The Warlord w-1

by Jason Frost

  The Warlord

  ( Warlord - 1 )

  Jason Frost

  Jason Frost

  The Warlord

  Book One: INFERNO

  Abandon all hope, ye who enter here

  . -Dante

  1.

  Someone was in the house.

  Eric Ravensmith opened his eyes and sat up, wide awake. He glanced at the Sony digital on the bedside table, the glowing blue numbers the only thing visible in the dark room. 3:18 A.M.

  Annie stirred next to him, scooting her naked backside under the covers until she touched his hip. Then she settled with a comforted sigh, still asleep. She often claimed that unless some part of her was touching him, she couldn't sleep. That's why she insisted they always sleep naked, no matter how cold it got. Skin touching skin, she said, that's what's important. But sometimes Eric suspected her real reason for wanting such close contact was so she could monitor his nightmares which, for some unexplainable reason, were lately coming with greater frequency. Yet, whenever he bolted awake from one, his skin cold and clammy, his mouth panting wildly, she'd be next to him, making soothing noises and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the corner of the sheet.

  For a moment, Eric wondered if this was just another of his nightmares.

  He remained motionless, his eyes adjusting to the dark, his ears straining for another sound. Anything that would determine whether someone was really in the house, or if he'd just slipped out of a groggy dream.

  There it was again!

  A faint creak on the stairs. A heavy shoe brushing plush carpet.

  Eric's heart banged against hard ribs. An icy gush of adrenalin spurted through his stomach like a burst waterline. The sudden rush of energy made him nauseous. It had been too many years since he'd slept with one eye open, his ear suctioned to the ground, his hand clutching a.45 automatic with the safety latch permanently filed off. Those were the things he'd been trying to forget.

  He lifted the electric blanket, the first item they'd charged at Sears immediately after they were married. Annie had insisted a joint credit card was more binding than any wedding vows. A gust of cool night air swept against his legs, rustling the dark hair on his body. Annie murmured a sleepy protest, wiggled her backside, but didn't wake. Eric slid his legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor. Carefully he eased himself to his feet, not wanting to awaken Annie. Or alert the intruder.

  Maybe it's just one of the kids, he reasoned. Timmy stealing some Sara Lee cheesecake and Hawaiian Punch, which Eric bought for the kids over Annie's nutritional protests. Or maybe it was Jennifer, hunting quietly through the cupboards and closets, anxiously searching for the birthday present Eric had hidden for her party next week. He always bought two: one she could eventually find, and a second with which to surprise her. A father-daughter game that he looked forward to each year, almost more than she did.

  But no. It wasn't the kids. He recognized the type of movement, the sinister intent. He should. He'd used it often enough himself, taught how many others to do the same thing. The way Hopi chief Big Bill Tenderwolf had taught him. Cat dancing, Big Bill had called it with his great booming laugh. That's what Eric remembered most about his years with the Hopis, how much they laughed, how little they had to laugh about.

  Somebody was coming closer and closer, trying hard not to be heard. Ordinarily he wouldn't have been. The distant creak wouldn't have been noticed, or would have been shrugged off as the house settling. A soft brush of shoe against carpet? Only the wind sifting through eucalyptus trees. All quite innocent.

  Except Eric was expecting them. He hadn't realized that until just this moment. But, yes, he'd been expecting them for quite some time now. For twelve years, since the court-martial. It was inevitable. Like nightmares.

  Eric slipped over to the window, looked down to see if there was a backup squad outside. The full moon glinted off his long thin scar, made it look like a lightning bolt flashing down his cheek and neck. He ducked back into the shadows, studied his unkempt yard for movement. It was the only lawn in the neighborhood that always needed cutting, because Eric was the only one in the neighborhood who refused to either hire a gardener or buy a mower. Gary Thompson, the dentist next door, had pleaded to send his own gardener over at no cost, but Eric had refused, claiming that long grass kept the dogs from shitting in his yard. "Long grass tickles their ass," he'd recite deadpan. Whenever Eric thought the lawn was out of hand, he packed up Annie and the kids and took them away for the weekend. When they came back, their lawn was always clipped, the bushes trimmed, the weeds pulled.

  He couldn't see anyone down there, but that didn't mean anything. Dirk Fallows could have hidden a dozen fully equipped men in a single tree for a week and no one would have seen them.

  Another creak on the stairs. Barely audible. Like a grasshopper being snapped in half. The intruder was halfway up now, taking it slowly, carefully. A few more moments and he'd be on the second floor. But would he go for the children's room first, or would Fallows be satisfied just killing Eric?

  A weapon. Eric glanced furiously around the room, evaluating and dismissing various objects, studying each for its potential to cripple or kill. The old instincts rushing back. Certainly whoever was creeping up the stairs this moment had a weapon, something sophisticated. That was Fallows' style. Only the best would do. And he could get it too, from any where in the world. The newest, the deadliest.

  But Eric had long ago made a house rule, a command really, that no weapons would be brought into his home. He didn't mind the kids playing cowboys or cops or Robin Hood with their toy guns and bows, but no real weapons. He didn't like the tension they caused, the constant feeling of being under siege their mere presence evoked. He'd lived with that feeling long enough. He wanted to trust for a change. Trust his neighborhood, his town, his community. He'd destroyed his own guns, the relics of his past life. The knives, daggers, bayonets, throwing stars, garrotes, razor-edged belt buckles-all melted down. The holsters and military webbing he'd given to his brother-in-law, who handled costumes for the local community playhouse. The last time he'd seen his precious.45 holster, it was inappropriately strapped to a sailor in their production of Mister Roberts.

  Only his longbow survived, a sentimental gift from Big Bill Tenderwolf. He'd had it for almost twenty years now, though it had been at least two since he'd actually shot it. He didn't even think of it as a weapon anymore. It was more. Much more. But it was hanging in the garage, right next to the fishing rods and tennis racquets and ping-pong paddles.

  Now he had nothing. Not even a pocket knife.

  He glanced at the doorknob. Watched it slowly turning. Turning.

  2.

  Ten seconds from death.

  That's how long Eric figured it would take the intruder to finish quietly turning the knob. Once open he would lift gently on the knob, tilting the door upwards to avoid any squeaks from the hinges, then ease himself into the bedroom. The gun, probably a small automatic fitted with a sound suppressor, would suddenly swing around and start spraying the bed with a hailstorm of silenced bullets. They'd make light popping sounds, like a dropped soap bar echoing in a shower stall. Annie's body would jerk and flop as the bullets punched out hunks of soft flesh, still smelling of Oil of Olay, her nightly ritual to ward off this year's big crisis: her thirty-fifth birthday. The mattress, which they'd been talking about replacing for months, would be shredded, and the sheets, factory seconds bought at the local swap meet, would be splattered with warm blood, bits of sticky organs still twitching. Afterwards, the gunman would probably pay a similar visit to the children's room before slipping out again to report everything to Dirk Fallows. Subjects neutralized. Mission completed. And Fallows would slap the man on the back, run a hand through h
is prematurely white hair, and grin like a new buzz saw hungry for more wood.

  Eric stood in the middle of the room, his naked body frozen in place. He stared vacantly at the turning doorknob as if in a trance. For once he understood what paralyzed the field mouse as it watched the cobra hunching over it. Not fear really, but fascination. Curiosity. The temptation to be a willing participant in your own death. To observe it even as you experienced it. No more nightmares. No more waiting for Fallows.

  But that wasn't Eric's way. He loved life too much, and not just his own, but Annie's and the kids'. Everything was finally coming together for them. The job as assistant professor of history at the university, something far removed from the savage life he used to lead. Annie's classes at law school, just two months short of graduation. And they'd made lots of friends since moving to southern California. Sailing with the Carmichaels. Their monthly poker game, in which Annie usually won more than he did. Good schools. Some indication that twelve-year-old Timmy may be a chess prodigy. Fourteen-year-old Jennifer's braces almost ready to come off, boys' names etched carefully on her notebook.

  They deserved better than having their lives stolen by Dirk Fallows.

  Eric felt his lean muscles tighten, almost ripple with concentration as he quickly found what he'd been looking for. Back against the wall was his set of barbells, a Father's Day gift from the kids bought with money they'd actually saved, the first time they hadn't asked for a six-month advance on their allowance. If for no other reason than that, the gift was special. When he'd unwrapped it, he'd looked at Annie first, who'd laughed her whooping crane laugh and shrugged elaborately.

  "Just what are you trying to tell me, guys?"

  "Well, Daddy," Jennifer had said, "you have been getting a little pot belly lately."

  "Yeah, Dad," Timmy had nodded. "You're starting to pork out. What happened to all your muscles?"

  In fact, Eric Ravensmith was practically solid muscle. His arms were long and sinewy, his legs bronzed bulges, his chest lanky but hard. True, his stomach, once flat and rippled, like the top of a six-pack, had begun to puff a little lately, the ridges slightly less defined. But Eric was pleased about that. He was purposely cultivating a little pouch, which he hoped would someday bloom into fleshy love handles around his waist. Not real fat, just a hint of the easy middle-class life of his neighbors. No more need to stay hard and alert.

  Quietly, but with sharp easy movements, Eric bent over, twirled loose the setscrews on each end of the bar, and slid off the weights he'd used only twice, both times under the stern supervision of his children. He hefted the black bar to waist level, balancing its fifteen pounds of solid metal. It would do.

  The doorknob had stopped turning. The door was opening.

  Eric moved lightly across the floor, dodging around the corner of the small entranceway that boxed the door. If the intruder was properly trained, and there was every indication he was, he was pressed against the wall outside the door, his right hand holding the gun next to his face, his left hand turning the knob. That way if the intended victim saw the door opening and started blasting away, the intruder was still protected. There'd only be a second or two when the intruder would be exposed on the other side of the door. Eric waited, sniffed the faint sour smell of fresh gun oil.

  The door opened further, slowly creeping wider. Six inches. Eight. A foot.

  Then it stopped.

  Eric jumped out from behind the corner, swung the six-foot-long bar straight back as far as he could, then thrust it forward like a battering ram with all his 175 pounds behind it. It exploded through the cheap plywood door, through one side and out the other, spraying splinters and chips of white paint. Then it hit something solid.

  "Ooomph!"

  And the sickening sound of bones cracking. Ribs, from the sound of them, Eric thought, shoving the metal bar even harder. Twisting it roughly.

  Annie leaped out of bed, staggered a moment as the blood rushed dizzily to her head. "Christ, Eric! What are you doing?" She snapped on the bedside lamp, knuckling her eyes. "This is a hell of a time to lift weights."

  Eric yanked the bar back through the shattered door and flung it to the carpet where it landed with a heavy thud before clanging up against the dresser. Reaching around the door, he grabbed a handful of curly, greasy hair and jerked the injured man into the bedroom.

  Surprised, in pain, and off-balance, the man tumbled into the room, his gun still out in the hall where he'd dropped it. He was dressed in jeans, black high-top sneakers, plaid flannel shirt, and black windbreaker. Twenty-three at most.

  The windbreaker and shirt were torn where the bar had crushed the ribs, and some blood was oozing out. The kid was breathing heavily, but with a raspy echo, as if the air was leaking out somewhere. He was on one knee now, easing the long hunting knife from under his pant leg,

  "Mom?" Jennifer's sleepy voice drifted down the hall.

  "Eric?" Annie said, standing naked and unembarrassed next to the bed.

  "Go see to the kids," Eric said. "I'll handle this."

  "Don't move, lady," the kid said, shuffling forward in a crouch. The knife waved back and forth in front of him.

  Eric crouched too, his hands open, constantly moving.

  The kid jabbed tentatively and Eric danced out of the way. "Pretty good," the kid grinned, a film of sweat glistening on his upper lip. "But they said you would be." The kid chuckled, started coughing a racking cough, doubled over. Eric, hoping to take advantage, rushed closer.

  Suddenly the kid straightened up and lunged at Eric, the heavy knife slicing air with a menacing whistle. Eric pulled back too quickly, almost falling. His arms windmilled a couple times before he regained enough balance to sidestep another thrust. The kid had suckered him with a fake coughing spell, and he'd bought it. Almost permanently.

  The kid looked annoyed with himself for having expended so much precious energy and missing. He winced at the pain in his chest, pressed a bloody hand against the wound. More blood seeped between his fingers. He sighed, which sounded as if something loose was rattling inside of him.

  "Mom," Timmy called from somewhere in the hall. "What's all the noise?"

  "Timmy," Annie shouted, "you stay right there! Don't come any closer!"

  "Get out of here," Eric snapped at her. "Take the kids and run."

  "Like hell," she said and, grabbing two fistfuls of blanket, jerked it off the bed and tried to fling it over the kid with the knife.

  However, the electric cord attached to the blanket kept it from going very far, and it collapsed in a deflated heap over the edge of the bed.

  But the distraction was enough. When the kid turned at Annie's movements, Eric managed to snap his heel into the kid's knee, felt the kneecap buckle, the fragile bone crunching as it disintegrated. As the kid sagged, Eric drove his elbow into the kid's temple, at the same time grabbing his wrist and twisting until the knife plopped to the carpet. Afterwards he gave an extra twist until the wrist snapped too.

  Annie ran forward and snatched the knife from the floor, ready to plunge it into the kid's heart should Eric need any help. "You okay?"

  Eric looked at her standing next to him, naked, mussed long hair hanging to her hips, a hunting knife clutched in her hand. She looked… formidable. He smiled. "I'm fine. Better see to the kids."

  "Right," she nodded, heading for the door. As an afterthought she snagged her robe from the clothes tree and slipped it on.

  "That was some little trick there," Eric said.

  "What?"

  "Throwing the blanket that way. Like a bullfighter or something."

  She shrugged. "I forgot about the cord. It missed him by three feet."

  "That was close enough."

  "You weren't so bad yourself, tough guy," she grinned, her hand pressed against her chest. "My heart feels like it's going to jump out of my mouth. I'd better call the police."

  "Not yet."

  "Why?"

  "Just get the kids tucked in first. Wait twenty mi
nutes, then call them."

  "Eric?" She sounded frightened.

  "I want to ask him some questions first."

  "What kind of questions, Eric? He's just a lousy burglar, for Christ's sake."

  "Maybe."

  She looked at him. "You're starting to scare me."

  Eric stared at the kid writhing on the floor. "Get some of that Woolite rug cleaner. He's bleeding on the carpet."

  She stepped into the hall, came back a few seconds later carrying a gun. She handed it to Eric. "Will you need this?"

  He recognized it as a Ruger RST-4.22 with an AWC sound suppressor attached. "I might." He looked down at the kid. "It depends on him."

  The kid stared back, the pain forgotten for a moment. Replaced by fear.

  3.

  The first thing Fisher noticed about Eric was the scar.

  The way it snaked up out of the collar of his shirt like a thin, white vine, clung along the edge of his jaw a few inches, then bloomed into a sunburst pattern just below the right cheek. Like a dandelion ironed to the skin. It was almost pretty, Fisher thought. Almost.

  Fisher forced his eyes up from the scar into Eric's eyes. That was worse. The eyes were a flat reddish-brown, like his girlfriend's hair after she put that henna shit on it. Fisher's hand automatically grazed the butt of his S amp;W.38 bolstered to his hip.

  "Name?" he asked, his voice louder than he'd wanted.

  Eric glanced at Fisher's plastic name tag, then into his eyes. Since the night that punk had invaded his home eight weeks ago, Eric scrutinized everything. Everyone. "Haven't seen you before."

  Fisher studied Eric's clothes. Expensive, but not flashy. He rated a sir. "No, sir. First day."

  "Where's Trumball?"

  "Gus picked up some kind of bug. Flu, I think. Hong Kong or Singapore or one of those kind that sound more like a vacation than a disease."