Holcomb wished he knew who had been there doing the shooting, other than Crane.
Shifting, he looked at his equipment in the fading light. In a few moments it would be dark, and if he wanted to be able to see in the room, he’d have to use one of the small, battery-powered lights positioned along the walls. He thought of his friends, of the possibility of trying to sneak back to the compound to see if he could help. But Vance Holcomb was all that stood between the flock of terror birds and their eventual extermination. Of that, he was positively certain. For them, for this entire wilderness, he was indispensable. To endanger himself was an act of selfishness he could not risk.
He would have to leave his people to Fate, and he would have to escape. It couldn’t be helped. With a flip of a single switch, he shut down the receiver, conserving battery power. For now, he knew what he wanted to know. In the dimness of twilight, he turned, assuming a more comfortable position. It was time to rest.
Chapter Thirty-Five
On the wind. The sign and the scent, and the warning were coming on the wind.
The Scarlet rogue aimed his beak toward the sky, opened his mouth to hold the scent in his mouth, to allow it to linger there and to tell him what was being carried upon it. Night had fallen and there was more information there than he could ever decipher, should he have chosen to attempt to read it all. But he had learned in his years to filter out the noise of that which was unimportant, and to read only what was of consequence for the moment. And what it was telling him now was both confusing, and even a little frightening.
In the cooling evening he was aware that the Flock was in movement. And not in a routine way that indicated a hunt was on, or that they were merely relocating to a more advantageous position to assure that they remained undiscovered for another day. This was different. The Flock was moving out in a strange pattern, all of the adults at the fore-front, with the chicks left far back and the youths behind them and flanking them, in a guarding position. This was not something the Scarlet had ever been a part of, something which he read in the way the scent of the flock members came to him on the wind, and in the sounds he detected from time to time. In addition, although they were still a comfortable distance from him, they were heading his way. Obviously, they were following the sign he had inadvertently left during his daylight journey, for the wind was currently in his favor and he knew that they did not have his scent, or even know his exact location. But it was bothersome to know that they were coming toward him. Since he had taken leave of the Flock, the Egg Father had kept a distance between their numbers and the Scarlet. Something had changed.
There was prey on the wind, the warm and satisfying scent of meat on the hoof. But he had placed that secondary to the other things he knew.
The Man Who Watches was among them again. The Flock had known of him for some time. He had descended into their midst some cycles before, making a covered nest at the edge of the open grasslands they sometimes liked to hunt. This man had scattered strange things, the things the Flock knew men somehow constructed, the way a worm constructs a cocoon, or a spider makes its web. Man’s ways were a mystery to them, but they were aware of many of the things men did and made. For a time, Egg Mother and Walks Backward had sought out the places where The Man Who Watches had left his constructs, and they had bitten them, tearing them and dropping the remains into the river as they did with things they wished to hide. And after a time the man had ceased to leave the things where they disturbed the Flock. And they had decided not to remove the things this man had left high in the trees, even though there were young among them who could make the climb, who were not too heavy to do so. Egg Father had decided not to risk it.
This particular man had returned to his sometimes-nest, and was there now, resting in it.
And there was a third, and also disturbing development. The Scarlet had detected a number of men moving into the wilderness from the west. They were coming from that place where the men grouped and pretended to hunt, as men had done on this place at intervals for many years until they had left. This was the first time the Scarlet could recall that these men had crossed the line and had come into the forests and grasslands that belonged to the Flock. Their scent told him many things: there were six of them; they were, for men, being very silent; and they were hunting. He could smell it. Could taste it. Could sense it on the breezes—an electric spark that leaped from their great brains and traveled on a plane the Scarlet could sense, could read, could understand.
And the men were there to hunt him. He could see himself in their thoughts. Red. They had seen him, somehow, although he had never seen them. But his image was there, crossing the night winds from their minds to his. The Red Bird, they were thinking. Kill it.
Well.
Well, then.
He would be ready for them. He would be ready for his parents and for Walks Backward.
The Scarlet was not going to make this an easy night for any of them.
The Flock had set out on the trail the Scarlet had left for them. Alone, with no one to walk his trace and remove his sign, he was visible to them. There were two dozen adults moving along a V-shaped line, each of the great birds spaced thirty meters apart. Behind them, a half-mile back, were the smallest of the chicks and thirty youths of sufficient age and ability to guard them. One youth was serving as the sweep, as the one who would become Walks Backward when the time came. It seemed a good, safe way to protect the young.
The point of the V was Egg Father. The eastward end of it was Egg Mother, and the western point was Walks Backward. It was their plan to continue on the trail the Scarlet rogue had left until the spoor became hot, became fresh. At that point each trailing end of the V would come forward, would arch up and around until the V became a circle and they would quickly surround the rogue. He would try to break free, of course, and he was certainly large enough to do so, but even he could not hope to take on so many of his own kind. Not when the command to kill had been given.
For now, the rogue was not merely prey for the Flock. He was more than that. He was not just the object of the hunt, but also a thing they rarely had faced in so many years. He was their adversary. It was not unknown for a member of the Flock to fall to another predator. The great alligators who lived and hunted the waters sometimes took a chick or a youth at the edge of the river. It was unfortunate, but part of the cycle of life. When they had been more numerous, the wolf packs and even the big cats had been known to kill and eat a lone member of their number, as had bears. But not since the Flock had formed this new society, and had hidden from Man were they more than rarely a victim to anything that lived. And so the Scarlet had become not only the object of this night’s hunt, but also their enemy. He was a danger they had never faced and tonight was his last night.
Leaving the youths behind, the formation had set out, moving through the forests and into the edge of the grasslands with the tall pines interspersed throughout. If this were where he was, then the task would be easier. Yes, his stride was great and his speed formidable. But out on the savanna he would be completely visible and they would run him down as they did a deer or a fox. Egg Father hoped that the rogue had been foolish enough to try to hide out there in the grasses.
As they went through the great trees, Egg Father scented the wind and looked all around. His night vision was superb. He could see the entire panorama of the forest in stark, tinted shades of black and gray. Even with almost no moonlight to show the way, they could all make out the smallest detail in the night. Sedges swayed on the wind, branches bobbed, palmetto twitched. Beneath their feet, small animals crouched on the ground or huddled in burrows. Above them, birds sat high in safe perches and looked on, making no comment. Clawed feet rose and fell, taking them along at a distance eating pace.
Colonel Grisham and his fire team passed over onto the old military range at sunset. By then, he knew that his men would have already groomed Holcomb’s compound and were now cleaning it up. Hopefully there would be no sign of a str
uggle. And if there were, the cleanup would be so thorough that no one would ever know. How the bodies would be disposed of he neither cared nor wished ever to know. That it was done and that there would never be any comebacks was enough for him.
And then it was his turn. This was the job he wanted for himself. More than likely, if Holcomb was not at the initial target, then it would be up to Grisham Company to take him down and dispose of his mortal remains. Also, there was the issue of the terror bird.
‘Phorusrachids. They were a race of ground dwelling birds of prey that became extinct about a million years ago,’ his encyclopedia had told him. Someone at Berg Brothers had done what research they could, and the mole inside Holcomb’s team had filled in the rest. That was a bit of luck, making a turncoat out of one of the billionaire’s own. But Grisham wasn’t surprised. Everyone had their price. He had yet to meet a human being who couldn’t be bought.
According to their source, there was a flock of about a dozen or two of the birds living out there. They mainly hunted in the open longleaf savanna at night, and bedded down during the day. At least, that’s what the traitor had told them. In actuality, even Holcomb’s team had been unable to locate the birds’ hiding places during daylight hours. And they had only a slim bit of direct observation of them during lightless times, when the things apparently did all of their hunting and socializing. Despite the fact that the birds were large, and also appeared to be built for speed, Grisham didn’t think that killing them all would prove to be much of a problem. He, for one, didn’t have any doubts.
The colonel and his five men were all equipped with personal radio gear, compact boxes attached at the epaulet, right side. They would be as silent as possible, but it would be foolish to head out, armed to the teeth in the nighttime bush without being able to communicate effectively. Each man was carrying an AK-47 rifle. Grisham had chosen the weapons, keeping the complement of firearms uniform in case any man exhausted his ammunition and had to rely on another for spare cartridges. The guns were accurate, fired smoothly, and could go to automatic with the simple flick of a switch. And each of them carried the reliable 9mm Beretta, Grisham’s sidearm of choice. There were pistols that packed a lot more power, but he enjoyed these weapons immensely and had handed them out to each of the members of his fire team. In addition to the guns and ammo, they of course carried emergency provisions to enable them to comfortably endure several days in the bush without returning to base to resupply. But it wasn’t going to take that long. Within twelve hours, he felt certain that both Vance Holcomb and his giant dino-birds would be extinct.
They all moved eastward in a more or less even line, roughly fifty meters between each man. In this way they could cover a lot of ground and were likely to notice any evidence of either man or animal. Nothing would move or try to get away from them without being seen. And, likely, nothing trying to hide from them would escape their notice. Each gun was equipped with a night scope, and as they trolled along, they would periodically stop, raise the scope and look down it, seeing what the night could no longer conceal from them.
Grisham was so at rest, peering down the barrel of his rifle when he saw something out of place. It wasn’t anything living, no movement or quick flash of panic from something forcing itself not to bolt in fear. What he saw was a pair of sumac limbs, the leaves partially wilted and pointing in the wrong direction for a growing bush. Patiently, he held the gun to his chest, looked down the sight and stared. Someone—someone who had practiced it well—had tried to hide something in the undergrowth. The colonel stood still, held his breath, and moved the barrel of his gun up a degree, and down, then swept it right to left a few inches. There was a tarp under the limbs and brush, and just at ground level he caught sight of a tire. An ATV, he thought, seeing.
“Watkins. Number one here. Out.”
“This is Watkins,” came the reply, bulling through a very slight mist of static.
“Fifty yards ahead of my position. Hidden vehicle. Approach with caution,” Grisham ordered. He waited, watching, and soon Watkins’s form came into view. The soldier approached the hidden ATV and soon had pulled the camouflage free of it. The vehicle belonged, he knew, to Holcomb. So that meant that Vance Holcomb was either out there, hiding in the forest and waiting for them, or sitting out there, somewhere, thinking he was just doing a little bird watching. Little did the billionaire creep know that Colonel Winston Grisham was about to hunt him down and kill him. Along with his stinking birds.
“It’s time that we find Vance Holcomb,” he rasped into his epaulet. “You all know what he looks like. Kill him on sight.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
As he stood, shielding his eyes to make as certain as he could that no glass got into them, he tried to see where Billy Crane was and what he was doing now. He could hear the Seminole shouting at them. What the hell did he mean?
“Come out. Hurry,” Crane was yelling. “You don’t have much time.”
Levin was still cowering on the floor, his arms covering his head, his hands and back coated in a glittering sheath of broken bits of safety glass. Kate was crouching just below the windowsill, where Crane could not see her. So far, only Ron had chanced a look outside. If Billy had seen him, he hadn’t fired at the glimpse of head Riggs had offered.
“Where is he?” Kate whispered.
“He’s about thirty, maybe forty feet straight out,” Ron said. He pointed directly through the wall in front of them, against which they were both leaning, as if holding it up as a shield.
“What’s he saying?” Kate asked. They could both tell that Billy’s voice was fading slightly.
“Come out, you idiots,” the Indian repeated. “Come out before they kill the lot of you.”
“He’s crazy,” Levin muttered, head still down, still coated in broken crystal bits.
“No. I don’t think he is,” Ron told him. “I think he was giving us a way out of here.” He braced to stand, but Kate’s hand on his shoulder held him in place, her grip every bit as strong as his own.
“What are you talking about? He just shot at us.”
“No. I think he was shooting out the window to give us an escape route. I believe he knows that’s the only way we’re getting out of here without having to face those guys who killed Kinji. There’s probably more than two of them. We have to go. Now.” Ron did stand, and had to exert some effort to break free of the hold Kate had on him.
“Don’t do it,” Kate said, her voice loud, forceful. “Think about it. It makes even more sense now than before. Mary and Billy are both Seminole. They’re in this together.” Ron heard Levin whimper as he stood and looked out to see what Crane was doing.
The Seminole was moving away, toward the corner of the building, where two of the compound’s structures made a kind of open yard between them. Ron saw Crane glance back and motion for him to follow. “Hurry up, you damned fool,” Billy yelled, his voice growing just a bit more faint.
Without thinking about it again, Ron knelt and grasped Levin behind the elbows and forced him to stand. Adam actually screamed, believing that he would soon be shot when his former companion caught sight of him through the shattered window. His eyes were wide and crazy as he looked up to see Crane retreating toward the forest. “What? What’s he doing?” Levin asked.
“He wants us to follow him,” Ron said. “He shot out the window so that we could get out of here without getting killed. Now, come on, dammit. Let’s haul some ass before those other guys find us.” He looked toward Kate who was just standing there, seemingly at odds with herself. “Make up your mind, Kate. I’m getting out of here now, while we can.”
“You don’t know,” she stammered. She used the pistol to point toward the now all but invisible figure of Crane disappearing into the gloomy forest.
“We don’t have time to debate this.” He cast a glance toward the direction Billy had vanished. “We’re getting out of here. Now,” he said. He put his hands on the windowsill, not worrying about being cut, a
nd he quickly vaulted over. On the other side, he was surprised to find that ground level was a full two feet lower than the floor had been, and he stumbled as he fell and went to the grassy earth. Grunting, he peered up and looked to see Levin following him, tentatively testing the sill.
“Come on, Adam. Get your butt in gear. Give him a hand,” he suggested to Kate who he could see was still just standing there, watching them.
Levin jumped stiffly off the sill and made an even clumsier landing than Ron had. Riggs, afraid that his panic-stricken companion would twist an ankle and be unable to run, stepped forward to keep him from falling, which Adam would have done if not for Riggs’ support. Still holding Levin up, Ron turned his eyes toward Kate who was at the window, leaning out, squinting at both of them.
“You coming, Kate?” Even as Ron asked it, he could see that she was bringing the .357 up, toward himself and Levin. But seeing her doing that, it did not occur to him that she could be aiming the weapon at them.
The shot broke the air into a billion bits of sound. Ron saw a puff of smoke appear around the big pistol, enveloping Kate’s right hand. He saw the recoil from the weapon force her long arm up almost half a foot, her shoulder back an inch or so. Adam Levin’s chest exploded, the exit wound a fist-sized crater that erupted in a shower of hot, crimson wet, spattering Ron’s face with a horrid warmth.
Levin was dead in an instant, and the silly look on his face seemed almost a kind of reflection of the complete, numbing shock that was burning through Riggs. He had been supporting Levin, his hands on the man’s torso, almost beneath the armpits. Later, but not right then, he would wonder how the bullet had missed him, had gone completely through his former captor and had ricocheted off some bone, sparing him a similar fate. Adam Levin first stiffened, for a mere split second, and then slumped to the ground like an enormous but leaking water balloon, almost taking Riggs with him.
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