Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Holding the Sig in his right hand he reached across, thrust the barrel under his left arm, and fired as his former prisoner lunged. The round hit dead center, and to make sure Chaney fired three more rounds before shouldering the corpse aside, knowing there would be more.

  Almost instantly he glimpsed the door behind Brick open a crack. He spun and fired the bullet, missing the retired marshal by inches. Brick, knowing the point of impact and understanding, also whirled, firing hard and long into the panel, which shut slowly.

  For a moment they were shooting and then Chaney dove and rolled over the desk, fiercely exchanging a clip as Brick slammed into a wall, eyes blazing, searching. He dropped the long clip in one of the Uzis, slammed in another. His face was red and sweaty, and his eyes flashed as he scanned the room. For a long time they heard nothing and then there was the faintest rustling sound from a connecting hallway.

  Chaney turned his head toward it, knew Brick would watch the rest of the room. It had been five years since they were in the field together, but it was like yesterday. Without words, each knew what to do. Chaney raised a hard aim on the corner, waited, and tried to slow his racing heart. He knew what separated him from his prey—plaster, two-by-fours, more plaster. Not enough to stop a supersonic 9-mm hardball round.

  He fired ten rounds through the wall, moving in a quick pattern, then moved his sight alignment again to the corner, ready for an attack. Then there was a stagger, a groan, and the clattering of an M-16 hitting the floor. He saw a form fall, a blood splash erupting across white tiles.

  Brick looked up. “You getting help off the psychic hotline? Good shot!”

  Chaney grinned mirthlessly as he mentally counted his rounds—six left in the clip, a full clip with fifteen, and two left in the emergency reload. He decided to stay with the six rounds, moved from behind the desk with Brick moving back-to-back, staying tight.

  “Just like the old days, Brick,” he said. “Same routine.”

  “Two by two on doors without any crossovers and don’t get fancy on me,” Brick rumbled, holding the Uzis at chest level. His dark eyes, quick and wide open, read everything.

  Chaney had the impression that the old man hadn’t lost that much after all. And in ten minutes they were near the door of the silent laboratory. Chaney swung the Sig left to right as they entered quickly, in more than a hot-enough mood to kill another one. But there was nothing; the laboratory was deserted.

  “Don’t relax,” Brick rasped, scanning the mezzanine that ran the length of the facility. “Just keep looking like you know they’re here. Which they are.”

  Chaney crouched beside a computer base. He was out of breath and tried to calm down. “The guys ...” He swallowed, took another breath. “The guys up at the front, they weren’t wearing mikes that I could see.”

  “They weren’t,” Brick confirmed, turning to look behind them. “Don’t mean they ain’t got friends.”

  “So ... how do you want to do this?”

  “This is where she’s supposed to be?”

  “Yeah.”

  A pause.

  “All right,” Brick began, “we’ll do it by the numbers. Room by room. Stick to the routine.”

  “Real methodical.”

  “Slow and careful.”

  Chaney sniffed and thumbed back the hammer of the Sig. “Okay, I know this place so follow my lead,” he said as he rose and walked slowly forward, watching everything. Brick was close and turning, looking behind, above, reflexes sharp and poised. And in five minutes they forced open the door of the lead-shielded electron microscope room to find ...nothing.

  Chaney’s sweat-streaked face twisted in frustration.

  “They had to have gotten to her before we did,” he whispered. “They already did her. Carried her off.”

  Brick, bent like he’d heard something, was silent. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

  Chaney paused, listening.

  “No,” he replied softly. “What was it?”

  Shaking his head, Brick continued to stare. Then he moved slowly for the door, one Uzi at shoulder level, the other low. He did a slow scan, inch by inch, of the room. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sounded like ... something hitting something.”

  Chaney walked into the room, moving ahead of the bigger man. Caution was good, but he was losing patience and quickly nearing the point where he was going to start kicking in doors to find some answers.

  The pain and the violence and the medication had given him an edge of indifferent recklessness. If they wanted to leap out right now and begin firing, it was fine with him. He would give as good as he got.

  Chaney jerked his head

  “There.” Brick raised the aim of the Uzi and together they were moving toward a wall of yellowish white refrigerator doors. There were about twenty separate doors that fit neatly into the wall, the panels flush with the plaster. Chaney stood a long time, and this time he heard it.

  Together they targeted on the door and Chaney moved behind it, Brick taking aim with both Uzis. Then—on a practiced count of three— Chaney ripped it open and Brick tensed dramatically. The Uzis dropped to his waist as he leaped forward.

  Even as Chaney turned the door, Brick was hauling Gina Gilbert from the refrigerator and ripping off the plastic bag wrapped around her head. Her hands were tied to her feet. Chaney didn’t even check her condition as he ripped out a knife and slashed the ropes.

  Her face was white and tinged with blue. Then she made a choking, guttural, frightened moan, half raising a hand like someone returning from the dead. She rolled over, inhaling deeply, wrapping arms about her chest.

  Brick grunted, “Get her a blanket!”

  They managed to warm her quickly—Chaney knew it wasn’t the best medical treatment, but they were in a tactical situation—and she slowly regained the power of speech. She weakly acknowledged Chaney and Brick, and asked, stuttering, “They ... they t-t-tried t-to kill me. The men ...”

  “It’s all right.” Chaney nodded.

  She seemed to notice the heavy smell of gunpowder permeating both of them. Confusion was in her face.

  “We had it out with them in the lobby,” Chaney said evenly. He shook his head. “You don’t have to worry about them.”

  Revealing no remorse at their deaths—understandable—she said, “We’d better get out of here.”

  “Wait a second,” Brick asked, a hand on her shoulder. “How many did you see?”

  “F-five.”

  Chaney raised his eyes at Brick.

  “That leaves one,” the big man said.

  “We gotta get her out of here, Brick,” Chaney said as he dropped the six-round clip and loaded a full fifteen-round mag. The big man nodded with a frown.

  “Can you walk, Gina?” Chaney asked as he lifted her, but she fell limp.

  He picked her up in his arms, holding the Sig in his left hand. He looked at Brick cautiously. “You know that you’re gonna have to spot him and take him, don’t you?” he said.

  With a quick nod Brick turned and went to the door. He stepped out, came back. “Okay, it’s clear to the hall. We’ll do it in sections.”

  Section by section they carried her through the building, moving for the exit nearest the car. Chaney had thought of taking the closest exit but that would have meant going around the building, exposed and without cover or concealment. Better to take a chance in the hallways and office rooms where they could quickly find cover.

  They reached the main lobby, second-guessing that the last hitter wouldn’t expect them to leave through the scene of their earlier firefight. Chaney glanced over the long lobby, mostly open floor, and blew out a hard breath; there was no way to do this safely.

  With a coordinated glance at Brick, they opened the door and began the only act left to them: they started walking slowly across the open space. Every two steps they t
urned, moving in circles; slow, cautious, open-eyed movements. Chaney had the Sig leveled at the waist, holding the girl. Brick had two fresh sixty-round clips in the Uzis.

  Cautious, slow ...

  Gina screamed.

  Chaney didn’t even think. He spun in the direction she was looking at. Everything in a micro-second coordinated in his mind, his body moving three to four moves ahead: Throw her out as you spin and get the Sig from under her legs, take one step to the left, protect her with your body and fire fast to rattle him. Then acquisition and open up with everything you’ve got—

  Everything erupted.

  Chaney fired while Gina was still in the air.

  Brick had already opened up, tearing up a counter on the far wall. Chaney hadn’t heard a shot from the hitter but he had felt the whip of a bullet passing by his ear. Something in Chaney s mind told him silencer. When Brick roared and went back something changed in Chaney’s mind.

  He stopped shooting, took an extra second to take dead aim.

  No time for Brick ...

  A silenced shot cut his right arm.

  Not enough.

  Chaney had sighted solid and steady on the counter. Breath stopped, no wavering, excitement forgotten, becoming cold as death to wait for the shooter to come out and try again ...

  He did.

  Chaney pulled the trigger ten times, the first hitting the counter, the next nine hitting the assassin. Chaney continued until he felt the man wasn’t just dead, but good and dead.

  The corpse slid to the floor.

  Chaney didn’t change clips; he still had four rounds left.

  Reflexively he turned to Brick, who was already up on an ox-like arm, tearing at his vest. His face was flushed, angry and sweating. He pulled violently until he could slide a hand beneath, feeling for a wound. When he found only a bruise, he turned to look at the far wall and then at Chaney.

  Chancy nodded.

  With a tired nod back, Brick rose. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he muttered angrily, moving for the door. “We ain’t got much time.”

  Together they entered the Lincoln and were clearing the lot as they saw distant code equipment approaching down the only road leading to the Institute.

  Brick, cold as ice at the wheel, killed the headlights.

  Chaney had a moment of panic as the codes drew closer. Brick increased the speed of the twenty-year-old tank up the mountain until there was only a single curve left between them.

  A dirt road that Chaney had never noticed presented itself.

  Brick took it quickly and slowed just as quickly. He eased down thirty feet, stopped with the parking brake to avoid setting off the brake lights. It was a trick Brick had taught him a long time ago, which Chaney had forgotten.

  In twenty seconds the patrol units sped on behind them, burning into the Institute to shut off all exits.

  Brick backed slowly onto the road, Chaney holding Gina quietly in the backseat, and in another half hour they were at Mercy General Hospital.

  Exiting the car at the Emergency Room entrance with his credential boldly displayed, Chaney helped the attendants load Gina onto a gurney. She grasped his hand as they swirled around her, and Chaney shoved back an overzealous orderly who attempted to raise the handrail.

  “Gina, you can hear me, right?” he said loudly.

  She nodded.

  “You have to contact the United States Marshals Office in Washington!” Chaney shouted. “Tell them you want to talk to Marshal Hank Vincent! You got that, Gina? Hank Vincent! Tell him everything you know and tell him to alert the marshals in Alaska! Tell him I might need them and soon! Tell him to stay alert on the beacon! Just tell him that! Stay alert on the beacon! The beacon!”

  Gina took a second, gripped his hand harder.

  “I’ll tell him,” she whispered. “Be careful.”

  Standing back, Chaney was fierce as they gathered around her. Surprised medical personnel stared as if they expected him to escort. Chaney threw out an arm, pointing. “That is a federal witness! Notify Washington PD and the marshal division! Tell them Marshal Chaney delivered her!”

  Stunned looks as they backed away from his fierceness.

  With that, Chaney was back in the car and Brick was speeding down the ramp to hit the road with a hard right and then another four turns as they headed back for the house.

  * * *

  Stronger with each moment, he leaped from the ledge and hit the ground running, moving swiftly through the night with a surety of direction that he could not explain. Nor did he try. To know—by some dark and un-nameable instinct beyond anything he could explain—was enough as he devoured long miles on seemingly endless endurance.

  He had killed again, snapping the neck of a bull elk before he feasted heavily on the deep red meat. Then he had continued, feeling his almost inexhaustible reservoirs of energy pooling, gathering, and swirling as he drew upon them. Even as his lungs burned with each breath, he felt stronger, a power building layer by layer, fed by the nutrients he had consumed.

  Occasionally he would chance in the utter dark upon a plant that reached out to him on the wind, and he would crouch, ripping the root from the soil to devour it, soil and all. And in this way he continued to enhance his fantastic abilities—healing, speed, strength, his very perception of reality His eyes dilated until he could see almost as in the day, and still his metamorphosis continued until he was again a humanoid shape moving with the speed of a wolf, fangs hot against a cold night, black eyes blazing and clawed hands tearing bark from trees as he continued to run, always running.

  He must find the man that had injured him; that was all he knew. He would find the man and the wolf, no matter where they had fled, and he would eat their hearts, their brains, just as he had done to those who had come before him. Then he would be reunited with his brothers, for they were waiting. And together, with the night and the forest and their strength, they would consume puny man.

  Etched horrifically against a haggard moon, taloned hands outstretched to grasp a rising night wind, he howled in glory as he descended through darkness.

  ***

  Bobbi Jo’s face was soft against his chest, and Hunter found himself gently stroking her blond hair, a soft mass in his fingers that he lazily caressed, over and over. She had said nothing, but he knew she was thinking—and probably sadly.

  Their moment had been passionate, but slow, and when it had ended she had settled over him, tired and exhausted. He, too, had been exhausted and had lain on his back, eyes closed as he cradled her in an arm. After a while she had spoken and he listened patiently as she talked of her life, her training, her fear, and how she had never known terror as she had known it in these past days.

  For a long time he had said nothing, but listened and continued to touch her. Then she had asked, “You’re afraid of it, too, aren’t you?” Pause. “You’re scared ...like me.”

  He smiled as he touched her face, a caress.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But you’re still going out there.”

  Silence.

  “Yes.”

  She said nothing and they rested in a comfortable silence until she spoke again, this time touching the scars on his chest—scars gained in hard adventures of survival that he could scarcely recall. She traced a long, ragged scar that joined his heavy arm to his massive chest.

  “You don’t care about pain, do you?” she asked.

  He laughed lightly, hugged her neck. His voice was gentle. “Sure I do. I’m just like you. I hurt the same. I feel the same. If you cut me, I bleed.”

  “But you don’t care. You’ve survived too much.” She paused. “Your luck, your skill, even your strength won’t be enough one day, Nathaniel.”

  Hunter was deeply touched. She had called him Nathaniel.

  “You’re not un-killable,” she said, with
a distinct sadness. “And that’s what will kill you.” A pause. “It’s out there ... waiting for you. And you know it ... And if you go out there and you’ll fight it, you will be fighting a beast no human being was ever meant to fight.”

  Hunter was silent; her words were a murmur.

  “Why do you have to do it?”

  “We’ve talked about it, darlin’.” He kissed her face. “And, now, you need to get some sleep ... sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  He smiled gently. “Sleep, darlin’. You’ve earned it.”

  Her eyes closed.

  Silence joined them.

  “It’s afraid of you, too,” she added softly. “That’s why it has to kill you. Because it’s afraid of you.”

  Hunter slowly caressed her cheek. “Sleep ...”

  She pressed herself more firmly, snugly, into his chest and arm and her eyes closed. Her breathing deepened and her face relaxed as she began to surrender.

  “Kill it, Hunter,” she whispered faintly, “before it kills us all …”

  ***

  It was a long while before Bobbi Jo rolled softly over, curling away from him with the covers tightly around her neck. He rose from bed, staring back to ensure that she was in the grateful sleep of exhaustion. Something in his heart made him content and peaceful that she could sleep so blissfully in his bed. Then he dressed slowly, in silence.

  He glanced back at her as he neared the door, mentally assuring himself that he had brought everything required for this dangerous, but necessary, task. At the last minute, as he touched the door, Ghost rose from the floor. Hunter motioned sternly for silence, and pointed at Bobbi Jo. Staring a moment, the wolf padded over and lay obediently beside her side of the bed, acutely alert. Hunter knew the wolf would guard Bobbi Jo until his return. The best bodyguard in the world.

  In utter silence he opened and closed the door, ensuring that it had not disturbed her, and stood quietly in the corridor, listening. But nothing was moving close; he could determine that much beyond what he could even see or hear.