“You’ve seemed preoccupied all night,” he told her. He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently, as if assuring her that he was there to listen if she wanted to talk.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “I’ve just had a lot of things going on in my life lately, that’s all.”
Glen smiled. “Yeah, I know how that is.”
The man was observant. Her mind had been on other things all evening long, through their quick meal at Burger King and the horror double-feature at the Skyline Drive-in afterward. Freddie Kruger and Leatherface didn’t seem so frightening when you had to confront the consequences of having failed at a very important mission.
And Jenny Brice had most certainly failed at her attempt to buy back Pale Dove Mountain.
Sadly, she recalled her solitary trip to Mountain View and her brief meeting with Vincent Russ at the High Peaks Motel. Despite their differences, he had been courteous to her and had invited her in. She hadn’t wasted any time in getting to the point. She expressed her wish to buy back the property from Eco-Plenty giving sentimental attachment to her family heritage as her reason. Russ had been a perfect gentleman, patiently listening to every word that she had to say. But still, he had refused her request. She tried to convince him otherwise, but obviously Jackson Dellhart had instructed him to reject any offer that she or anyone else might present for Pale Dove Mountain.
Then she figured it was time to show him that she meant business. She took him out to the MG, telling him that she was willing to hand over the trunk’s contents for the transferred deed. He had regarded her patronizingly, beginning to grow weary of her attempts to persuade him to sell. His eyes had nearly bulged from their sockets when she popped the trunk and revealed two heaping buckets of pure, unminted gold. He had even picked up a chunk roughly seven pounds in weight, juggling it from one hand to the other. But oddly enough, he again declined her offer, even though she could see the intense interest in his eyes. Vincent Russ urged her to go back home and accept the fact that the mountain was not, and never would be, for sale again. Politely, the corporate spokesman shook her hand and left her standing in the parking lot.
Since then, Jenny could only think of the disappointment and dejection that Lance LaBlanc and the race of albino creatures would feel at the news of her failure. She had been their only hope for a peaceful solution to the danger that threatened to destroy Pale Dove Mountain and all who inhabited it. They had trusted in the name of Brice and had come to her. They had asked her to do a job for them and had given her the means to accomplish it.
But even iron-willed determination and a hundred pounds of raw gold couldn’t sway the momentum of Dellhart and the Eco-Plenty Corporation when a pet project was set into motion.
Jenny pulled her mind from the unpleasant thought of having to eventually break the bad news to LaBlanc and the others. For the time being, she turned her attention to the two Tuckers she had shared that Saturday night with. At certain points during the evening, Jenny had found herself forgetting that she was a single woman. There were moments when she had felt as though she were actually part of a family, like when they were cutting up and talking while gobbling down Whoppers and fries, or when she hid her eyes during the gory parts of the movies, drawing laughter and good-natured razzing from Glen and Dale. During those incidents, he had known how Liz Tucker had felt while being with her husband and son. It was a feeling that Jenny both enjoyed and, truthfully, was a little afraid of.
She turned her eyes to the road ahead as they crossed the Little River Bridge and traveled the final five miles to Tucker’s Mill. At one point, a state patrol car came up fast from behind, blue lights flashing, but it didn’t pull them over. It passed them by, speeding off toward the south.
When they finally topped the rise and headed down into the valley, they found that Tucker’s Mill had been the trooper’s destination. There were five or six other police cars parked in front of the town hall. As Glen pulled the 4x4 into the driveway of Compton’s Boardinghouse, three of the cars raced southward out of town, their lights flashing and their sirens on.
“What’s going on?” asked Dale sleepily. He sat up and grabbed his glasses off the dash to get a better look.
“I don’t know,” said Glen. “Looks like there’s trouble going on somewhere.”
As they parked the Ramcharger and got out, more sirens blared from the way they had just come. An orange and white paramedic van shrilled past, heading in the same direction as the police cars. It had been called in from the fire department in Mountain View. Thirty seconds later, another ambulance shot past.
They spotted Miss Mable and Alice McCray standing on the front porch, the elderly woman dressed in a pink nightgown, while the plump brunette wore her Broncos jersey. They stared in the direction of the commotion, but their expressions were not those of curiosity. Instead, there was worry and dread on the faces of both women.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jenny as she climbed the steps of the porch. “What’s happened?”
Miss Mable simply stared at her, speechless for the first time in a very long time. She shook her head and sat in one of the porch rockers, looking as if she was on the verge of tears.
Alice took Jenny and Glen aside. “There was a massacre at the beer joint near the county line tonight, at that place called Rebel’s Roost. Twelve men were brutally killed. Some were shot and a few were literally ripped apart.” She paused, as if trying to convince herself what the state trooper had told her and Miss Mable was actually true. “Homer Peck was one of the victims. He died…horribly.”
“That’s terrible,” said Jenny. “Has Gart found out who did it yet?”
A long silence stretched between them. Then Miss Mable spoke up. “Gart is missing.”
“What?”
“We saw both Homer and Gart leave in the patrol car around ten o’clock heading south,” informed Alice. “So far, there’s been no sign of the sheriff.” She stared out into the night and Jenny noticed tears forming in her eyes also. “And no one has found a sign of Rowdy either.”
“Rowdy?” asked Glen. “What does Rowdy have to do with all this?”
“He went to Rebel’s Roost to have a couple of beers and shoot some pool,” said the professor. “They found his hat lying on a barroom table, but he wasn’t among the dead.” She turned away, hiding the fear in her eyes. “I wanted to go with him tonight, but he wouldn’t let me. He said it was no place to take a real lady.”
Alice went over and sat next to Miss Mable. She took the old woman’s hand, offering comfort and, in turn, getting some herself. Jenny looked at them and saw two very frightened women, worried about the safety of two men they cared for very much. She wondered if she would feel the same sense of alarm if Glen were to turn up missing, and knew immediately that, yes, she would. She moved closer to the bearded storekeeper, glad that he was here with her now, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body next to hers. As if in answer, Glen slipped his arm around her shoulders. The simple gesture of support made her realize that he felt as deeply about her as she did him.
“Those killings at the Roost were connected with all the craziness that’s been going on up on Pale Dove Mountain,” Miss Mable told them.
“Why do you think that?” asked Glen.
“‘Cause the one responsible left another message,” she said grimly. And it was the final word on the subject, too. The trooper told us what it said…LAST WARNING!”
“So it’s started already,” breathed Jenny.
“What did you say?” Glen asked. His concern returned as he felt the woman shiver against him.
Jenny didn’t answer. There was no need to. Everyone would know soon enough. She knew what kind of man Jackson Dellhart was. He was the kind of man who saw last warnings as challenges to be conquered. Jenny knew that it would only be a matter of time before the self-centered commander of the Eco-Plenty Corporation declared unconditional war on Lance LaBlanc and the race of passive albinos. He would not hes
itate to use his wealth and corrupt power to put an end to them, as he had most certainly put an end to her poor father.
There was only one force that could ensure the survival of Pale Dove Mountain. A single, relentless force that would stop at nothing to assure its ultimate safety.
And that force was known as the Dark’Un.
PART THREE
DARK FURY
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was six o’clock in the morning when a tall man in a black commando sweater and dark fatigue pants marched through the doorway of Jackson Dellhart’s office.
He was an impressive figure of a man — six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds, with sharp gray eyes and a military crew cut. He would have been strikingly handsome if it hadn’t been for the mass of ugly scar tissue that dominated the left side of his face and neck, from temple to collarbone. There were other scars also, tattooing his flesh like permanent medals of valor. A deep slash creased his forehead over the right eye — a souvenir from a nasty knife fight in a Saigon whorehouse — and a circular wound dimpled each cheek of his sturdy jawline where a 7.62mm round from a AK-47 had punched through one side of his face and out the other.
“I’m here,” he said sternly. He walked to the leather chair in front of Dellhart’s desk and sat down, ignoring the man’s extended hand. “So what’s the current situation?”
“It might be best to show you what we’re up against,” said Jackson Dellhart. He took a number of photographs from a manila envelope and pushed them across the desk at the big man. They were shots of the massacre at Rebel’s Roost only seven hours before. Most were of gunshot and mutilated men lying in pools of blood. One was of Deputy Homer Lee Peck crucified on the barroom wall, his wrists and ankles impaled with bayonets and sabers. The last one was of a message spelled out in human entrails…a warning that read LAST WARNING!
The scarred man studied the photos, then handed them back. His stony expression hadn’t faltered a fraction since the moment he had walked in. “You have a real psychopath on your hands, Dellhart.”
“That’s why I hired you and your men three days ago, Colonel,” said the corporate head. “I was hoping that Mr. Russ and his redneck muscle might be able to handle the situation, but they failed to do so. Now it’s your turn.”
Vincent Russ sat in a chair to the side of Dellhart’s desk, eyeing the man in the black uniform suspiciously. “Would you mind telling me exactly who this gentleman is?” he asked his superior. “Or is he another one of your secret employees?” There was a hard edge of bitter sarcasm in Russ’s voice. He was more than a little angry at Dellhart that morning. First of all, he had been awakened at 1 A.M. by a state trooper who had personally delivered the news of the tavern massacre, as well as the envelope of gruesome photos. And now here was a battle-scarred warhorse that had been hired several days before. Russ was getting damn tired of trying to do his job while Dellhart’s hired flunkies lurked in the shadows, completely without his knowledge.
Dellhart turned and regarded his assistant with a thin smile. “This is Frag Hendrix, retired Special Forces colonel and full-time mercenary. I hired him and his team to resolve our little problem on Pale Dove Mountain, since you’re obviously impotent about getting the job done.” He turned his attention back to Hendrix.
“We need to strike as soon as possible. When can you and your men be ready to move out?”
“We can be in the air within six hours,” Frag told him. “I’ve rented a small farm twenty miles southwest of the objective and turned it into a temporary base of operation. I have a crack team of forty commandos on standby there, awaiting my orders. We also have a squadron of seven helicopters that are prepared to move out at a moment’s notice. Four are Bell transports for the deployment of forces, while the other three are Huey Cobras armed with electric Gatlings and cluster missiles.”
“The heavy artillery is only to be used to discourage interfering parties,” Dellhart told him flatly. “We don’t have to worry about the local law; it’s nonexistent now. But the state police are still a potential threat. The one in charge of the investigation of last night’s massacre is under my control, but the main man, Captain Nickles, could cause some problems when he arrives on the scene. What we need to do is rush in and secure the mountain swiftly, before anyone gets wind of what is taking place there.”
“We can do that,” Frag Hendrix assured him.
Jackson Dellhart got up and walked to the window of his corporate office. Dawn bloomed over the eastern horizon. The sunlight of a new day glistened on the broad channel of the Mississippi River. “Your objective is to take control of Pale Dove Mountain, no matter what type of resistance you might encounter,” he told the colonel. “I want every living thing in the vicinity terminated, be it man or animal. And I especially want the bastard that’s been causing all the trouble. That is your main task…to search out the one who has been leaving those damned warnings and destroy him.”
“No problem,” agreed Hendrix. He stood up and checked his diver’s watch. “We’ll be launching our offensive at noon sharp. I’ll inform you the moment we have the mountain secured.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Jackson Dellhart, turning from the window. “Because I intend on being there in person, to supervise the operation myself.”
The mercenary’s eyes narrowed slightly at that. “I wouldn’t advise that. Your presence there will only cause confusion. It would be better if you’d let us handle the strike.”
“No,” Dellhart said firmly. “This conflict with Project Pale Dove has become intolerable to me. I’m tired of staying out of the picture. Rest assured, Colonel, you will have command of your men as usual. But I intend to call the shots. After the amount of trouble this particular investment has drawn, I want to personally see that this incident is settled, once and for all.”
Frag Hendrix didn’t look too thrilled over Dellhart’s decision. “Very well,” he finally said. “I’ve got a chopper waiting on the roof. But we’ve got to leave within the next hour if we’re going to make our plans and attack at noon.”
“I’ll be ready,” said Dellhart. He smiled at his right-hand man as he started toward his private elevator. “And so will Mr. Russ.”
Russ looked up in surprise. “Me? Why do you want to drag me along? I’d only get in the way.”
“True, you have proven to be dead weight to me recently, but I still want you there when we take Pale Dove Mountain by storm. I want you to see how it feels to experience victory, rather than constant defeat.” Then he stepped into the narrow cubicle and pushed the button for his penthouse apartment.
When the elevator door had closed, Frag Hendrix shook his head and chuckled. “Once an asshole, always an asshole.”
“You knew Dellhart before he hired you for this job?” asked Russ.
“Yes,” replied the mercenary. “We served in Vietnam together. Our association was a brief one, however. We went through the same boot camp and took the same flight overseas, but the day that our unit was about to head into the field, Dellhart was suddenly transferred to permanent assignment in Saigon. He spent his entire tour of duty in a nice, cushy office job, while me and the others humped the boonies, risking our tails for the sake of Southeast Asian democracy. I went through Airborne training and signed up for two more tours, while Dellhart took his leave and went back to the life he had been groomed for. I later heard that his father had bribed a congressman to keep his golden boy out of the danger zone.”
“I’m not the least bit surprised,” Russ replied. “But why are you working for the guy if you hate his guts?”
Hendrix walked to the tall windows and stared out at the first stirrings of the Southern city. “It’s purely business on my part. True, I wouldn’t mind slicing up his kidneys with my KA-BAR…but he is paying me and the boys a helluva lot of money to do this job for him. And it sounds like a fairly simple one, too.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate whatever’s hiding up there on that mountaintop, if I
were you. A lot of men have said the same thing…and they ended up dead.”
“Yes, but they weren’t professional bad-asses like me and my team,” Frag said with a grim smile.
Macho jerk, thought Russ as he settled back in his chair. He didn’t relish the thought of being stuck on that Tennessee mountain with a battalion of trigger-happy Rambo types toting automatic weapons. He also didn’t like the thought of being up there with Jackson Dellhart. He wondered exactly why Dellhart wanted to drag him along on the assault, if he was as much a screw-up as his boss considered him to be. The only answer he could come up with was that Dellhart had plans for him during the chaos of the attack. Maybe he intended to get rid of him the same way he had gotten rid of Gart Mayo. Maybe during the shooting, he might end up accidently catching a stray bullet…from one of Frag’s men or, possibly, from Dellhart himself.
He smiled slyly and thought of the Browning 9mm he would be carrying with him, just in case. Despite what his boss thought of him, Vincent Russ was no fool. His loyalty to Jackson Dellhart had hit rock bottom during the course of Project Pale Dove and he was growing tired of being constantly berated for his failures. Russ had grown up on the streets; he was little more than a crafty con man, but he was a good one. Therefore, Russ had kept a few bits of key information from his superior. He had neglected to tell Dellhart about Jenny Brice’s offer of a few days before or the buckets of gold in the trunk of her car…gold that most likely had come from somewhere on Pale Dove Mountain.
If he had to turn traitor to save his own hide, then so be it. And maybe, if he played his cards right, he might end up an extremely rich man in the process.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lieutenant Frank Ashton was sitting in the sheriff’s office of the Peremont County jail, drinking strong black coffee to keep him awake and making some important calls, when Officer Hal Olsen poked his head through the door. “Lieutenant, there’s a lady here who wants to talk to you.”
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