“It's progress,” Sarakas said.
“How many people can a hunter skin in an hour? Time is a factor.”
“Leave your guns,” Santi ordered. “You'll be equipped by the locals when you touch down.”
Buzz kill. I didn't want to go anymore. I fondled the harness and considered my options.
Sarakas, who knew me better than anyone, pushed my shoulder.
“Don't be superstitious,” he said. “There's nothing magical about your guns.”
“Yeah.” Almost believed it. I secured the Jerichos with a trigger lock and shut them in my desk drawer. I felt naked and, for a brief second, lost.
“Ready?” Sarakas said, so much unspoken. He didn't tell Santi about the recent tackle and my jostled ribs, and I didn't mention how much my body hurt. He could see this raid important to me, even though I couldn't explain why.
I winked, feigning cheer.
“Field trip,” Rosco said. “Let's kick ass.”
“Hooah.” I was ready to kick something to death.
Time to do my job.
Chapter 26
The great part about playing with SWAT was they gave me toys I didn't have at home. An AR-10 A2 heavier than my usual rifles but still less than five kilos before ammo. On my hip, an FN .40 cal. I'd rather have .45ACP, but that's what I get when someone else dictates what we bring on a hunt.
“These Ag rounds are lower content than ours,” Keats said, judging their weight and make.
His crazy I-live-with-a-two-year-old hair couldn't be worsened by the helmet. He stopped griping about the ammo and hummed Balm in Gilead.
The SWAT team didn't bother introducing themselves while we geared up. For all the publicity our department received, we remained the black sheep of law enforcement. Plus, we were a federal division and SWAT was state. They had no reason to like us, and I didn't care. Provided everyone did their job.
Then I met the largest non-fat person I had ever seen in real life, ever. The black man stood seven and a half feet tall with an abundantly muscled frame. Kegs for thighs. His hands had that compact, too-full look that happened to body-builders when they could lift unbelievable amounts of weight. I could probably crack an acorn on the palm of his hand. His cornrows met at the back of his neck in a knot the size of the thimble. The name embroidered onto his uniform said Koko. I tried not to snicker.
“Thought you'd be taller,” he said. I couldn't tell if he was being snarky or serious.
The corners of his eyes drooped in a way that made him look less than smart. His beady gaze perused from my feet to my shoulders. His lip twitched once. Either he was about to be an ass or his mother never told him not to stare.
“Isn't Koko the name of a famous ape?” I said.
He didn't rise to the bait. Probably heard the insult a million times. The man to his right, whose uniform announced 'Casey,' joined the verbal repartee.
“You always bring your dates along, Sarakas?” Casey said.
“She's got more kills than you, Casey,” my partner said.
Naturally, Andreas had reviewed their files on the plane. Casey paused, the kind of hesitation that exuded surprise. His following sneer proved envious.
“Got some notches on your belt,” Koko said. It was a question.
“A few.”
Conversations like this only happened because I was a girl. Might as well see who can piss the furthest. Casey leaned so close I smelled oranges on his breath.
He said, “Of course, you started so young.”
My mind’s eye saw my brother’s body as my sixteen year-old fingers racked a shotgun.
It demanded excruciating effort not to kill Casey. My heart ached to shoot him quick and bury him shallow.
An ATV arrived and delivered our command. Sergeant Lawrence Washington had military authority smeared all over him. He scrutinized me, no doubt judging. I had trained stateside and experienced a few gun fights, but I'd never been caught in enemy fire on foreign soil. Soldiers from foreign wars were rare in my generation, mostly because drone strikes were easy and the population took a drastic dive during the last decade.
Sarge stared. His eyes cringed. Immediately, I knew he was a women-belong-in-the-kitchen type. My hackles, already ruffled from Casey, rose even more.
He had a handle-bar mustache for goodness sake.
Sarge presented satellite images and a map and laid them over the hood. His men gathered around like cattle competing for a salt block.
“Target site is fifteen kilometers south from the creek.” Sarge’s voice held a gospel lilt, like a southern preacher's. “We're looking at a sizable farmhouse and steel barn on eighty acres. Four vehicles remain out back, all tagged. Two belong to one Phillip Williams of Kentucky's recently disbanded militia. Williams has been known to possess heavy firepower. One belongs to Rupert Johnson, a Texan entrepreneur who owns a dozen golf courses and isn't shy about shooting trespassers. The Ford belongs to Rich MacArthur, executive member of Virginia's das Herrenvolk. He did back-to-back tours throughout the Manchurian Conflict. Be assured that all of our suspects have a certain degree of insanity or experience. Proceed with caution. There will be four teams.”
Sarge divvied us into groups. I stopped paying attention until he said, “Team leader three, Sarakas, with Rosco, Keats, Durant, and Koko.”
All the SWAT guys passed Koko a sympathetic look.
“Team one will be dropped here, four and a half kilometers southeast of target. They will set support on the southeast ridge, providing cover from behind the tree line. If necessary, we'll eliminate anything you yuppies let slip. Butters will monitor external airways and bait the STAGE program to jam potential surveillance. Nobody moves until the STAGE is set.”
STAGE made sure any civilian satellite equipment or surveillance would be blind to our entry, like looping the feed. If SWAT deemed it so, no one would ever know what happened.
“Team two approaches from the southwest side of the ridge for primary assault on the house. Gyves will cut the hard lines. Once they're sitting in the dark, assault begins.
“Team three will advance to the north side of the barn and breach after targets are engaged in the main house. Secure the barn and eliminate all hostiles inside. Don't give anything a chance to shed and shred your team. After the buildings are cleared and prisoners detained, team four will gather PIR—” priority intelligence requirements “—so we can learn how civilian hunters are finding mutts when our little FBHS team can't seem to. Maybe we’ll offer the deviants a job.”
I entertained a fantasy about tearing the mustache off his face.
We caravanned to the drop point. Sarge and Koko shared a special manly look, visual cues that irritated me. Sarge's eyes insisted that Koko would babysit the out-of-state feds, and the big guy confirmed it with a blunt glance. I wondered if Koko was being punished or if there was another reason he was lucky enough to escort us.
He set a fast, careful pace. FBHS didn't have many outdoor runs, and everyone took it seriously. We knew SWAT would love to see us fall on our collective asses. With my AR-10 at low ready, I searched the woods for potential violence.
I liked trees, especially the conifers, the sharp smell of white and black spruces, western hemlocks and Douglas fir. Lush undergrowth consisted of lady ferns, rank skunkbush leaves, and thick pinedrops. Good forests reminded me of hunting with my father, his chuckles as I struggled to light a campfire, him preening over my first doe. Reminded me of pale cheap beer and a can of cold beans for dinner while he talked about the old days. The best times were when we all went together, Dad, Jacob, and I, before Mom and Jacob died.
My boot slid on a wet slab of rotted tree and I nearly went down. I caught my balance, my muscles jerking. Old injuries snagged my bones. A gasp escaped. I was not even close to a hundred percent. My ribs blasted little throbs of pain and my breath was rough from the combination of irritants. Everything inside me felt pinched off. I saw Koko’s neck stiffen at the sound I made, but he didn’t turn arou
nd or say a word.
Several meters before the woods stopped, Koko lifted his hand for us to pause. The barn was a proud, nostalgic red. A bulldozer idled alongside the building, absent an operator. The field was overgrown, knee high in some spots, completely bare in others. The patches of bald earth sent a shiver down my spine.
Mass graves for sure.
Koko radioed Sarge to let him know we were in position.
We waited. I focused on my breath, drawing it as smoothly as possible into my chest and belly, inhaling with every part of my core. Pretending my ribs weren't jacked and cracked. Pretending I was patient and calm until Sarge’s orders came.
“STAGE set, lines down, team two advance.”
Seconds later, we heard gunfire and Koko motioned us forward.
The buffalo grass was thick and comfortable beneath my feet. I took deep breaths filled with the scent of overturned dirt, wet grass...and aging dead stuff. I shoved my revulsion deep down where I didn't have to see or feel it. The weapon's grip felt too smooth, like it might slip from my hands.
Sarakas went through the doorway and button-hooked to the left. Rosco followed and broke right. I split left and stayed low to make my body a smaller target.
Rot and ammonia saturated the air, turning my guts to gravel.
The hollowed-out barn could comfortably stable a herd of horses. Narrow windows let in daylight and illuminated the interior. The cement flooring was unusually clean given the stench.
Our targets were on the other side of the barn, suspended, gory, and wet. I couldn't look too closely. A pile of bodies laid by the large entry door, waiting to be buried via bulldozer. A rusted truck with flat tires slouched in the corner of the barn, loaded with gasoline cans and crates of ammonia. Rosco circled the vehicle to check inside the cab and underneath while Keats covered him. Sarakas and I approached a narrow barn door, slightly ajar. He toed it open and musty air swirled out. The lean-to was filled with sweet-and-sour oats.
“Clear,” Keats called out.
“Clear,” Sarakas said. “Rosco, eyes on rear entry. Keats, front.”
Koko examined the pile of bodies on the floor. He nudging them with a foot and watched the meat settle to make sure no one was playing dead. He blinked like a machine processing new information.
I allowed myself to really look at the victims.
Eight dangling victims hung above ground, strapped to gambrels. Seven were male. Skinned from scalp to ankles, their shredded bodies glistened in different goopy stages of healing. Not the clean, clinical forms from Grey's Anatomy book; they were chunky with torn globs of raw meat. The most recently skinned bodies dangled motionless, naked in a way nature never intended. One skinless mutt was still in his wolf bones, bulky and distended. His heifer-sized body throbbed, shrank, swelled, fell back and tried to heal as only a lycanthrope can. Magic versus chemicals.
I had seen worse gore, but the methodical butchery churned my gut. It was one thing to skin an animal after a hunt, but it was another thing entirely to flay a person who was alive and struggling.
I pretended the bodies were animated dolls on display in a wax museum.
Some of the forms were neater than others. One male was so brutalized that he may have been skinned with a jack-hammer. Amateur work. I compared it to the other bodies and a light dawned. Experts were training a rookie, teaching someone to hunt, torture, and murder for sport and profit.
I didn't recognize Daltry, only saw the exposure and demolition of soft tissues, blood, and skin. Odd to see the organic putty that covered everyone. Like clay on a workbench, the filling of mankind. Universal carbon-based human-stuffs.
I stepped closer to the nearest body, hoping to get him down, but I didn’t see a way to release the chains.
Cuts ran the circumference of the victim's wrists and ankles where his pelt had been peeled back. His scalp and face were laid bare, the thin muscles fluttered, torn and hanging from the bone. His skin regrew as I watched. Miniscule movement. Flesh as transparent as soggy crepe paper.
I glanced away. Keats stood beside me, swallowing compulsively. Koko walked along the wall where pelts were stretched and treated. He surveyed the tools on tall steel shelves: curved blades, short knives, pig stickers, pliers, and cleavers. Boxes upon boxes of surgical gloves, alcohol and antiseptic (more for the poacher's safety, no doubt), sharpening stones, and packaged tarps.
“Certainly have a system in place,” Sarakas said.
One of the victims moaned, sick and wispy with need.
Keats raised his weapon. I slapped the muzzle down.
“These are mutts,” he said. “We have a job to do.”
Koko watched, eyes observant and indifferent. Rage rolled off me like heat blasting from a furnace.
“Supposed mutts,” I said. “Some of them might be humans mistakenly abducted and tortured.”
“That's highly unlikely—”
“—Keats—”
“Humans don't handle this much damage,” Koko said. “The blood on the floor is old and tacky. Too much time passed without them bleeding to death or dying of shock. These aren't human. What you do with that information is your business.”
Rosco lifted his rifle. I wanted to kick him in the teeth.
“Wait, rookie,” I said.
“We can't release tortured mutts,” Keats said. “Their madness will be exponential. If they shift, we'll have eight mutts—pained, starved, possibly insane mutts—trying to eat us.”
“Seven. I think the guy on the end is dead,” Rosco said.
Keats cast his vote: “Put them down.”
“My gut ain't right with this,” I said. Rule number one: don't ever ignore the gut.
“I don't like it, either, Kaid,” Sarakas said. “We can argue, but we both know the victims will prove you wrong. Or we consider that these people have been horrifically tortured for days and put them out of their misery. You know that’s the right thing to do here.”
Koko watched me. Judgment stained his eyes. He probably thought I was the softest one because I was a girl. Fuck him. Fuck all of them.
They were right about the vics, though.
Keats and Rosco aimed. In the face of danger, the mutts started to rouse. Two struggled in the bonds, but others were accepting. Rosco shot the first man three times in the forehead, until his skull hung tattered and limp.
The woman started to beg.
I hate that.
“God save your soul,” Keats said, and shot her. Then I hated him.
The front door burst open. We swung our weapons and pinned the threat. The hunter carried a shotgun and a fuel can. He was surprised to see us.
“Drop the weapon,” Keats ordered.
The pelter set down the fuel but didn't lower the rifle. His eyes bounced as he calculated his options.
“Disobeying an order from a federal agent is tantamount to treason,” Keats said. “Don't do anything stupid.”
If Vincent was there, the hunter would be dead already. Doubt clouded Keats' face. Shit, he couldn't do it. My finger readied on the trigger. The hunter's weapon lifted a few inches and Keats fired in self-defense. The bullet entered the man’s gut and threw him against wall near a power box. My round struck his ribs. Grasping his bloody belly, the poacher flung his arm and smashed a red button.
A mechanical whirring commenced.
Definitely a bad thing.
The gambrels sprung open and released the victims. The dead fell limply, heavily to the ground. The living tried to catch themselves.
My heart charged up my throat.
The mutt closest to me lifted his head. His face had been torn off, and he glared with eyes gone silver and black, full of evil potential. He twitched a special way, with the flicker of muscle and magic that was no longer human. His shoulders swelled to match his widening ribs and engorged spine. He grew fine peach fuzz. The mutt stretched, lengthened, and pushed against the earth. The transition was spotty, a patchwork of flesh and fur. A non-salable product, like a s
lug in a torn fur coat.
He snarled at me as if I was flayed meat on a picket.
Put things in perspective.
We opened fire. Fired from the hip, point blank.
A hail of silver rained down on the shaggy beast and killed him dead.
Stray shots peppered nearby mutts, tearing into their flayed bodies. They screamed, sounding like kicked puppies. Their whimpering drew deeper, rumbled into a coarse groan, and became a chorus of howls.
Shit.
Silver woke the slumbering disease.
Six rickety mutts shed at once. A swarm, a herd, a pack of furry monsters. The female, bleeding from the skull wound, twitched and shed into wolf the size and color of a Black Angus bull. Eyes rolled mad and white. Feral. Of course, if I'd been blessed by someone who shot me in the face after a traumatic round of torture, I'd be pissed, too. We fired into her, but it was like hitting a pond. Our bullets only rippled the surface. She bellowed.
I commanded my legs to stay put. Don't back down. Don't run. Don't run, run, run, don't run...
I really wish I had my Jericho.
I squeezed the trigger, certain we'd all die this time.
Her black fur shuddered like a horse twitching its hide to toss off a fly.
She charged Rosco. Firing madly, he backed, collapsing the ranks and drawing her into a horseshoe of us. We shot her from all sides as she spun between us like the bottle in a childhood kissing game. The other mutts circled around, watching the rookie backpedal. I fired at the nearest mutt, which ignored me. Ignored the silver digging into his hide. He lunged at Rosco's thigh, edging him away from the group.
Isolating him.
Divide the herd, consume the lesser. These mutts hunted like a pack. Most kennels couldn't unite while consumed by the madness of the disease. Even natural wolf packs needed considerable bonding time to establish solidarity. Yet these beasts circled, uniform and focused, forging ahead, muscling past our silver.
I strode forward, pursuing the animal.
Koko perceived the movement and advanced to Rosco's side, bringing him back into the circle of protection. We rained silver fire on whichever beast came closest.
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