shirts. Mitchelli quickly noticed their heavy work boots and thought of the footprints left at Stoker’s Bridge where Garez had died. The cargo racks forward and aft of the riders had large grey plastic tubs strapped to them. The drivers struggled to see over the top of the containers. These were not hunters, a hunter traveled with only his essentials. These men were moving cargo and had no long guns slung over their shoulders or strapped to the ATVs. The machines came within two hundred feet of Mitchelli and continued up the hill, then headed east just out of his sight where the engines noise stopped; they had reached their destination.
Mitchelli slowly moved from tree to tree, hunched low in an attempt to conceal his presence. Within several minutes he had crossed the deer trail the ATVs had used. The trail was rutted and worn by the ATVs, which must have made many trips up and down the hill loaded with heavy cargo. This was not an animal trail, but a path made by man parallel to the old logging road, narrow and well-hidden from the air under the canopy of the trees. Sensing he was close to the camp, he dropped flat on his stomach and began crawling towards his target: the men and their machines. So low he could not see above the brush, he stopped every minute or so and listened. If he heard any type of manmade sound he adjusted his course and continued crawling. He contorted his body like a snake, moving between the trunks of small dense bushes. He stopped only when his backpack snagged on twigs. Mitchelli feared that if he strayed from his course, he would lose his sense of direction. As he moved through another dense Hawthorn bush, he felt the thorns cling to his head just as the camp appeared in a small clearing in front of him. His heart raced as he carefully reached for the branch but discovered his head was caught in barbed wire. Blood dripped down his forehead and onto his lips. Carefully he studied his surroundings; there were six levels of barbed wire stapled to trees around the perimeter of the camp. Four of the structures in the camp were low with very shallow roof slopes in order to conceal their presence from misdirected hunter or forester. The four buildings were crudely constructed from logs and one of them had a porch. A fifth building had stone and concrete walls, with a flat roof and a single ventilation stack extending two feet above the roof. The concrete building had no windows and one heavy metal door. At the far edge of the camp was the largest of the buildings, certainly the tallest, it was clad in corrugated metal and had a large camouflage net over it, concealing it from aerial view. The log cabin without the porch was what Mitchelli remembered seeing from the air, it was closest to the ledge, overlooking a small ravine below. A man appeared from metal building, removed the grey plastic tub from the ATV rack, and struggled as he carried it into the corrugated building. Another man appeared from behind the concrete building with a small carbine rifle slung over his shoulder. Mitchelli’s heart pounded as if he had a large buck in his shotgun sites. He carefully moved back within the Hawthorn bush. He had found his objective: the camp he had seen from the plane. Mitchelli carefully planned his movements to conceal his presence. Quietly, he grabbed his GPS and saved the location of the camp.
Mitchelli did not move from his concealed location all day. Using the range finder in his night vision scope, he laid out the locations of the buildings entering the data into his GPS unit. He took no pictures and his phone was turned off, a precaution preventing the FBI from tracking him. The shutter noise from a digital camera could give away his location. Occasionally a man appeared from the metal shed, smoking or urinating in the woods. The man with the rifle moved from building to building doing his best to stay vigilant.
Dusk had come and Mitchelli’s body was aching, his shoulder and hip throbbing with pain. He tried to control his anxiety, but the dull continuous pain tore at his nerves. Finally when he thought he could not bear not moving and the agonizing pain, the camp suddenly came to life. A tall man appeared from the cabin with the porch along with two others. The tall man directed the two smaller younger men as they walked to the other log cabins, waking the armed occupants who had rested during the daylight. The drowsy men were armed with a variety of assault rifles, and all of them had pistols holstered at their waists. The militia of sixteen men moved around the camp. Some carried water bottles while others ate from paper plates. Others were content to smoke as they leaned against a building, conversing with one another. Mitchelli was exhausted and his body was crippled, his eyes blinked rapidly. Attempting to stay awake, he poured water into his hand and rubbed it carefully on his camouflaged face. Mitchelli closed his eyes for a long moment almost falling asleep when he awoke he saw seven men in black coveralls, cabled together at their waists. They stood in the center of the camp. Mitchelli’s heart raced--the mercenaries had prisoners! Seven, not twenty one…but then from the opening in the concrete building, there emerged more emaciated men in black coveralls cabled together in two more groups of seven. Some of the mercenaries pointed the weapons at the dreary men. Too weak to respond or care, they paid little notice to the guns. One of the shorter prisoners gave one of his captors the finger and was hit in the stomach with a gunstock. Two other guards began kicking the prisoner as he attempted to get to his feet. The other prisoners quickly gathered around him. Cigarettes fell and paper plates flew as the guards formed around the prisoners holding them at rifle point. The three guards continued to beat the weary prisoner. Mitchelli’s excitement quickly changed to panic and then anger as the guards beat the prisoner. He couldn’t watch the man get beaten to death and do nothing. He drew his pistol from shoulder holster and pointed the barrel at the guard who continued beating his prisoner. Mitchelli moved his finger to the trigger of his pistol. The tip of his finger delicately took up the slack in the trigger mechanism. With small micro movements, he aligned the sights of his pistol over his target, who continued beating the prisoner.
The tall man yelled, “Stand down or I’m going to smash some heads!” The guard continued beating the prisoner, the tall man ran over and struck the guard in the head, knocking him to the ground. “Junior, back the frick off, you dumb mother!”
Junior stumbled to his feet. “I’ll kill you for that, Dutch!”
Dutch lightly slapped Junior’s face. “Stand in line, Junior. Although I don’t think your father would be too happy.” The prisoners formed a straight-line surrounded by their guards. They faced Dutch. “Get them in the factory, fed, and back to work.” The prisoners moved slowly, angering Dutch. “Move your lazy government asses!” The guards hurried the me
n into the building.
Mitchelli took a deep breath, and lowered his pistol. Killing one guard may have cost the lives of twenty-one prisoners. If Dutch did not order the prisoners killed, he certainly would move them to another location, possibly never to be found alive. Mitchelli thought of the consequences of his actions, certain capture and death. His hands trembled as he holstered his pistol. You foolish amateur, unprofessional weakling.
The prisoners stayed in the building Dutch called the factory until dawn. Mitchelli fought to stay awake. Six guards went in the building, while the remainder stood watch outside. Every two hours the guards rotated from inside the metal building to outside guard duty. At five a.m., the prisoners slowly made their way back to their concrete building. The guards slammed the steel door shut, sliding three metal bars, large deadbolts across the door and placing oversized stainless steel locks sealing the prisoners in their concrete box. The prisoners secured for the day, the guards meandered back to their log cabins.
Most of the guards had long hair and tangled beards. Their clothes were worn and their boots were muddy. They were rural two-bit criminals, anxious to please their urban bosses. This was the norm for the guards, with the exception of Dutch, Junior, and one other guard who was better groomed. Two men mounted the ATVs and a guard opened the barbed wire gate for them. The machines exited the compound and headed down the hill.
Mitchelli interpreted the nightly routine was meant to minimize their daytime activity. The prisoners would go insane cooped up in a small building twenty-four hours a day. The mental and physical strain would likely lead to an attempted escape; when hope is lost, suicide becomes probable. Moving from building to building and performing simple tasks meant to keep them occupied. Alive, they served their mission as Handly’s insurance policy.
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 58