Dialing Jing’s number again the call is quickly answered. “What’s happening?”
“The jeep is parked outside the Bishop post office,” raising the binoculars to his eyes he peers inside the glass fronted building, spotting her by the counter. “I think she’s sending a parcel out.”
“A parcel?” Jing’s voice is tight and rising, “What kind of parcel?”
“Can’t see from here sir. Do you want me to go in for a closer look?”
“Could you do it without her seeing you?”
“It’s not like she’s ever seen me before sir,” Slade offers, “She’d have no clue who I am even if she did see me.”
“No,” Jing decides, “It’s too risky. I can’t have any suspicions raised here.”
“She’s leaving sir,” Slade reports, “She’s heading back to the jeep. Do I retrieve the parcel or stay on her?”
“Stay on her,” Jing commands, “We can easily retrieve whatever she sent later. As far as I’m concerned she’s become too much of an unknown and that makes her a liability. Deal with her before she returns to the reservation.”
“Yes sir,” turning the engine over Slade smiles as he says, “It’ll be done within the hour.”
I-395 between Bishop and Mono County, California
It’s done.
The reverb of the jeep’s tires across the blacktop fills the interior as Felicia Werner absently watches the desert go by outside her window. Her thoughts are preoccupied elsewhere.
Glancing at the now empty passenger seat she sighs. I wish it didn’t have to be this way Hong; I really do. But then you didn’t give me a whole lot of options did you?
Secure in the knowledge that the package is by now on its way to its destination, she allows herself to relax a little and think about what she will say to him when she arrives back at the camp.
It won’t take you long to realize that our remaining specimens of X1 are missing will it Hong? And how will you react when you discover that, I wonder?
In her rear-view mirror she catches a glimpse of a black Hummer screaming down the two lane highway toward her. Something about the speed of its approach and the menacing look of the vehicle sets her instincts on edge.
Keeping one eye on the mirror she lightly presses the accelerator further down toward the floor. Her speed increases but not enough to put any more distance between herself and the Hummer.
It’s still gaining on me.
Flooring the jeep she takes a soft turn in the road and hears her tires squeal in protest. Knowing that there are no other cars on the road her sense of isolation fuels the rising dread in her.
Another look in the mirror finds the Hummer right on top of her before it rams her bumper hard enough to jolt her head forward and cause the jeep to swerve to the left across the center lane.
Watching her struggling to keep control of the jeep, Slade swears he can hear her screaming over the howl of the wind. The thought brings a smile to his lips.
They are the only two vehicles on this lonely stretch of highway and he knows the time is now to end this chase. Two miles distant is a bridge spanning a rocky ravine and a narrow creek bed—the end of the line.
Coming up fast behind her again, he batters the jeep square on smashing the taillights and dislodging the rear bumper. Sparks fly for an instant as the right side of the bumper scrapes along the pavement until it falls off entirely.
Again he is amused to watch her fighting to keep the jeep under control. For a moment she strays off the road onto the shoulder kicking up a cloud of dust but manages to get the jeep back onto the blacktop before she completely loses it.
Up ahead the road curves around a gigantic boulder that hides the bridge from their view. “Here we go,” he breathes as he presses the pedal to the floor sending the Hummer racing after his prey.
Hovering close behind her he waits until they are both around the rock before tapping the brake and cutting from the left to the right behind her. Two of his huge wheels dig into the dirt along the side of the road as he pushes the Hummer headlong into the jeep on the rear passenger side just in time.
The impact sends her careening to the left right before reaching the bridge. This time he knows she is screaming as the jeep leaves the road and pitches forward over the rock strewn embankment.
Slamming his brakes on, he can smell rubber burning as he skids to a stop midway across the bridge. The sounds of the crash echo across the desert—shattered glass and broken metal. Climbing down from his seat he rushes over to the railing to admire his work.
The jeep is lying on its driver’s side in no more than one foot of water, its passenger wheels still spinning uselessly in the air. The tableau excites him but before he can claim success he knows he has to be sure.
Scanning the surroundings he spies her unmoving form lying among some brush and rocks near the shoreline. No doubt thrown from the jeep when it tipped over, he surmises.
Watching her for a moment longer he notices her leg begin to move. Still alive or just nerve endings firing?
Time being short until another motorist might happen by he stops admiring his work and gets back to it. Returning to the Hummer he grabs a length of rope from the back and quickly ties one end around his legs and waist.
Tying the other end to the bridge railing he constructs a pulley system before stepping up onto the railing and rappelling down to the ravine floor.
She can hardly move.
Her cheek is pressed against the cold mud and it is the only part of her that she can feel. Blood from a cut on her forehead keeps running into her eyes, blurring her vision. But what she can see she doesn’t want to see.
Her jeep is up on its side and without even remembering how it happened she knows that she was thrown from it on the way down. Worried that whoever ran her off the road may be on the way down to her now, she wants to move away from this place.
She wants to run away; to hide and be safe. She tells herself to get up. She does this over and over again but her ruined body won’t comply.
Then through the blood haze she sees a man step into view from behind the jeep and knows that it’s too late. Her time has run out—it’s all over. She entertains no final notions of this being help. She remembers where she is and what she’s done.
As the man stands over her he says something but she doesn’t hear it; she’s slipping away. Her final coherent thought before the curtain falls is that she isn’t the only one for whom it is too late.
The package is gone. Whatever this man wanted from her he is too late to get it.
It is a very small consolation.
Part Three:
Abandon all Hope
Chapter 24
August 22, the Present
Hope, North Carolina
Feeling eyes upon him he begins.
Gripping the sterling silver serving cart in his hands he pushes it across the sparsely decorated room. Like a wayward shopping cart, one wheel twists and squeaks without touching the ground as it moves.
A bare bulb hangs on a chain from the center of the ceiling but the real illumination in the room comes from the flickering flames in the hearth—casting menacing shadows around.
Stopping the cart in front and to the side of his guest, he takes his place in the chair across from him and proceeds to watch him intently for several minutes.
The man is wearing black fatigues and combat boots. He is muscular with broad shoulders, a square jaw, black hair trimmed right down to his scalp, and a Special Forces tattoo on his right bicep. The name on the breast of his uniform identifies him as “BAKER”.
He is unconscious and chained to the chair he is slumped over in.
Reaching out to him, Ryan Heath slaps him on the cheek twice to roust him from his slumber and bring him back to the moment.
Gradually Baker groans and opens his hooded eyes to the world. Groggily he looks about himself before shifting his weight slightly and rattling the chains that hold him in place.
He
immediately realizes his predicament and instinctively begins struggling to loosen his bonds. It is no use though—he is not the first to be shackled here.
Plastering on a demented grin, Ryan exhales, “Hi.”
Baker stops moving and stares silently at his prominent forehead, thick brow, thinning dark hair, and sickly pale skin. He takes in the crooked teeth, the milky white left eye, the fleshy lips, and can’t keep from shuddering at the grotesque visage before him.
He’s been to war. He’s seen terrible things. He knows the capacity mankind has for depravity. But in all his travel’s he’s never seen anything, or anyone, like this.
That smile…those cold lifeless eyes…the obvious enjoyment in his voice…leaves no doubt in his mind that here sits the devil made flesh.
Unable to stare at him any longer, Baker drops his head certain that he has just glimpsed a truth no human being was ever meant to see.
Evil is real.
“How are you feeling Kenny?” the demon hisses at him.
Despite himself, he starts trembling at the sound of his name being spoken by the abomination of humanity before him. Willing his voice to be steady he says, “My name is Kenneth Baker. I’m an American citizen. I work for Black Creek Consulting, employee ID number 794256. I demand an audience with my lawyer.”
“You demand?” Ryan squints at him akin to a snake looking upon a mouse. “Where do you think you are Kenny? Do you really believe a lawyer is what you need now?”
Giving him a hard look that falls just short of believable Baker spits, “I’ve said all I’m going to say you sick fuck.”
Sliding off his chair Ryan kneels between them and starts to unlace Baker’s boots.
“What,” Baker struggles to kick out but cannot move his legs enough, “What are you doing?”
Tossing one boot aside, Ryan moves to the next one after stripping the sock off, all the while smiling up at his guest. Once the last boot is removed he sighs and answers, “If I wanted you to talk do you really think I couldn’t make you?”
“You’ll get nothing out of me,” Baker’s lip trembles as he declares, “Do your worst asshole.”
Still smiling, Ryan rises from the floor and leans in close to Baker’s ear before whispering to him, “Oh, you’re so going to wish you hadn’t said that.”
Turning away from him he theatrically removes the sheet covering the top of the serving cart. He knows from experience that even in the scant light the newly revealed blades will glint and hold Baker’s full attention.
Tapping his chin with one hand, Ryan holds the other poised over the cart, as if selecting a dish from an exquisite buffet. Snatching up a wide and flat cleaver, he displays it to Baker before trotting over to the hearth and placing it in the fire.
Looking back over his shoulder he watches understanding dawn on Baker and feels the old familiar rush of excitement at this.
Baker turns his head away saying nothing.
When the blade is glowing yellow from the fire he pulls it out and holds it close to his face. The heat coming off it flushes his cheeks. Going back to Baker he kneels again in front of him.
Without a further word he grips Baker’s ankle and presses the hot steel flat against the sole of his right foot.
“AAAAAHHH!!”
He can feel Baker go rigid as his nerves fire wildly in pain. Lifting the blade away it sizzles and pops as blackened skin peels away with it.
Bringing it to his nostrils he inhales the scent of burnt flesh before placing it under Baker’s left foot.
“AAAAAAHHHH!!”
Baker spasms against his restraints as the pain shoots along his nerve endings. As the scent of charred flesh wafts up to him, Ryan removes the blade, setting it aside where Baker can see the skin and blood boiling on it.
His skin and blood.
Selecting another blade from the tray, Ryan chooses a long handled scalpel. Resting it against Baker’s quivering inner thigh he smiles up at him. That smile, he’s come to know, unnerves his prey far more than anything else.
“Remember Kenny,” he purrs, “You asked for this.”
Pressing down on the scalpel he draws an immediate line of blood running down the leg as the layers of skin separate and start to peel back.
Baker’s screaming intensifies until he falls quiet; passed out.
Taking the scalpel away with him Ryan returns to the flames. Lighting a candle he goes back to his place beside Baker. Holding the candle over the open wound he slowly tips it sideways allowing hot wax to pour down into his leg cavity.
Baker immediately seizes in agony returning him to consciousness. Shaking uncontrollably he splutters, “y-you s-s-sonuva…k-k-ill y-you…”
Grabbing him around the throat, Ryan pours more of the spent wax into his wound while hissing in his ear, “You’d like to would you?”
Opening a similar wound on his other leg, Ryan proceeds to pour molten wax into that leg as well. The screams rend the air around him—a symphony of musical delight to his ears.
He peppers Baker’s body with tiny quarter inch to half inch incisions, turning his flesh into a morbid connect the dots. Once his white flesh runs red, Ryan reaches for a shaker of salt and starts sprinkling the wounds.
He can see the moment Baker’s mind cracks and all sanity leaves him. It’s the moment when in his thrashing and screaming he bites through his own lips.
For Ryan the crescendo is approaching—it won’t be long now.
Grabbing a block of wood he returns again to the fire and dips it in. Carrying the flame back to Baker he sets the wooden chair on fire.
The crackling of wood and the slow increase of heat builds in the room until the broken form of Kenneth Baker releases a final howl as he ignites.
With one quick motion Ryan grabs the scalpel again and slices it across Baker’s throat releasing an arterial spray of blood that soaks them both.
Covered in gore he slowly breathes in and out…in and out…in and out.
Turning to look at the doorway—to look at Lynne watching the display—he smiles maniacally and promises her, “Soon it will by you.”
Along U.S. 264
Sunlight dapples the road ahead through a break in the clouds as Lawrence Clayton drives the rented Subaru north. After hours of dreary overcast light, it is a welcome change.
With his left arm resting on the side of the door and his right arm draped over the steering wheel, he cocks his head to the side taking a quick glance at the occupant in the passenger seat.
Wendy Rojas is intently pouring over notes and files as she has been doing for the past hundred miles. She’s wearing tight fitting black jeans, a stylish dark colored blouse that hangs open at the neck, and a scowl of concentration.
With her head bent forward, she has to drape her blue colored bang back behind her ear every few minutes after it falls over her brown eyes.
Rapping his fingers against the wheel, Clayton starts to whistle an old Southern ballad. He’s dressed similarly in black jeans (less tight fitting), a bright yellow golf shirt, and a look of detached calm—a look that ironically he has actually worked hard to maintain.
Finally needing to satisfy his curiosity and unable to hold his tongue any longer he asks, “What’s with all the studying? I thought we didn’t know what happened here—how do we have so much paperwork on it?”
Without looking up Wendy replies, “This isn’t about Hope.”
“What is it then?”
“The latest on the Peruvian situation.”
Keeping his eyes on the road, he asks, “Charles know you have that?”
With a shake of her head that looses her hair again she replies, “Nope.”
“Yeah, didn’t think so. He indicated to me that he wanted our full attention on this case.”
Tucking her wayward bang back behind her ear she looks up and over at him saying, “And we both know Clay that this case is nothing but pointless political posturing.”
“Say that three times fast,” he qui
ps with a grin.
Smiling at him she goes back to her work.
“So,” he tries again, “What’s the latest on Peru?”
“There are now eighty-four reported cases with forty-one deaths in the rural area of Peru where this was first noticed. The suspected cases in Ecuador have been confirmed and that country is now reporting sixteen new cases and seven dead in the past week.”
Shaking her head she sighs, “WHO is still in the dark as to a cause and our agents in Peru report that they have fared no better. As of right now the only things we seem to know for certain is that people continue to get sick and die and we don’t know why.”
After a few more miles in silence Clay asks, “So how did you get stuck with this assignment anyway? I only ask because it doesn’t seem like your area of expertise.”
“It isn’t.”
“So,” he prods, “What’s the story then?”
With a sigh she answers, “It’s a long story.”
“It’s a long drive,” he counters.
Shaking her head she relents and puts her paperwork away. Turning in her seat to face him, she takes comfort in his easy going nature and warm smile.
“What the hell,” she mumbles before opening up to him about how she came to be here as outside the world goes by and the sun fades again to memory.
Chapter 25
Hope, North Carolina
In nature there can be only one alpha male.
Whether it is a pack of wolves or a pride of lions or a herd of elephants or even a family of gorillas, there is only one alpha. It is an immutable law.
So whenever another would-be alpha rises up it results in open bloody conflict, often to the death unless one of them backs down. For the alpha can tolerate no dissension—can show no weakness and maintain control of the group.
In nature all challenges to supremacy must be met.
Standing in the former police chief’s office; Jing Bai is doing just that as he faces off with Alexander Cummings.
Realm of Shadows Page 21