by Rob Buckman
"MAX! MAX! Back off." Mike crawled over and tried to get a hand on Max’s fur, but it was impossible the way he was tied. All he got was a few strands of fur. "Max! Get off. Stop!" Mike yelled, swiveling around he wrapped his legs around Max's body and tried to wiggle backwards. It worked, but he got bitten in the process. Max looked at this new attacker and, seeing Mike, stopped. Mike let go and rolled away. Max backed up until his butt pushed up against Mike’s chest, but his hackles were still up and his lips drawn back, exposing a formidable set of teeth.
"For Christ sake, keep him off of me." Bonner shouted, nursing a bloody forearm. Bloody tissue showing through the ripped cloth.
"Give it up Bonner. Just lay the gun down and he'll be all right." Mike shouted.
"Shit! Why don't I just shoot the pair of you?"
"If you did that my friend, you'd still have his girl friend to take care of, and you're not good enough to take all three of us."
"Girl friend?" Bonner's head snapped round, this eyes darting from bush to bush trying to find her.
"Look behind you. Slowly!" Bonner did, not liking what he saw, not one damn bit. Maxine stood poised to attack right behind him. Either way, he was fucked.
"Shit!" Was all he could say. No man in his right mind is going to take on those odds.
"You can say that again sucker!" Charley's gravelly voice cut in.
"Move, and you're dead meat!" Bonner shook his head in disgust.
"For a man who is supposed to be a loner with no friends, you sure have a lot of strangers coming to your aid." Bonner had to laugh. Rolass Hawkins had read this the wrong way from the get go.
"What's so funny?" Mike asked.
"You. This whole mess. Rolass told us it would be an easy job, take you out quiet, with no fuss. Hell! We came up here for a quiet hit and ended up in the middle of a fucking war. That's what's funny." He laughed again, but it held little humor.
"I could have told the man that, but no one asked me. I'm just the resident Nigger around here. You know no one takes any notice of what we say." Charley Savage put in. That got them all laughing, yet why it should, no one could say, but it did. In the background, the firing went on unabated, turning the ranch house into a giant Swiss cheese.
"Anyone in there worth saving?" Mike asked, nodding towards the house.
"How the hell would I know? All the guys that came with me are either dead or in hospital somewhere." At this point Bonner couldn't care less. It was blown. There was no way he could get the money now. If he were lucky, they'd shoot him.
"Charley. Give us a minute will you." Mike asked.
"You sure?" He asked, looking skeptical. "You don't look like you're in any condition to go dancing."
"I'll be all right."
"Shit! Mother fuckers crazy!" he muttered, but did as asked. Bonner looked at him, then at the gun in his hand. Inclined to agree with Charley’s estimate of the situation.
"What the hell is that all about?" He nodded towards Charley's retreating form.
"Simple. You and I are going to have a talk that's all."
"You've got to be the balliest man I've ever met, or the craziest."
So they talked as the firing slowly died down and the last few men still alive raised their hand and surrendered. At last, Mike stepped from the bushes and walked over, the cuffs gone and Bonner nowhere to be seen. Charley looked around, but after a quick look at Mike's face made no comment. Pete Williams walked up then with sheriff Napa in tow, holding out his hand.
"Glad to see you again Mike." Nodding towards the house as he said it. "Just like old times,” he added.
Mike gripped his hand, grabbing him by the shoulder with the other. They stood there like that for a moment, each thinking his own thoughts, neither having to say a word. All they needed to say passed between them in the handshake, each putting his feelings into the grip. Sheriff Napa shuffled his feet, breaking the moment, holding out his hand. The look on his face said he was embarrassed, unsure how Mike would react.
"It looks as if I owe you an apology." He said as an opening comment.
"How come?" Mike asked pointedly ignoring the hand.
"Had a call from Washington, and it left no doubt as to which side you were on." He didn't need to elaborate. "I was told to give you a message." This time, he wasn't offended when Mike didn't shake hands.
"What’s the message?"
"If you need anything, call. Was all the man said. That make any sense to you?"
"Yes." He said without explanation. As they talked, half a dozen men, mostly wearing black jackets with 'FBI' in big gold letters stenciled on the back, rounded up the survivors and searched the house. One of the men in combat fatigues walked up, rifle pointed upwards over his shoulder.
"Mr. Grainger?" He asked, a broad smile on his tanned face.
"Who’s asking?"
"The names Murphy,” he said, drawing himself up, a note of respect in his voice.
"Thanks for pitching in." Mike said, offering his hand.
"Captain. Any time you need a little help, just call. I'll be there." Murphy took the hand, and shook.
"How come?" It was surprising to Mike to find this many people willing to jump in and help.
"You did me a favor once. A big favor, so let’s just say that this was a little repayment on account." Before Mike could say anything, Murphy held his hand up. "Ask Charley. He'll tell you."
"Thanks anyway." Mike said, holding his hand out again, eyeing Charley as he did. Murphy took it, gripping hard. With that, he stepped back and cut Mike a salute that came right out of the Marine Corps manual. Mike knew there was a bond between them; he just couldn't figure out what. Charley stood there grinning from ear to ear, looking at the sky.
"What now Mike?" He asked, after Murphy took off.
"I need to check on something." He said, motioning towards the demolished house.
Charley handed over the SA80, pulling a Browning pump action shotgun out of a holster behind his back. Jacking a round into the chamber, he and Pete Williams followed Mike into the house, climbing over the rubble of the outer wall. Two men wearing FBI jackets nodded as they walked past, returning to the job of checking the bodies. The ballroom was a mess, with shattered glass everywhere and wall fixtures hanging by their wires. Mike and Charley walked across the dim interior, glass crunching under their boots. Passing into the main part of the house they found little or no damage, Mike immediately flicked on a light, relieved to find the power still on. Walking quickly to the conference room, he kicked the door open, panning the room with his weapon, just in case. It was empty.
“Hey Mike, look what I found hiding in a closet.” Murphy called, dragging Edward Mason into the room by the scruff of his neck. He threw him onto the floor at Mike’s feet.
“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”
“Please… I had nothing to do with…”
“Shut up. Tell me where Roland Hawkins is?”
“I… I… I don’t know.” He stuttered.
“Then you’re no good to me.” Saying that, Mike placed the tip of the SA80 against his forehead.
“Please… noooo.”
“Dial the number to where ever that video call came from.” Edward scuttled over the desk and grabbing the phone and started dialing.
"Anyone got a cigarette?" Mike asked. The aftermath started to hit him as the adrenalin rush passed. Now came the hard thump of hitting bottom, and the shakes. Charley fished a 'Black root' cheroot out of his pocket, handing it to Mike.
"Thought you might be able to use one of these." He grinned as he passed it over. "Found some in a store in town."
"Thanks Charley." Mike lit the smoke from an offered match, sucking the fragrant smoke into his lungs. It helped, boosting his flagging spirits, as he sat on the edge of the table. At length Edward handed him the phone. As he did, the giant screen at the end of the room flicked into life. It wasn't until the connection was made and someone picked up the phone that a picture came on.
"Yes." A surly looking man asked.
"Tell Rolass, I want to speak to him." Mike snapped. The man looked up, surprise written across his face. It was apparent he hadn't expected a picture on his screen nor expected to see Mike.
"What?" He stammered.
"You heard me, asshole! Get Rolass in here, now!" The man dropped the phone, backing away, turning, and ran from the room. Two minutes later Roland Hawkins rushed into the room, staring wide eyed at the screen.
"Hello, asshole."
"What... how... you’re dead!?" He stammered.
"Not yet, but you are going to wish I was. Where is she?"
"Who...where is who?" Roland Hawkins’ mind refused to work, unable to connect the fact Mike Grainger was alive and the question he was asking. At last it did, his face darkening in fury. "Somewhere you will never find her!!!" He screamed, backing away from the apparition before him.
"You'd better hope for your sake that I do. If not, you die slowly, very slowly." Mike leaned forward towards the camera. "Tell me where she is, and you die quick." There was something terrible, monstrous before him, and Roland Hawkins could only stand there, his back to the wall, unable to move. He watched in horror as Mike walked slowly towards the camera until his face filled the screen.
"You're dead Hawkins. You don't know it, but you are." Like twin gun barrels, Mike's Arctic green eyes bored into Roland Hawkins soul. "From now on you are living on borrowed time. Don't go to sleep, because I will be there. Wherever you go I will find you, even if it's in hell." Roland Hawkins lunged forward, finally breaking the spell. With clenched fist, he beat on the tabletop, pounding out his fury.
"No you won’t Grainger! I'll going to have you skinned alive, you piece of dog shit. I will track you down and make you wish you'd never been born." Spittle dribbled down his chin as he scream at the screen in fury and terror.
Mike laughed then, backing away from the camera, but there was no humor in it. Even Charley felt a chill go down his spine. If this man could do half of what Pete and Murphy said he could do, Hawkins was as good as dead.
"Don't walk away from me you half breed savage!" Roland Hawkins screamed. Nobody laughed at him, nobody. "I'm going to hunt you down and kill you like a mangy dog! Before I'm finished with you I'll have you begging for mercy..." Without warning the phone went dead, yet Mike's laughter still echoed round the room.
Pete Williams had simply dropped the phone back on the hook, cutting the connection. He let out a shuddering breath, suspecting what was coming next. Mike was on the warpath and nothing on heaven or earth could stop him. They thought they had dead bodies now, but it was nothing compared to what was coming. He walked slowly from the room, bleakly contemplating the future.
"Where to now Mike?" Charley asked, as they left the house.
"Home Charley. I've got something to take care of."
"My Pickup is right over there, behind those trees." As Mike sat down in the truck, he felt the steam go out of him. He knew he was close to the end of his tether. Charley climbed into the other side and took off towards Mike's place, knowing that's where he wanted to go.
"How did they get her Charley?" He asked at length.
"I fucked up man. That's all." He snapped, emotion warring inside of him.
"Tell me what happened?" Mike suspected that something bad had happened, but not what.
"Let it lie. Let’s just say they took her." The note in Charley's voice told him the truth.
"How bad is Ruth hurt Charley?" Charley swallowed, tears prickling in the corner of his eyes.
"Bad." Was the only word he could say.
"You followed me to the jail didn't you?"
"Hell yes." He snapped back. Fearing Mike would tell him he'd been wrong. "That has nothing to do with it. Either way they'd have taken her.
"Only over your dead body." Mike said, knowing it was the truth.
"Don't think about it. You've got to concentrate on getting Kat back, and killing this son of bitch."
"Will Ruth make it Charley?" He asked, seeing Charley shaking his head. Saying nothing, a tear glittered in the corner of his eye.
"I don't know. The last time I checked, she was in surgery,” he said at last.
"Get me a vehicle and go to the hospital."
"No!" He said doggedly, pulling the car onto the road. "There's nothing I can do there so I might as well take you home." Mike could see he was hurting, but knew nothing he could say would change Charley's mind.
An hour later Mike sat in the communications room of his house checking satellite timetables, finding one that just matched if he hurried. He punched in the code numbers to align the parabolic antenna. Then dialed up the right frequency, kicking in the scrambler.
"This is 'Sunray Five', connect please." Once, twice, three times he tried before they came on.
"Sunray Five. This is central. What is your message?"
"Put the Boss on."
"You know better than that Sunray Five. What is your message?"
"Tell his highness to get his ass on the line. You've got exactly six minutes to call me back." If he weren’t on by then, two minutes later the satellite would be out of range. He ignored the frantic message trying to get him back and went to get a cup of coffee.
"If the chief shithead comes on while I'm out, call me,” he said to Charley on his way out.
"Yes, sir." Even in his present mood, that brought a smile to Charley's craggy face. "I do like the way that man talks. Yes, sir." He sat down in the chair, admiring Mike's view, now understanding his fascination with this place. "Hell. If I had a view like that I'd never want to leave here either." He also knew that Mike was calling CIA headquarters at Langley.
"Sunray Five. This is Central One, come in please."
"Ah, the man himself. Hey, Mike! His highness is on the blower." Mike dashed back into the room and grabbed the handset.
"This is Sunray, go."
"You name it, you've got it."
"The location of the following number. An aircraft out of Denver tonight for whatever destination it's at. Plus an 'A' team who can follow orders."
"Don't want much do you."
"I could ask for your ass,” he said. "I need this as fast as you can get me there.
"Point taken. What is the number?" Mike gave him the number he called at the house. "Wait one." That minute felt like an hour, yet Mike knew it couldn't. They only had about one minute left.
"Can do but will have to stay below Mach numbers all the way to destination. Can you tell me what this is all about?"
"I'll tell later. Thanks." The director didn't bother to answer, just cut the connection.
With nothing to do but wait, Mike went down to the weapons room and put together a pack, then took a shower but he couldn't eat, so settled for another cup of coffee instead. Max came in, but sensed Mike's mood, and simply lay down by the fire and watched him. Darkness fell and Mike took a walk, restless, wanting to do something to take his mind off Kat and what was happening to her. His steps took him across the meadow and, at last he stood on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the night shrouded landscape. Here and there in the distance, lights could be seen, some from outlying buildings around Peregrine Creek, others from places near Interstate 70. Tonight there was nothing warm, friendly or inviting about them as when he'd looked at them in the past. Now the pools of light were cold, distant, alien, emphasizing the loneliness Mike felt inside. He realized then that Kat Ballard filled a hole in his soul that he didn't know was there until now and the thought of losing her as he had his mother and father filled him with dread. Without him realizing it, his heart had taken a left turn when he wasn't looking and now it belonged to Kat Ballard and he swore on the graves of his ancestors that he would get her back or die in the attempt. Now, at last he laid the memory of his parents to rest, whispering a soft good-by to the star-shot heavens above. He would never forget them for as long as he lived nor the love they’d given him. Then he did something he'd never done bef
ore. Slowly kneeling, he sang his death song, chanting the ancient words to the dark void and the four winds, finally understanding their true meaning. His grandfather would be pleased that he remembered the words, and was now able to sing the song. Now it was time to go on the warpath. He sat there for an hour after that, thinking back over his life, the road had been long with too many lonely nights but the promise in Kat Ballard's lips meant that those would soon be a thing of the past. She had accepted him for who and what he was and that was enough for him. Later he went to bed and for the first time in many years didn't even think about the nightmare of his parent’s death haunting his dreams. The next morning, he awoke, hot and feverish in a savage mood, alternating between shivering and sweats but that didn't stop him. Hot coffee and a 'Black root' didn't improve his disposition any and by 8 o'clock he practically ripped the phone off the wall and punched in the number for the 'Buckhorn' restaurant. It rang three times before Charley answered it.
"Is Pete there?" He asked, not even bothering with a greeting.
"Yeah, he's here having breakfast..."
"Put him on!" Mike snapped. Charley jerked the phone away from his ear and looked at it, grimacing, both eyebrows climbing up his forehead.
"Yes, sir." He answered softly, and placed the receiver on the counter.
"Pete! Mike's on the phone, and he doesn't sound like a happy camper this morning." Charley said softly as he walked over to Pete's table.
"Oh!" Pete said, looking up, getting a shrug in reply. Walking over he picked up the hand set. "Hi Mike, what's up?"
"Is Edward Mason still in the local jail?!"
"Yeah, he is..."
"Good. You need to transport him to Denver today," Mike cut in, "as there are no commercial flight you will need to charter a private aircraft, a de Havilland Twin Otter, License number Whisky Delta Tango 511. It will be in the ramp in one hour waiting for you, any questions?"
"No." Pete said without hesitation, hearing a click as he answered. Pete did the same as Charley, pulling the receiver away from his ear and looking at it.