Shadow Dragon

by Horton, Lance

  He felt a faint exhalation leave her body—then no more. He closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth of her flesh until it began to fade.

  Finally, when she had grown cold, he removed his hand, pulled the glove back on, and strolled from the room.

  CHAPTER 7

  Nathan drove the moving van south on Highway 29 headed toward Washington, DC. About five miles outside of Columbia, he exited the highway and turned right onto one of the rural county roads. He followed the road for two miles before he turned off onto a private drive. Fifty yards down the drive, he came to a guard station nestled among the trees. Hidden from the state road, the concrete and steel building looked more like a military bunker than a security checkpoint. A large steel gate extended across the drive, presenting an impassable barrier to virtually any vehicle other than a tank. A twelve-foot-tall, electrified, chain-link fence lined with razor wire extended into the woods on each side. Red and white signs stating “Danger—High Voltage” and “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” were spaced at fifty-foot intervals along its expanse.

  He pulled up beside a black stanchion and stopped. He rolled down the window so that the camera could get an unobstructed view in order to run its facial-geometry and thermal-sensing scans. In years past, the gate security system had consisted of palm print and retinal scanners, but even those had been somewhat vulnerable to subterfuge, whereas the new system, based on the recognition of the thermal heat pattern of a person’s face, was virtually impossible to circumvent. Additional cameras on the passenger side and thermal scanners embedded in the asphalt beneath the vehicles assured that no other occupants or stowaways were entering without being cleared first.

  There was a soft beep, and a pleasant female voice said, “Welcome, Mr. Brockemeyer. You are authorized to proceed.”

  The steel gate rolled back. He drove down the asphalt roadway that wound through the trees for a half mile before it opened onto a wide, grassy plain of gently rolling hills. A stark, silver-mirrored building that was four stories tall and almost a quarter-mile long stretched across the clearing, its exterior bathed by a multitude of floodlights ringing the perimeter.

  He passed the turnoff to the large circular drive in front and followed the road around back, where a second, identical building, offset by some thirty yards, paralleled the first. Driving alongside the second building, he turned down the ramp into the parking garage. At the bottom, he repeated the security check and then waited for the gate to rise.

  He drove across the empty parking garage to a concrete wall at the end. Looking toward the roof of the van, he waited while the thermal scanners verified his signature. A deep boom echoed within the garage as the steel bolts retracted. A section of the wall slowly rolled aside, revealing a hidden bay of the garage. There were two moving vans similar to the one Nathan was driving and a red Corvette parked inside. He parked the van, leaving the tool belt draped across the chair in the back, the keys in the ignition. He walked to a panel in the concrete wall before him. After he opened the panel, he removed a foam-filled canister from its cradle and inserted the silver vial. He replaced the canister and pressed a small red button. There was a whistling, humming sound, and the canister vanished as it was sucked into the vacuum-tube system. After he closed the door on the canister panel, he turned and got in the Corvette.

  With a squeal of rubber, he raced from the garage.

  Nathan took Highway 29 south toward Washington. The growl of the engine and the tires humming across the pavement provided a hypnotic effect, threatening to lead his mind down roads best left untraveled. Struggling against the memories that tugged at his mind, he rolled down the window and sucked in great gulps of the cold night air as beads of perspiration trickled down the back of his neck. He changed the radio station, turning up the volume until his ears rang, but the image of the boy continued to haunt him.

  A lone vehicle approached on the opposite side of the highway, its headlights momentarily blinding him like the burst of a camera flash.

  He is eight years old. He huddles in the corner of his closet on a hot summer night, clutching a half-sized, autographed baseball bat and rocking back and forth as the voice of the Oriole’s play-by-play announcer echoes within the darkness. The volume is turned all the way up in an effort to drown out the shouting and screaming emanating from the living room.

  He imagines stepping up to home plate, a sea of fans wildly cheering him. The green grass of the outfield is bathed in the glow of the silver-haloed floodlights. There’s the smell of pine tar and chalk as he scoops up a handful of dirt from the batter’s box. He rubs his gloves together as he stares down the pitcher. He is not afraid. He is in control. He’ll show them who is boss. And they will scream in adoration as he rounds the bases.

  A razor’s edge of light springs to life beneath the bottom of the door. There is a bellowing roar like the grunt of a charging bull. The door bursts open. The nauseating stink of cigarette smoke, sweat, and whisky fill the tiny space. Nathan cowers in the corner, wishing he could disappear, wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

  “Turn that goddamned thing off!” screams his father as he grabs him by the ankle and drags him from the closet. “I’ll show you what that fucking bat is good for!” he roars as he jerks it from Nathan’s grasp—

  Nathan’s hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His jaw muscles stood out like steel cables beneath his skin. If not for the wad of gum in his mouth, he might have cracked a tooth. The car was flying, the white lines blurring as the Corvette shot past. He was making his way around a curve, the front end of the car dipping to the inside, the tires squealing as they began to lose purchase, the rear end slipping nearer to the concrete divider. He was on the verge of losing control. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and glanced at the speedometer. He was doing over a hundred.

  Perhaps it was best that the boy and his mother had been put out of their misery, he thought as he feathered the brakes to bring the car back under control.

  He needed to blow off a little steam. His pent-up anger had him so wired that he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He would just toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, waging war with his inner demons until dawn came creeping through the blinds. Instead, he decided to head for Suzie Cue’s. It had been almost a year now. It was doubtful anyone would remember him.

  As its name suggested, Suzie’s was a pool hall. But unlike the stereotypical version full of bikers and roughnecks, Suzie’s was a modern, hip version with a full menu and hundreds of brands of beer, both domestic and imported on tap. The decor consisted of stainless steel and brick, with lots of bright neon. On Tuesday through Sunday, live bands played on a small stage in the corner. The clientele consisted primarily of young kids attending the nearby junior college, but there were always a few older barflies watching the rowdy kids and reminiscing about their lost youth.

  It was a little after one o’clock when he pulled into the parking lot. He got out and made his way to the door, pausing to spit his gum into a small planter as he passed. Dressed in a tight black shirt and cargo pants, wearing combat boots and his Orioles cap backward on his head, Nathan looked enough like the other college kids that he didn’t attract any undue attention as he walked in. As he passed by the hostess station, he grabbed a couple of cinnamon-flavored toothpicks from the dispenser and began chewing on one as he made his way to the bar. He sat on the stool at the end, back in the corner next to the TV. ESPN was showing highlights of the evening’s NBA games. Four long-haired kids who looked like they should still be in high school were on stage, playing a poor rendition of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” A chubby young girl with long black hair and glasses was working the bar. He ordered a Budweiser, which she poured from the tap and placed on a cardboard coaster in front of him.

  He slammed down half the beer in one gulp and ordered another. In an attempt to be friendly, the girl made a comment about him being really thirsty, but Nathan wasn’t listening t
o her. His mind was elsewhere.

  He spun about on his stool and began watching the crowd, his blue eyes narrowing as his tongue flicked the toothpick back and forth between his teeth.

  He slammed down three more beers—a small fire break against the inferno raging within—while he watched for the right opportunity to present itself.

  It happened just before closing time. During his surveillance, Nathan had spotted two couples playing pool at a nearby table. Obviously college kids, they drank pitcher after pitcher of beer and became louder and more annoying with each round. The boys were both dark-haired and handsome, one of average height and well-built, the other tall and thin. Typical frat boys, they both wore Polo rugby shirts and Rolexes and had an air of spoiled sophistication about them. No doubt their parents were well-to-do DC socialites who had sent their sons to a small college in the suburbs in order to avoid the social decay of the inner-city. Nathan disliked them instantly.

  The two girls with them fit the sorority-bitch mold equally well. They both had big, blonde hair—probably bleached—and wore slutty, low-cut blouses to show off their surgically enhanced tits.

  As Nathan watched, one of the blondes stepped up to the pool table for her turn. Nearly missing the cue ball completely, she broke into a hysterical fit of snorting laughter before she staggered back to her stool. Head drooping, she sat down, but because she had misjudged her actual location, she slipped off the edge of the stool and fell to the floor with a loud crash. Her friends howled and pointed, stumbling about and slapping each other on the back, as if it were the funniest thing they had ever seen. The girl who had fallen, however, didn’t share in their amusement. When her date grabbed her by the arm to help pull her up, she jerked away and snapped, “Don’t touch me!”

  Nathan seized the moment. Standing, he strode over to the table. The boy was still trying to help the girl up while she huddled on the floor, pouting and slapping at him.

  “Hey, pal, leave the girl alone,” Nathan said, his arms folded across his chest.

  The boy spun around, the shit-eating grin slipping from his face as he looked up at Nathan.

  “You work here or something?” the boy slurred.

  “No, I just heard the girl tell you to leave her alone.”

  “She’s my fucking girlfriend, jerk-off.”

  Nathan grinned. “Fucking girlfriend, huh? You mind if I fuck the little whore?”

  “What’s your fucking problem?” the boy glared at Nathan.

  “You,” Nathan snapped. He jammed the boy in the chest with both hands and knocked him back several feet.

  Nathan crouched as the boy charged him, swinging wildly. With a quick, fluid motion, Nathan swept his left arm up, blocking the punch. He stepped forward and punched the boy square in the mouth, splitting his gums and knocking out teeth.

  As the boy collapsed, Nathan whirled to face the attack he knew would come from behind. The tall, thin boy was already in motion, swinging the fat end of a cue stick at his head. Nathan ducked, and the stick whistled past, just grazing the top of his head. As he pivoted on his left foot, Nathan kicked out with his right, catching the boy square in the stomach. The boy crumpled to his knees, gasping for breath.

  The gathering crowd parted. A muscle-bound bouncer came thundering across the room like a charging bull.

  Nathan grinned and stepped into the attack, the roar of the crowd ringing in his ears.

  As the bouncer bore down on him, Nathan grabbed him by the arm and, turning, flipped him. The beer-emblazoned pool table light shattered as the bouncer’s feet crashed into it. Shards of glass and plastic rained down upon him as he landed in the middle of the pool table. Before the bouncer could rise, Nathan was over him, hammering him with a barrage of blows to his face and midsection.

  “Fuck you, you worthless son of a bitch!” Nathan howled as the punches rained down.

  When the fire had finally burned itself out, Nathan stopped. Without another word, he turned and made his way to the door. The crowd parted before him.

  Stepping into the cool embrace of the night, he knew that he would sleep like a baby tonight.

  CHAPTER 8

  Montana

  His breath plumed in front of him in a silvery cloud with each exhalation. His arms and legs pumped with metronomic rhythm, the thin skis carving parallel trails as they shooshed across the snow. He was getting tired, his arms and legs burning from the effort, but he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving.

  He imagined he was a famous cross-country skier, someone named Hans or Sven, striving for the finish line while the crowd cheered, chanting his name and waving their flags as he passed.

  His name was actually Adam Peterson, insurance salesman and part-time ski instructor at The Big Mountain ski resort at Whitefish. He had skied virtually his entire life, and he loved it, especially cross-country skiing. There was nothing better than being outdoors in the crisp, clean air with the sparkling glint of sunlight off the snow crystals. But more than that, it was the feeling he got when he pushed himself like he was pushing himself now. When all the troubles and issues of the outside world faded away until it was only him, his mind focused to pinpoint clarity. Push. Push. Push. Drive. Drive. Drive. Yard by yard. Mile by mile. In touch with himself. At one with the world.

  The crunching of the snow and the whisking of his nylon suit were the only sounds to be heard along the valley, but even those sounds went unheard by Adam, who was mentally humming along to the sounds of Kenny G playing in the earphones of the iPod tucked into his fanny pack.

  The sun had dipped behind the mountains to the west, the deep blue shadows fading to violet as he stroked along the last few miles of the trail leading back to the road, where he had left his car. He realized he was not going to make it back before it was pitch-black. Even now, it was getting difficult to make out the contours of the terrain in front of him, and he became concerned about falling and breaking a leg—or worse. His rhythm was momentarily interrupted as he slowed enough to pull his goggles onto his forehead in order to see better.

  He continued on, more cautiously than before. The shadows deepened among the trees, reaching out across the trail until it was impossible to distinguish them from the dark of night. He was upset with himself for not paying better attention to the time before he had started back, but he had been in such a groove that he had lost all track of—

  He was struck hard and fast on the right side like a quarterback blindsided by a blitzing linebacker. The world jerked sideways as he was knocked from the trail, tumbling down the slope to his left. His right ski smacked something, which snapped it in half and wrenched his knee. He cried out in pain as the ligaments ripped and tore.

  He rolled over once more and landed on his back. His goggles were left askew on his head, and his earphones had been jerked from his ears, the cord twisted tight around his neck and tangled in his poles.

  When he regained enough clarity to try to sit up, he felt a sharp pain in his right side. He looked down and was terrified to see a large gash ripped in his ski jacket. White Thinsulate lining spilled out of the rip, but as he looked, it began to darken before his eyes.

  “Oh, shit,” he stammered, his voice trembling with the onset of shock.

  He tossed aside the broken ski pole that he had managed to hang on to and tried to pull the jacket open enough to see how bad the wound was. It was dark, and the temperature was dropping quickly. If he was unable to make it back to his car, he might freeze to death overnight.

  With his earphones pulled from his ears, he was able to hear a rustling sound above him, one like the whistling of wind through the trees but different. He struggled to turn his head to look behind him for the source of the sound.

  At first, he was unable to make out anything in the blue-black depths beneath the trees. But then he saw it—a rapidly moving blur amid the darkness. It was like looking through a window filled with wavy imperfections. He watched in confusion as it moved across the landscape, a shadow among the darkness, sh
ifting and changing as it went. At first, he thought it might be another skier, but as he watched, he noticed the shape was moving through the trees at a speed no skier could match. It made a wide sweeping arc, its motion fluid and graceful. As the shadow swept down the hillside, Adam realized it was coming toward him, its speed increasing as it drew nearer. He grabbed at the other ski pole lying a few feet away.

  He was too slow.

  The shadow slammed into him, knocking the breath from him and driving him deeper into the powdery snow. He flailed wildly, trying to knock it loose, but it bore down on him like an avalanche and drove him down into darkness.

  *

  He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but he awoke to the pressure of something on his midsection. He screamed hysterically as, one by one, his ribs began to snap. Blood geysered from his torso, spattering his face and goggles and steaming as it splashed onto the snow.

  The lonely scream echoed down the valley before it was suddenly silenced as darkness settled upon the mountain.

  CHAPTER 9

  Seattle

  Kyle made his way up the walk to the house. As he stepped onto the porch, a drop of cold rain fell on the back of his neck and trickled down his spine. Shuddering, he pulled up the collar of his overcoat. He reached for the brass knocker, but the door opened before him.

  Bobbi Darrell stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of jeans and a faded Seahawks sweatshirt. It was an old one, with the old blue and silver logo. She was an attractive woman in her midfifties, but today, she looked older than her years. The dark circles beneath her eyes made it appear as if she hadn’t slept in days.

  “I heard your car,” she said, a hint of hope in her voice.

  Kyle nodded. Before he could say anything, she read the look on his face, and her expression fell immediately.

  “Come in,” she said as she turned and went back inside.