Then, she flung it at the nearest wendigo.
The creature seemed oblivious to the little arachnid scrambling for a purchase on its papery skin. Then, without any sort of precursory symptoms, the wendigo went rigid and pitched forward like a felled tree.
Queen scanned the area for the spider, but it scurried away and disappeared into the underbrush before she could grab it.
“This is going to take a while,” she muttered. She knew better than to think that she could collect enough spiders to take out the pack that dogged her every step. What she really needed to do was find Sara and tell her about this.
Unless she already knows. She recalled how Sara had grabbed her hand, just before she and King had been called away. Somehow, maybe because of her weird sensory disorder, she had figured it out. With any luck, Sara was already whistling up a bunch of synthetic spider venom—surely there was such a thing—to inoculate everyone, or even better, to spray the whole area with it and permanently wipe out the wendigos.
She took a moment to orient herself, and then headed south, toward the creek, where she hoped Sara was still waiting.
65
Death was never pretty, but Hector Beltran’s death was exceptional in its ugliness.
When King’s blade pierced the membrane around the alpha wendigo’s heart, a gush of hot blood and fluid nearly drowned him. The smell, a mixture of hot copper and putrefying flesh made him gag, but King did not relent. He pushed the knife a few inches further, and rammed it into the throbbing muscle.
Beltran’s heart swelled suddenly, not in reaction to the attack, but merely the normal diastolic phase of the organ, filling up with blood. When the systolic phase began a moment later, it was as if a dam had burst. The muscle contracted, and Beltran’s heart, overstressed by the battle and damaged by King’s blade, ripped itself apart.
The eruption blasted King away, knocking him back onto the hood of the truck. He scrambled for purchase, preparing himself for the next attack, but it never came. The monstrous alpha crumpled to the ground, and aside from a few twitches, it did not move.
King felt no sense of victory. Too much had been lost, and while this battle was won, the war was not over. After a minute to catch his breath and wipe some of the gore away, he keyed his radio. “Blue, it’s King. Beltran is dead.”
An ear-splitting whoop made him wince. As he fumbled for the volume control, he heard a voice, not Aleman, but Rook. “Big fucking deal. We took out three alphas and then played Pied Piper with all the rest of ‘em.”
King’s elation at hearing Rook’s voice was quickly buried under an avalanche of grief. How was he going to break the news about Queen?
Another voice came over the net. “Jack? It’s me.”
Sara! At least she was safe.
“Great news here. Queen helped me figure it out. We know how to stop the wendigos. It’s spider venom. That’s how the natives were able to stay safe while using the wendigo contagion like a bio-weapon. And it’s why they came here after they turned it loose.”
A new voice jumped in, fainter, the person obviously not talking directly into the microphone. “Sara, let me tell him.”
King was stunned. The voice belonged to Queen. There was a shuffling noise and then she spoke again, louder this time. “Remember that spider bite I got? It’s like industrial-strength wendigo repellant. They wouldn’t even touch me. And one drop of the stuff is enough to kill them.”
“It’s got to be some kind of allergic reaction,” Sara chimed in from the background. “I need to get back to the lab so I can watch it happen under the microscope. Maybe we can come up with a vaccine to keep people from getting infected in the first place.”
Sara kept talking, but King barely heard her. “Queen?” He croaked. “You’re alive.”
“Of course I am. You didn’t think I had any intention of letting those ugly bastards eat me, did you?”
She said it with such confidence that King almost believed her.
It took him fifteen minutes to hobble back down the road to where the speedboat was docked and Queen and Sara were waiting, along with a very relieved Ellen Dare. With the crisis finally past, all his hurts, starting with the gash in his ankle, decided to pay him back with interest. Before boarding, he immersed himself in the creek, washing away most of the blood, and with it, all of the despair he had felt earlier.
As impossible as it seemed, they had survived.
Aleman’s next call, as the boat sped back across the bay to rendezvous with the rest of the team, reminded him that other battles had been fought and other sacrifices made. “King, when you get a chance, remind me to tell you about a call I got from an old friend of ours. You might remember him. His company helped us out a few times.”
King did not miss the conspicuous coded-language, nor its subtext. The ‘company’ obviously referred to the CIA, and the old friend had to be Domenick Boucher. Boucher and Duncan had escaped Endgame together, but King knew nothing more about what had happened beyond the fact that Duncan had personally anointed Lew Aleman to take over the role of Deep Blue. The fact that Aleman was trying to hide that information suggested that someone—probably Admiral Ward—might be monitoring their secure communications. King doubted very much that they had any secrets from Ward, but he knew that Aleman surely had his reasons.
What was Aleman trying to tell him?
A call…
“Sara, do you have your phone?”
She looked at him in surprise, but then dug in her pockets until she found her mobile. She thumbed it on and glanced at the screen. “Network is back up. Battery’s almost dead though.”
He took it from her and quickly composed a brief text message—two words: ‘What’s up?’—and sent it to the same number he had used to make contact in Mexico.
A few seconds later, the reply came back. “Call me.” Followed by a ten-digit string—not a phone number but a math problem. He reversed each digit in his head, four become six, three was seven, and vice versa, a simple expedient code. Then he dialed the new number.
Domenick Boucher answered. “I’ve some bad news, King. Tom was arrested by the FBI. He surrendered to them, as part of a plea bargain, which included protecting you guys.”
“I know.”
Boucher’s tone suggested that King did not know as much as he thought he did. “They flew him to Washington, and my contacts tell me that Marrs plans to drag him in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Tonight. He’s called for an emergency meeting.”
The revelation made no sense, and King told Boucher as much. “The Senate doesn’t have jurisdiction over a former president.”
“I don’t think Marrs cares about what is or is not within his jurisdiction. He’ll do whatever it takes to get ahead. But I think he’s really after something else.”
“The President.”
“If he can make the case that President Chambers is ultimately responsible for what we’ve been doing, the senate will have no choice but to call for impeachment proceedings.”
King recalled what Ward had said during the flight. ‘He’s going down, and he’s going to take some very powerful people with him.’
Anger gripped King’s throat. “Marrs is a traitor. He’s the one that should be on trial.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.” A pause. “We have to get Tom out of there.”
King’s answer came without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
“If you can make it to D.C., I’ll take care of the rest. I should warn you, though. If we do this, there’s no going back. We’ll have to disappear completely.”
King raised his eyes, meeting Queen’s gaze. A short distance away, he saw five figures standing on the shore. Beck was there, along with a shorter man that he didn’t recognize, but King’s stare lingered on his teammates: Knight, Bishop and Rook. He would offer them the choice, of course, but he had no doubt about what their answer would be.
“Set it up. I’ll call when we get there.”
As
the speedboat neared the shore, King felt a thump against the hull. He looked over the side, expecting to see a piece of driftwood, but instead saw a veritable field of pale round objects just below the surface. Some of them were looking up, faces frozen in death.
Drowned wendigos.
He waited until they were a little closer to shore to jump out. Rook greeted him with a fierce bear hug that made him wince. Bishop squeezed even harder, while Knight settled for a handshake and Beck, a smile and a nod.
There was just one introduction to make, and Rook took care of it. “King, this is Bulldog. Bulldog, King.”
There was a sudden glimmer of fear in the small man’s eyes, recognition, of the name or perhaps his face, but he hid it quickly behind a smile and offered his hand.
“Bulldog helped us out big time,” Rook went on in a friendly tone. “Hell, it’s almost enough to make up for the fact that he’s the piece of shit who sold us out to Beltran and blew up Crescent.”
Bulldog’s smile evaporated, and he tried to bolt away, but Rook’s hands had clamped down on his shoulders, pinning him to the spot.
“You didn’t really think I bought that bullshit story about you being DEA?” Rook said.
Bulldog’s eyes danced, and King expected to hear him offer protestations of ignorance, but after a moment, he sagged in resignation and shook his head. “I thought you looked familiar,” he said to Rook. “I saw you at that party in New Hampshire. Can’t believe I forgot that. I usually don’t screw up on the little details. I guess running from flesh-eating monsters can mess with your head.”
“You get used to it after a while.”
King took a step closer to the small man. He had harbored similar suspicions about Bulldog from the moment Rook reported the encounter. “Are you working with Marrs?”
Bulldog blinked at him, but said nothing.
King took another step forward, bending his head down until their faces were almost touching. He raised his wrist, displaying his stainless steel watch, but did not break eye contact. “In exactly sixty seconds, my friend Rook here is going to put a bullet in the back of your head. After having spent some time with the El Sol cartel, I’m sure you’ll recognize just how merciful that method of execution is. It’s better than you deserve. I know that you supplied Beltran with the TOW missile that destroyed our plane in Mexico, and that by itself is reason enough for me to end your life. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that you played a part in the kidnapping, murder and ritual consumption of a bus full of American tourists, but maybe that was all Beltran’s doing.” King gave a little shrug then let his eyes flicker to his watch. “Oh, look. Only thirty seconds left.”
“What do you want?”
“Ah, yes. The deal. Well, it’s simple really. You’re the little fish. Marrs is the big fish.” He checked his watch again. “Ten seconds. Rook.”
Rook made a very dramatic show of drawing one of his Desert Eagles, placing it against the back of the man’s head.
“Save it,” Bulldog said, with a snort. “I used to work CID. Even if I believed that you meant to—”
There was a loud metallic click as Rook pulled the trigger. “Shit,” Rook’s voice was filled with what sounded like sincere embarrassment. “I forgot to reload.”
Bulldog was speechless for a moment, but as Rook ejected an empty magazine and slotted a fresh one into the enormous pistol, he swallowed and resumed speaking. “Fine. I’m tempted to say ‘do it.’ But the truth is, I’m not willing to die for that piece of filth.”
Rook made a clucking sound. “Said Mr. Pot, of Mr. Kettle.”
“It was a job. I had no idea Marrs was working with…” Bulldog shuddered. “Someone capable of doing…”
“Is that supposed to mean something?” King asked.
Bulldog met his stare. “You want the big fish? You want Marrs? All you had to do was ask.”
66
Washington, D.C.
It was just after six p.m. when a line of black SUVs pulled up in front of the Dirksen Senate Office building, a stone’s throw from the Capitol. A scattering of journalists, who were perpetually camped out on the steps of the building hoping for a scoop, shifted toward the convoy, sensing that something newsworthy was about to happen. The vehicles disgorged a veritable army of men in blue windbreakers who swarmed around the central SUV, hiding its passengers from the cameras and the eyes of the journalists. The cluster then moved quickly to the doors and inside, leaving the reporters to speculate about the nature of this after-hours activity. Some murmured that it must surely have something to do with the strange news coming out of North Carolina.
The man at the center of the moving cluster knew almost nothing about what had transpired in the Outer Banks. Duncan had been kept isolated and incommunicado since his arrival in the nation’s capital. Aside from some empty gloating on the part of Senator Marrs, who had departed the group shortly after the helicopter touched down, no one had spoken to him at all. Whether the news out of North Carolina was good or bad, there was nothing more he could do about it. The die had been cast.
The agents ushered him to the second floor, and into a familiar wood-paneled gallery. There was no audience present, but twelve of the seventeen chairs on the elevated semi-circular podium at the back of the room were occupied. Duncan recognized all of the men and women seated there. Once, he had been on a first-name basis with several of them. He had played golf with them. Spent long hours in late-night strategy sessions at their side. Stumped for them on the campaign trail. Now, they all regarded him with frank suspicion, contempt even, as if he were a leper in their hallowed presence. Lance Marrs sat in the outermost seat on the left hand side, barely able to contain himself.
The agents brought him forward to a table positioned in front of the bench. Deputy Attorney General Taits moved to his side and motioned for him to sit. Duncan sat. Nothing more was expected of him. The chairman called the meeting to order, but Duncan paid little attention to the formalities. His role here was simple. Marrs and the other members of the Senate Judiciary Committee would harangue him with questions, and he would invoke his Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination, freeing Marrs to build his case against the president on innuendo and circumstantial evidence.
He doubted that Marrs would ever find a smoking gun, but in politics, such absolutes were rarely needed. Regardless of the outcome, the nation would suffer greatly, becoming further polarized and ultimately weakened. He hoped that the other men and women in the chamber would recognize that, and see Marrs for what he was, but whether or not that happened was out of his control. He had given everything to protect the nation that he loved; now it was up to the rest of them to save it.
Marrs’s voice cut through his musings. “Mr. Chairman, I want to thank you for convening this special session. It is my intention to reveal a conspiracy to undermine the constitutional authority of this body and establish a military dictatorship in the White House. It is a conspiracy that has its roots with this man.” He gestured to Duncan. “Disgraced ex-president Thomas Duncan. And like a poisonous tree, the branches of this conspiracy have spread far and wide, infiltrating the military, our intelligence and law enforcement agencies, all the way to the office of President Chambers.”
A murmur rippled through the committee, but Marrs pressed on. “Mr. Chairman, with your permission, I would like to question the witness.”
“I believe we all have questions for President Duncan,” the chairman said. “But as you are the most familiar with this alleged conspiracy, by all means, proceed.”
Duncan did not fail to note the way the chairman had subtly corrected Marrs—calling him ‘President Duncan’ as was customary—and the use of the qualifier ‘alleged.’ It was almost enough to make Duncan hopeful.
Marrs was clearly more interested in talking than in asking questions. He launched into a narrative of the closing days of Duncan’s administration, emphasizing perceived failures and using loaded language to imply a widespread cover-up.
Several of the senators on the committee shifted uncomfortably as the accusations came close to sweeping them into the so-called conspiracy. Duncan sensed that many of them knew that Marrs was fabricating his accusations, but that would matter little when Marrs went public. To save their own skins, they would have to throw Duncan under the bus.
Just as Marrs’s monologue seemed to be building toward some kind of climax, another murmur went through the room. Duncan heard a few gasps from the committee but these were quickly drowned out as the FBI agents began moving quickly in response to a disturbance at the back of the room. Duncan craned his head around and saw a compact man in street clothes standing near the door.
There were cuts and bruises on the man’s face. He looked like he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.
And won, Duncan thought. There was an air of unyielding confidence about the man. Even as the agents swarmed around him, forcing him to the floor, he remained unflappable.
The chairman shouted for order, but Duncan was more interested in Marrs’s reaction. The senator from Utah was staring at the newcomer through narrowly slitted eyes. There was uncertainty in the gaze but also recognition.
Marrs’s voice rose above the tumult. “Mr. Chairman, if I may?”
“Senator, do you know this man?”
Marrs weighed the question with evident apprehension, staring at the stranger as if trying to read his mind. “I do, Mr. Chairman. This is my special investigator, Mr. Colin Parrish. He’s been leading the probe that unmasked this conspiracy.”
“Senator Marrs, this is highly irregular. These are closed proceedings. I won’t have you turn them into a circus.”
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Chairman. I can only guess that Mr. Parrish here has some new critical information, which has just come to light. Isn’t that right, Mr. Parrish?”
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