Vincent Russ stepped into view, aiming his nine-millimeter at Alice and Dale. “Drop the bats,” he demanded. They did as they were told, letting the aluminum sluggers fall to the ground. He reached over to relieve Rowdy of his pistols and got hold of the sheriff’s .38 Special, but his boss beat him to the Magnum. “I like this big hogleg better,” said Dellhart, reholstering the stubby Walther and hefting the weight of the .44 six-shooter in his hand.
“Exactly what is it on this mountain that you’re so interested in?” Alice asked the corporate president. “I know it isn’t the timber or coal. No one would go to the lengths of hiring a professional army just to chop down a few trees.”
“Maybe he’s here for the gold,” said Dale, then realized that he should have kept his mouth shut.
“Gold.” Dellhart rolled the word across his tongue like a sip of fine wine. “So, the geology report was accurate.” He regarded his three captives. “Tell me, where is this gold located?”
“We don’t know a thing about any damned gold,” said Rowdy. Alice kept silent on the subject, and Dale wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
“Then we’ll all have to go look for it,” said Dellhart. He eyed Dale with an oily grin and caught him by the arm. “You’re going to stick close to me, boy. Just a little insurance to make certain that your two friends don’t try anything stupid.” He snaked the cool barrel of the Magnum beneath the earlobe of the nine-year-old, drawing an involuntary shiver from the child.
“You heartless son of a bitch,” Alice said, her eyes flashing.
“Most certainly,” replied Dellhart. “Now, get moving. There’s a fortune to be found somewhere in this mountain…as well as that black bastard that’s been plaguing my pet project since the very beginning.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Nguyen Khiem brought up the rear as the rest of the Yellow Team crossed a stream on Pale Dove Mountain’s western face and headed into the dense woods. A sunburned Australian named Becker walked point, while the other eight soldiers were spread out in a wide skirmish line in between. They had only encountered a few small animals and birds halfway up the mountain, and had eliminated them per their commander’s orders. But their idle conversation and casual horseplay had changed to serious business when they reached the site of Fletcher Brice’s log cabin and found a four-wheel drive parked there. Now the game was of an entirely different nature; they had human targets to search for now. Unlike the harmless animals they had killed earlier that hour, the prey they now stalked could end up shooting back if they were properly armed.
Khiem took his walkie-talkie and checked in with the other team leaders. Red, Blue, and Green Teams reported nothing out of the ordinary, only a scattering of woodland creatures. He returned the radio to his belt and moved onward. Khiem gripped his AK-47 securely, finger on the trigger, always on the alert. He didn’t trust the quiet serenity of the Tennessee forest. It reminded him too much of the lush jungles of Cambodia and Northern Vietnam, where tranquility reigned…until you screwed up and brushed a trip wire or put your foot in a pit of dung-smeared pungi sticks.
The only equipment Khiem carried other than his rifle, knife, and radio was a black nylon bag with a Yin-Yang sign embroidered on the flap. It was his “Kung Fu” bag, as his fellow mercs called it. Khiem had spent his youth fighting in the wilds of Cambodia, but most of his adult life had been spent traveling and studying throughout the Orient, where he had become interested in the martial arts. He was an avid disciple of the great masters and had trained in karate, judo, and aikido. He was also proficient with a number of Oriental weapons. No matter what sort of military operation Hendrix planned or what area of the globe they traveled to, Khiem was never without his black bag. The compact arsenal of shuriken, throwing spikes, and nunchucks had proven invaluable in the past. In fact, it had saved his life more than once—both in the chaos of the battlefield and in the seamy bars of Singapore and Hong Kong.
“Look sharp,” he called to his men. He checked his wristwatch and found that they had thirty minutes until they rendezvoused with the other teams at the northern side of the peak. He studied the dense forest suspiciously, failing to be taken in by its deceptive peacefulness. “Remember, we have a two-legged threat somewhere in the area.”
“I haven’t seen a blasted thing so far, mate,” called Becker. “I think the so-called threat is greatly exaggerated.”
Khiem was about to tell the Aussie to be on guard anyway when he saw the man disappear right before his eyes. Something dark and shiny snaked up from out of the undergrowth, grabbing the soldier’s legs and dragging him beneath the knee-deep covering of kudzu and honeysuckle. Becker didn’t even have time to cry out. He unleashed an erratic burst from his Heckler & Koch, and then vanished from view. A second later a loud noise echoed from the thrashing tangle of ivy where Becker had been standing a moment before. It had the crisp report of a gunshot, but everyone in the vicinity knew it to be of a much more sinister nature.
Crack!
Several men who had witnessed the puzzling incident made a move to check it out. “Hold your positions!” ordered Khiem. He stared at the spot fifty feet ahead of him, but the blanket of dense ivy had healed itself. He couldn’t even tell where the man had been pulled under.
“What the hell?” cried a soldier named Pike. Khiem shot his gaze to the left as the man struggled with something that had hold of his boot. Once again, that glistening black tendril snaked from out of the vegetation and found its victim. It tugged the man under like the suckered arm of an octopus dragging an unwary fisherman to the ocean’s bottom. And as with Becker, there came a brittle crack, forceful and deadly in its finality.
“There is something under the ivy,” he told the remaining seven, trying to abate any panic that might be forming in their minds. “If you spot any movement beneath the undergrowth, aim carefully and fire.”
“But what if we hit Becker and Pike by mistake?” asked an Irishman named O’Donnell.
“Becker and Pike are dead,” he told them flatly. He didn’t have to explain his reason for that determination. They had all heard the awful shattering of bone and had come to the same conclusion.
The undergrowth stirred to the right, drawing a volley of gunfire from the four soldiers that stood there. The bullets seemed to have no effect, though. The ivy rippled like a dark green wave as the thing beneath it rushed forward. They continued to fire, even as the creature seized them. Their guns lifted skyward, firing aimlessly into the tree tops, as four dark tendrils emerged from the lush carpet, wrapping around the waists of the mercenaries and dragging them, cursing and screaming, underneath.
Khiem and the others stood there for a horrifying moment, awaiting the inevitable. It came an instant later. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
Franco, one of the last of the three on the right, lost his nerve. “Where is it? Where is the rotten son of a bitch?” He fired a short burst from his M-16 into the undergrowth around him. The other two, Weinberg and Swenson, backed away from the panicked soldier, trying to keep some distance between their feet and his bullets. They were so involved with Franco’s wild gunplay that they neglected to see the dark tendrils until they were wrapped around their legs. They went the way of the others and suffered the same horrible fate.
“Chill out, Franco!” Khiem yelled. “Whatever the thing is, it can be killed.”
But the merc was past rationality. He ran through the forest, eyes wild, firing hysterically at the slightest movement or noise beneath the dense ivy. Soon, his assault rifle had spent its last round. Rather than reload with a fresh magazine, Franco drew his sidearm and blasted away at the kudzu with 9mm slugs.
“Stop it, Franco! You’re just wasting ammunition!” He watched as Franco continued to ignore him, firing his pistol until the port was empty and smoking. Then, as if waiting for the perfect moment, one of the tendrils emerged directly behind the exhausted soldier. Khiem opened his mouth to shout a warning, but before he could, the dark arm encircled Fr
anco’s throat. The Cambodian watched helplessly as the last man under his command was quickly dispatched, his neck broken with a single, sharp jerk, much like a farmer’s wife wringing the neck of a chicken.
Franco was then spirited away beneath the deep foliage, joining his comrades in an unmarked grave of dense ivy. Khiem acted immediately and without hesitation, shucking a fragmentation grenade from his flak vest and pitching it at the spot of Franco’s disappearance. It hit dead-center and detonated five seconds later in a flash of smoke and fire. Debris rained down—smoking bits of leaf and vine, as well as bloody pieces of Franco’s anatomy. But there were no mangled fragments of the dark creature. It looked as though the phantom attacker had escaped the exploding shrapnel unscathed.
Where are you, dark dragon? wondered Khiem. He reached for another grenade, planning to have one ready when the enemy revealed its position. But before he could, the rattle of parting ivy sounded directly behind him. He whirled just as a writhing trio of tendrils emerged. They grabbed at him, blindly groping for the column of his neck. One ripped away the front of his flak vest, while another jerked the AK-47 from his hands and flung it into the forest. The third arm grappled with his black bag, but Khiem wasn’t about to part with it so easily. The bag ripped open as the two struggled for its possession. The creature came away the victor, but Khiem lucked out, grabbing the nunchucks before the dark tendril retreated back into the undergrowth.
Khiem kept his eyes glued to the spot; using every bit of discipline he could muster to drive away the creeping panic that threatened to turn him into a careless victim like the rest. He threw away the remaining shreds of the flak vest and focused himself for battle. As he prepared for the attack to come, he heard a peculiar sound come from beneath the ivy. He puzzled over the noise for a moment, before realizing that it was the sound of pages being turned. He remembered the karate and mercenary magazines in the inner pocket of his vest and an illogical idea came to mind—the preposterous idea that the creature was somehow reading the magazines within the shelter of its dark concealment. But that was impossible. The thing that had seized his men and snapped their necks, one by one, was not human. It was some nightmarish beast that should not even exist on the same realm as man—some dark ogre totally devoid of mind or soul.
Or was it? Perhaps the brute that had terminated Yellow Team was much craftier than he was willing to give it credit for.
The ruffling of paper stopped. Khiem didn’t let his guard down. His senses took in the slightest sound and the smallest motion beneath the thick ivy. Then another sound took the place of the first. It was a loud crackling noise, reminiscent of the fireworks of a Hong Kong street festival. The image of a dragon came to mind once again, but not one constructed of multicolored crepe and a dozen dancing men. No, the dragon he envisioned was one of pitch blackness, bristling with horns and talons and fangs, breathing smoky black fire.
The strange sound reached a disturbing crescendo, then stopped abruptly. Khiem braced himself, holding the long sticks of the nunchucks, one in each hand, the silver chain stretched tautly in between. He watched as a pair of dark hands emerged from the leafy undergrowth, a pair of recognizably human hands. They peeled back the upper layer of heavy vine and a form clad entirely in black stood erect no more than twelve feet away. Khiem gaped at this dark adversary with an expression of utter bewilderment and disbelief.
The foe who confronted him was a ninja warrior. The man was the same height and lithe build as Khiem, and was dressed in the classic black uniform of a Japanese assassin. The costume was authentic in every detail, from the snug hood to the split-toed Tabi boots. Above the half-mask was a ghastly gray face with almond-shaped eyes as dark as black marbles.
The ninja bowed courteously, and out of habit of training, Khiem returned the gesture. The mercenary watched warily as the assassin raised his hands, producing two shuriken as mysteriously as a magician conjures coins from midair. Khiem recognized the throwing stars as those from his black bag. In turn, he showed his prowess with the linked fighting sticks. He demonstrated his kata, handling the nunchucks fluidly and without error, letting them swing over his shoulders, under his arms, then back and forth from one hand to the other. Satisfied that he was ready for the dark warrior, Khiem made the offensive move forward, giving the war cry and brandishing his weapon with lethal speed and accuracy.
The hands of the ninja flashed, launching the shuriken at conflicting angles. Khiem deflected the first with a sweeping blow of the nunchucks, but the second star broke through his defenses. The shuriken struck him in the left shoulder, the razored points slicing deeply into skin and muscle. He restrained a curse—anger would only be hazardous to himself at that point—and calmly plucked the star away. He continued his advance, whipping the fighting sticks in swift, crisscross patterns, trying to throw a degree of uncertainty and apprehension into his enemy.
But the ninja was unimpressed. He waited until Khiem was directly upon him and then dodged like greased black lightning as the deadly sticks missed his skull by mere inches. He played the game of duck and weave for a moment or so and then tired of the defense. Like a striking cobra, the dark assassin lashed out and grabbed one of the spiraling rods as it flashed toward him. He wrenched with such strength that the other stick was torn from Khiem’s grip. The black eyes of the ninja sparkled as he held the twin sticks out at arm’s length and, with a quick and effortless wrench, snapped the silver chain in half.
Khiem was shaken, but only for a second. Then he crouched instinctively and spun, bringing his right leg around for a powerful roundhouse kick. The edge of his foot struck the ninja across the midsection. The desired effect was not what Khiem had hoped for. His lower leg shattered on impact, breaking in a dozen places. Khiem was gripped with agony, but as he fell, he shot the flattened palm of his left hand up at a deadly angle, aiming to strike the base of the assassin’s nose and send splinters of cartilage and bone spearing into his brain. Again his tactics backfired. The bones of his hand crumbled and collapsed within their glove of flesh. Khiem opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was so great that only a tortured wheeze escaped his throat.
He hit the ground and lay there, staring up as the right hand of the hellish assassin doubled. The sound of crackling came again and, with it, a long, iron-gray blade unsheathed itself from the hollow of the fist. Khiem identified the length and design of the sword instantly—a straight-edged katana, the customary weapon of the Japanese warrior. Its gray edge glimmered in the sunlight that sparkled through the treetops, exhibiting its razor sharpness.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” growled Khiem, furious in his agony and anger. “If you’re going to do it, do it right!”
The ninja bowed once more, and then brought his sword flashing downward. It whickered through the air with a faint whistle, and then just as swiftly, returned to its original position, coated with a thin sheen of crimson.
Nguyen Khiem felt himself spinning. At first he thought that he was rolling out of harm’s way and that the ninja’s sword had missed its mark. But he found that he was sorely mistaken. As his head came to rest in the soft bed of honeysuckle and kudzu, the Cambodian glimpsed his twitching body lying a few feet away, the neck cleanly severed, spouting a geyser of blood. As consciousness faded swiftly toward darkness, Khiem watched as the ninja lowered his black mask. The true face was revealed and it was his own. The ebony eyes regarded him with cold triumph, before the crackling began again and the dark warrior vanished from his sight forever.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Blue Team had been on edge ever since they heard the explosion on the western face of the mountain. All the team leaders had been given strict orders to confine their force to small arms fire so as not to draw attention to the secret operation that was in progress. But something must have gone wrong during Yellow Team’s deployment. Desmond Jamal had tried to summon Khiem on his radio, but all he got was unresponsive static.
They continued with their own climb, crossing th
e southern access road and moving steadily upward. The forest was now unusually quiet and devoid of animal life, in contrast to what they had found during the first half of their journey. No one talked as they pressed onward, guns ready and eyes alert for signs of movement.
The silence was so complete that the soldiers nearly jumped out of their skins when a loud commotion came from a short distance ahead. They halted and listened to the sound of unbridled fury. Something was in the camp that had been set up during the surveying stage of Project Pale Dove. They heard the sound of breaking glass and buckling metal, along with the hoarse bellows of the creature that was responsible for the ruckus. Jamal felt his heartbeat quicken at the sound, for the thunderous cries were unnervingly familiar to him, teasing a boyhood fear that still lingered in his African mind.
“Let’s check it out,” he called to his men, and together they continued up the southern face. “But be careful. Something up there is madder than a baboon with its ass on fire.”
When they reached the camp, they found the place in ruins. Only one of the three trailers stood upright and intact. The other two were caved in, their metal siding riddled with deep dents and long, jagged tears. The contents and furnishings of the trailers lay scattered across the ground, smashed and broken with deliberate malice.
“Spread out and search the area,” ordered Jamal. “I want to know what it was that caused all this damage.”
They split up and began to move through the devastated camp. Jamal walked through the center of the jumbled clearing, his dark hands clutching an Uzi submachine gun. As his men quietly picked their way amid the rubble, Jamal spotted a deep track in the middle of the camp, next to the battered remains of a gasoline generator. He knelt and studied it. It was a huge, circular track, bearing the indentations of three stubby toes. He had seen such tracks before, but it had been many years ago, back on the hot grasslands of Rhodesia. Again, the thrill of childish alarm shot through him, conjuring images of brutal death lumbering through the sweltering African sun. This is insane, he told himself. Such a beast couldn’t possibly be here. It’s just a trick to throw us off guard.
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