Shadow Dragon

by Horton, Lance

  Knowing his time had come, Javier begged the Virgin Mother for mercy. He began praying the rosary, the litany of words barely a whisper inside his helmet as the demonic presence of El Diablo loomed over him, blocking out the last of the faint green light.

  *

  From somewhere far away came the sound of voices calling to him, telling him things were all right. And above him in the distance, the merest hint of light—a beautifully twinkling luminescence like stars on a foggy night or perhaps angels come to carry him home.

  “Mama?” he whispered as he fell into darkness once more.

  CHAPTER 76

  The surgery waiting room walls had a pastel, rose-colored wallpaper above a dark-paneled wainscoting. The thick carpet was a lush green inlaid with patterns of pink roses. The harsh overhead fluorescents were recessed into the ceiling with reflective grids that softened and dimmed the light. The entire room was designed to be soothing, but Kyle found no comfort in its appearance. He just sat there, staring at nothing, replaying earlier events over and over in his head, and wondering if there was something he could have done to have prevented it, while each minute dragged interminably on into the next.

  Sheriff Greyhawk sat beside him, eyes closed, as still and as silent as a mountain. But he wasn’t asleep. When the sheriff had arrived, he had been accompanied by two of his men, who were now standing guard outside of Carrie’s room. He had told Kyle that Clayton and the forensics team were at the motel searching for evidence and dusting for prints, but it didn’t look good. Even worse was the news that Carrie’s computer was gone, a fact that had only fueled SAC Geddes’s anger when Kyle had called her back.

  Marasco came marching into the waiting room and straight at Kyle. “What the fuck did you do?” he shouted, grabbing Kyle by the collar and jerking him from the chair. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  “Fuck you,” Kyle shouted, shoving Marasco back. “You weren’t there.”

  Sheriff Greyhawk pulled Marasco off.

  Something came to Kyle then. “Or were you? Where the hell have you been all afternoon?”

  “Aay, fuck you!” Marasco lunged at Kyle again, but the sheriff held him back. Marasco struggled to escape the sheriff’s grasp, but it was pointless. He finally gave up, jerked free, and stormed off to the counter at the back of the room, where a stack of Styrofoam cups sat beside a glass coffeepot on a hot plate.

  Sheriff Greyhawk followed Marasco to the back of the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and one for Marasco. The two spoke in hushed tones for a moment. Marasco raised his voice and glanced in Kyle’s direction several times, but the sheriff continued to talk to him until he finally seemed to settle down.

  A television was suspended from the ceiling above the sheriff’s head. The latest reality show was on. Reality TV. It was about as far from reality as one could get. The only thing real about it was the shallow and greedy nature of the contestants. Kyle knew about reality. He saw it up close and personal every day. Reality was alcoholic and drug-addicted parents, abused children and battered wives, corrupt CEOs and politicians, violence and terrorism. Reality was sitting in a surgery waiting room while a friend fought for his life. That was reality.

  Kyle’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of one of the surgeons, a harried-looking older man with silvery hair. He was still in his scrubs, with his blue-green cap and booties. His surgical mask was pulled down around his neck.

  The sheriff and Marasco came back up front. Kyle stood and joined them.

  “Sheriff, I’m Dr. Bayless,” he said. The sheriff nodded.

  “You’re the one who brought him in?” the doctor asked, looking at Kyle.

  Kyle nodded.

  “I … uh.” The doctor paused to clear his throat, and in that moment, Kyle knew what was coming. He had done it enough himself to know the telltale signs. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but, uh … Agent Edwards died on the operating table. We did everything we could, but it appears the bullet ricocheted off his pelvis and the bottom of his rib cage. There was just too much damage to his internal organs. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  Kyle stood there, too stunned to move. The death notification. It was normally his job to deliver such news to loved ones. He was the one who counseled them on how to deal with their grief. And while he had always felt sympathy for the families of the victims when he informed them of their loss, he had never fully realized just how cold and hollow those words coming from him must have sounded … until now.

  Kyle took a step backward and slumped into his seat, suddenly faced with the harshest reality of them all.

  CHAPTER 77

  “Team Two, come in. Goddamn it,” Ainsworth yelled into the radio.

  “Team Two here,” came the reply. It was Dietrich. “Sorry about that, cap,” he said through ragged breaths. “We were a little busy for a moment there.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t know how, but the dragon got to Ramirez without the alarm going off. We got here just in time. The damn thing was right over him when we bagged it.”

  A cold lump formed in the pit of Myles’s stomach as Ainsworth glared at him. After he called up the detection system’s software, he began backtracking to try to find out what had happened.

  “You got it?” Ainsworth asked.

  “That’s affirmative. The damn thing’s a hell of a lot bigger than we were told. Took three darts to drop it, but we got it.”

  “What about Ramirez?”

  “Not sure. He’s unconscious.”

  “His breathing and pulse are slow,” Ainsworth replied as he studied the display on his terminal, “but it doesn’t appear to be critical. Can you move him?”

  “I think so. Johnson’s rigging up a travois right now. Once we truss up the dragon, we’ll start back. But it’s going to be a bitch with each of us having to pull one.”

  “Fuck,” Ainsworth growled, causing Myles to flinch. The big man rubbed his hand across the stubbly hair of his burr cut. To Myles’s surprise, Ainsworth actually seemed to be torn between the mission and his men.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Ainsworth keyed the radio. “Team Two, come in.”

  “Team Two here, sir,” Dietrich replied.

  “Continue as you were and get back here on the double. If one of you can’t manage the creature alone, shoot it with another tranquilizer to make sure it doesn’t come to—but don’t kill the damn thing, or it’ll be our asses. Then get Ramirez back here on the double. The doc can look after him while you go back for the dragon. I’m going after Busey. We aren’t leaving without him.”

  “Roger that,” Dietrich replied emphatically. “We’ll join you ASAP.”

  While Ainsworth gathered his gear, Myles replayed the data from Ramirez’s helmet, but it was next to impossible for him to concentrate. He was terrified by the prospect of being left alone in the cabin and in charge of the command center.

  He backed it up again, watching the video and the data stream for the fifth time—or was it the sixth? He had lost count. The video feed was a grainy, monochrome green with poor clarity. It appeared that Ramirez had just moved from cover and was starting back down the trail when the feed suddenly went haywire and blacked out. It was reestablished a few seconds later, capturing what appeared to be the dragon’s clawed foot coming into the frame and then disappearing again. There were several more seconds, and then a shot of Johnson and Dietrich rapidly approaching.

  Myles was still unable to ascertain anything useful from it.

  The wailing of the alarm system suddenly filled the room.

  Oh, God, now what? Myles thought in horror as Ainsworth jumped to the table.

  “What the fuck is that?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know—” Myles stammered. There shouldn’t be any alarms! The dragon was knocked out. The only time it utilized its echolocation was when it was in flight. Unless the tranquilizer was wearing off, but Team Two would have noticed. Unless— Unles
s— Something else suddenly came to mind, but it was impossible. He tried to ignore it, too terrified by the implications to consider it as a viable possibility, but it was the only answer that made sense. Unless there was another dragon.

  Or dragons?

  A sudden chorus of grunting and shouting was transmitted over the radio. The static-filled video feeds were erratic as the men ran. It was impossible to tell what was happening. There was the muffled poof, poof of the tranq guns firing and more shouting. Myles frantically pulled up the tracking system and turned off the frequency filter, all the while praying that he was wrong.

  “Team Two, report,” yelled Ainsworth.

  There was a burst of static and shouting, “Under attack … everywhere—” and then a scream blared in his ears as Myles reinitialized the system.

  “What the fuck is going on out there?” Ainsworth shouted.

  The tracking system came back online, and suddenly, there were four red blips on the screen, all whirling and circling within a hundred yards of Team Two.

  “What the fuck is that?” Ainsworth asked as he pointed at the display.

  “I … I don’t know how—” Myles stammered. “But somehow, I think it’s managed to reproduce.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how… There were two on the plane. Maybe before it crashed they managed to mate—”

  Ainsworth grabbed the microphone. “Team Two, there are multiple bogeys. I repeat—there are multiple bogeys. Take any actions necessary to defend yourselves.”

  There was another scream, and the sound of automatic gunfire erupted over the radio. Johnson’s vitals suddenly went black.

  Ainsworth grabbed his tranq gun from the table, ripped open the door, and raced out. The door flopped back and forth, snow swirling through the cabin. The fire spluttered and died.

  Terrified, Myles crept toward the door. Without night-vision goggles, it was impossible to see anything outside, but as he neared, he thought he saw a shadow sweeping down from the darkness beyond, sailing through the open doorway to pounce upon him. He fell to the floor with a cry of alarm, his arms crossed before him.

  *

  Myles found himself back in front of the FTU. He didn’t remember doing it, but the door was closed and latched from the inside. Terrified beyond all rational thought, he just sat there alone, twitching and shivering in the darkness. Sweat trickled down his forehead and dripped onto his glasses unnoticed. He stared blankly at the video screen, watching the flurry of little red dots circling and capering as they closed in on their prey. His mouth moved, as if trying to speak, but nothing could be heard over the shrieking of the alarm system.

  CHAPTER 78

  Kyle stepped from the noisy, brightly lit corridor into the quiet solitude of the hospital’s small chapel. The room was bathed in lambent red and yellow light, filtered through the backlit stained-glass windows lining each side. Three short rows of pews were evenly spaced on each side of the room, each one capable of holding only three or four people, although at the moment, they were unoccupied.

  Still stunned by the news of Lewis’s death, he slumped onto the bench to his left, leaning forward until his head rested on the back of the one in front of him. Even now, SAC Geddes and Joan Thompson were probably on their way to the house to give Rochelle the news.

  Of course, the minute the car pulled up out front she would know. I should be there, Kyle thought, I should be the one to tell her. If only I hadn’t let that son of a bitch get away. If I had just managed to grab his leg and bring him down or at least trip him up—

  But he hadn’t, and now Lewis was dead because of it.

  This isn’t the way things were supposed to happen. He could feel himself beginning to slip back into his old pattern of despair and self-doubt. He struggled against it, trying to focus on what needed to be done. You’re a counselor for God’s sake. You know how to deal with this. But it was as if everything he had ever learned had suddenly left him the minute he was told of Lewis’s death. He couldn’t remember a thing. Now that it was happening to him, he didn’t know how to deal with it. He just sat there, thinking, this can’t be happening, over and over again.

  He sat up and looked to the front of the room. On the wall behind the altar hung an image of Jesus nailed to the cross, a bloody crown of thorns upon his head. As he looked at the crucifix, the only thing that kept running through his head over and over was the question why. All he had wanted to do was help, and now Lewis was dead because of him. And for what? He hadn’t even managed to save the computer. What little evidence they might have salvaged was now gone, his career along with it.

  At least Janet will be happy, he thought bitterly, resigned to the fact that there was nothing preventing him from returning to Dallas now. He could hear her now, speaking in that condescending tone of hers, appearing to be concerned about him when all she had ever really cared about was herself. “I knew that job wasn’t right for you. Such a waste of time,” she would cluck. “If only you had followed my advice, you could have already been well on your way to being a doctor or a lawyer. Then maybe Angela wouldn’t have left you.”

  An agonized gasp escaped him, and he ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to come.

  After several long moments, he slowly lifted his head. He stared at the crucifix, desperately seeking some sign of divine inspiration, if not absolution. But there was none to be found.

  CHAPTER 79

  The dark green Xterra sat in the far corner of the parking lot, carefully positioned to give its occupant a clear view of the hospital entrance without drawing anyone’s attention. A fine layer of snow covered the vehicle. Delicate crystals were beginning to form on the inside of the windows, but the truck and its heater remained off. Nathan’s gloved hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles cracking as two more police officers wearing thick blue coats and carrying steaming cups of Starbucks made their way into the building. The place was crawling with them.

  Nathan knew Colquitt wouldn’t be happy with the latest developments. His shooting of the FBI agent had definitely complicated matters. Things were getting messy, and the potential for discovery was rising dramatically; however, they weren’t out of control yet. He needed to find out what had happened since the encounter at the motel before he made his next move. He knew the girl was almost certainly still alive. She would have to be silenced—and soon—but he wasn’t ready to give up on his plans just yet. It would be disappointing if he wasn’t able to take his time with her. Unfortunately, if the FBI hadn’t believed her story before, they were more likely to now that she had been attacked.

  At least he had managed to retrieve the laptop after the idiot had taken off and left the room unattended. Nathan had wiped the hard drive clean again for good measure and then taken a little trip about twenty miles south of town to dispose of the computer, which now lay at the bottom of Flathead Lake.

  Having finally decided he would have to risk it if he was going to learn anything more about the situation, Nathan tucked his gun under the seat before he headed inside.

  The emergency entrance had been crawling with police, so he had parked on the other side of the hospital. The main lobby was deserted at this time of night with the exception of a man from housekeeping swinging the buffer back and forth across the marble floor. Nathan walked down the corridor, limping slightly as he favored his right knee, which had stiffened up in the cold. He passed the entrance to the chapel and then turned right, following the overhead signs that pointed the way to the emergency room. Next was the cafeteria, which had already closed for the night. The only sound was the low hum emanating from the row of vending machines just outside the cafeteria.

  As he neared the end of the hall, he heard the crackle of a police radio coming toward him from around the corner. He had planned to go to the ER to see what information he could ascertain without drawing too much attention to himself, but another idea suddenly came to him. He hurried back down the ha
ll and stopped in front of the vending machines.

  As the cop rounded the corner, Nathan began to dig in his pockets for change. He nodded politely and fed change into the machine as the officer stepped up beside him. The officer was an older man who was almost completely bald with glasses and a large paunch. It was ridiculous that a fat slob like that could keep his job when he had been turned down for duty simply because of his bad knee. He could still outrun half the men on any police force in the country and then kick the other half’s asses.

  “So what’s all the commotion about?” Nathan asked as he punched the button for a Diet Coke.

  “Some FBI agent was killed,” the cop growled as he bent over and picked up his package of powdered donuts.

  Nathan’s pulse quickened. The agent had died. That was both good and bad. It was good in that it would slow down the investigation into the Hungry Horse situation, but bad in that it would only serve to bring more agents in. The place was sure to be crawling with them by morning. He needed to finish off the girl and get the hell out. But the image of her that kept playing through his mind caused him to consider other options.

  Nathan pulled the Diet Coke out of the slot. “Sorry to hear that.”

  The officer’s response was drowned out by the crackle of his radio. “Hey, Weatherby, can one of you guys come up here to 312 and relieve me for a while? I need to take a leak, and the sheriff wants two men on watch at all—” The chatter was cut off as the officer turned down the volume on his radio.

  Damn, Nathan thought. They had placed guards outside her room. Of course, it only made sense. It appeared the sheriff had more sense than the agent he had tangled with earlier.

  “Well, good luck finding the guy,” he said to the officer as he turned and started back toward the lobby. With the girl under guard, it would be more prudent to wait and see if a better opportunity presented itself. Now that he knew her room number, he could take care of her at any time with nothing more than the little canister he carried in his pocket, even with the guards. Of course, that would also serve to confirm any suspicions they might have had regarding the validity of her story, which would make an already messy situation worse, and General Colquitt hated messes. He would wait. For now.