by E. R. Mason
Chapter 12
Markman took a cab to Fishkin's designated meeting place on the outskirts of Manhattan. A high, gray-toned decorative wall separated his estate from a small park between the Hudson Parkway and the Deegan Expressway. There, a group of men in black suits with headphone communicators waited by their parked cars. They eyed Markman suspiciously as he pulled his gear from the taxi and paid the driver, who without speaking urged his yellow, checker-trimmed steed back into the wars of the city traffic.
Markman tucked his wallet back in his jeans. He adjusted the collar of his black, turtleneck T-shirt and pulled the strap of his pack over his shoulder. One of the earphone-clad men greeted him as he approached. The man seemed almost too young for the expensive suit he wore, but there was a deep scar on the left side of his face that suggested some very accelerated maturing.
"Mr. Julian?"
"Armed and ready."
"We would have provided you with a weapon, sir. Did you know that?"
"I'd prefer my own stuff, thanks. I have camouflage. Should I wear it?"
"Sir, I'm only allowed to tell you that you become an eligible target the instant you go over that wall. Your objective is to find and reach the main residence. If you travel too far to either side of the designated perimeter, you will see red flags. Do not go beyond them or you will be in someone else's fight. Head shots are permitted. Did you bring eye protection?"
"Yes."
"Head shots or hits to the main torso are considered mortal wounds. More than one hit to the arms or legs is considered debilitating. Either condition disqualifies you. That rope over there is your starting point. Any time you're ready, good luck."
With that, the man took two steps back in a gesture that implied no further information would be forthcoming. Markman headed between the parked cars and passed the group waiting nearby. They watched him with disconcerting interest. He hoped this was not a setup, that no real bullets would be encountered on the other side of the wall. In his right-hand pant's pocket, Dan Parrish's derringer nudged reassuringly.
At the wall's base, the fat brown rope came down barely to face level. The climb did not appear difficult. Markman pulled his goggles down over his forehead. The small, rolled up pack of camouflage clothing was easily attached to the front of his belt, with a small satchel of paintball ammunition tied next to it. He tested the rope with a few short tugs and made a quick note of the early morning sun's position relative to the wall and the shadows cast by it. With his rifle strapped in front, he gripped the line with both hands. One of the radio-equipped men behind him mumbled something into his mouthpiece as Markman jumped into the climb and started up, hand over hand.
At the top of the abrasive wall, he paused below the edge. He braced himself with one hand and glanced down at Fishkin's men. Their attention had peaked. It probably meant there was a sniper waiting on the other side. With his free hand, Markman gathered up the slack rope below him and tossed it over the wall. It would provide braking for a quick descent on the other side.
Gripping the rope with one hand, he pulled his goggles down over his face and hooked a leg over the top. With calculated indiscretion he yanked himself over and dropped down the other side, dragging his hands along the coarse line as he fell. Immediately, a rapid-fire popping sound came from somewhere in the distance, and red paintball bullets began to splatter against the wall in a trail that followed him down. Waist-high stalks of dead reed grass covered the landing area. At the last possible moment, He clenched the rope, slowing his crash, taking the brunt of it on his right side and back. He lay still on the cool ground and listened. Nothing. The aggressor had apparently decided against an overrun of the landing spot. A low, spontaneous laugh erupted from deep within Markman, as he noticed the laggard line of paintball marks leading down the gray wall. They had missed by no more than inches. Someone had intended to end the contest before it had started but had been caught off guard by his death defying dive.
The cool morning air remained silent except for the muffled sounds of distant city traffic. There was nothing to see but the fortress of tall grass and the hazy white-blue New York sky. Markman remained on his back, gathered his weapon and checked it over. No problems. He loosened the camouflage pack and listened. Keeping his hands low and his movements minimal, he wrestled into the pullover pants and green-brown shirt.
The paint marks on the wall had all splattered to the left and downward. He was parallel to the wall, his head pointing south. That put the first aggressor somewhere high and to the west-southwest. Two choices--crawl away from him or toward him. Do not head due west, the probable direction of the game's objective. In the game of chess, never do what the opponent wants until there is a large hole in the proper place for him to step into.
Markman rolled carefully onto his stomach and began a slow crawl to the south along the line of the estate wall, his weapon leading. He carefully parted the grass rather than trample it--less trail to follow, less movement to detect. By following the wall, there was assurance that attack could come only from a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree field-of-fire to his right.
The tall grass finally gave way to a mound of rock and dirt. It was chest-high. He edged up and dared a look at the surrounding terrain. This part of the estate was forest-like, except that it was well-manicured, like a public park. The clearing of tall grass that bordered the wall was thirty yards deep and ended where the dense woodland began. Hardwood trees and large cultivated plants blocked any view of what lay beyond. It was heavy enough cover to make spotting difficult. The natural beauty of it contrasted sharply with the busy city that existed just outside the barriers of the estate wall.
The splash of red paint at the drop site had a downward trend. The sniper had likely used one of the trees that bordered the open area. Maybe he was still there.
Markman relaxed and began a slow methodical scan of the tree line. A few, small sparrows, delinquent in heading south for the winter darted in and around the carefully-arranged foliage, but there was no sign of a human presence. It was possible the aggressor had withdrawn to a secondary position.
Suddenly from the corner of his eye, Markman detected a slight movement high and to his left. He froze. Not more than thirty feet away, a man was perched midway up a fat, densely branched oak tree, restlessly scanning the distant portions of the high grass. He had neglected to study the more immediate terrain, thinking his prey would elect to retreat. The man wore a black jumpsuit and beret. He stood leaning back against a heavy limb, his gun resting in a V formation in the main trunk.
It was a fairly easy shot. Markman relaxed from his surprise. Had he moved any farther to the south, he would surely have been spotted. He rested his paintball rifle in a comfortable place on the rocks and took careful aim. A single, well-placed shot would attract much less attention than an unnecessary exchange of gunfire if he was lucky enough to make it. With a steady aim, he gently squeezed the trigger. The barrel of the gun kicked sharply as it discharged with a loud pop, and instantly a blotch of red paint exploded on the right side of the unsuspecting sniper. The man yelped and grimaced at the artificial wound. He looked up and found Markman. He put his hand over his face and slowly shook his head. Without waiting, Markman moved out across the short distance of grassy clearing and entered the forest.
It was unlikely any two predators had chosen the same area to wait, but to be safe the advance needed to be methodical and sporadic, stay low, gain ground by moving short distances from cover to cover, long looks at each stop. Markman continued south, paralleling the wall, limiting the conflict area to his right, until he could find the red flags that marked the southern limits of his game perimeter. Then, by advancing along one border, he would be assured that some of his attackers would be uselessly covering the opposite end, at least for a time.
He stealthed across the grassy, leaf-covered ground, traveling at varied intervals from vegetation to vegetation. He crouched within a culvert of tall ferns where the air sm
elled like rotten wood, and scanned the surrounding area. The red flag line was easy to spot. The flags were crudely cut pieces of plastic mounted on short lengths of wire pushed into the earth in places that allowed the greatest amount of visibility. Beyond the perimeter line, in the other field of play, another sniper in black sat halfway up a tree, his back to Markman. Per the basic ground rules of this contest, the man was no threat. It was time to begin moving westward in search of the Fishkin mansion.
The way appeared to be clear. A short, open area had to be crossed to reach a cluster of several oak trees with multiple trunks. But the stillness in the air seemed deceptively inviting. As Markman stepped into the open, the vague outline of a stalking man came into view out of the corner of his eye on the left. He swiveled to bring his weapon to bear and found himself face to face with the player from the adjoining contest. The man stood just beyond the boundary flags, equally off guard. To his surprise, the athletic-looking face was familiar. Richard Baker, the virtual death player who had lost to Markman, slowly lowered his weapon and waved a finger disapprovingly. He was dressed in a beat-up-looking green sweater and dungarees that had holes in them. Without speaking, Markman pointed behind him to the sniper waiting unaware in the nearby tree. Baker smiled, saluted with two fingers, and quickly disappeared back into the foliage.
Markman reached the cluster of oaks just as a barrage of popping sounds rang out in the air. The noise ceased as suddenly as it had started. It was likely Mr. Baker now had one less adversary to deal with.
The forest area along the flag line became dense and impassable. It was heavily lined with trees and sculpted floral. Markman found his way laterally, keeping low between rows of carefully trimmed hedges. He came to a small glade where a weathered, wooden picnic table had been placed below the shade of a large, old oak. There was a glimpse of something moving just behind it. Markman crouched and waited.
Moments later an unsuspecting aggressor appeared, wearing the trademark black jumpsuit. He crossed by the wooden table and moved quickly over to the opposite end of the hedge line that was concealing Markman. It was a poor choice of blind. He moved cautiously along the green row, staying low, passing right by Markman, completely unaware of his presence. As soon as he was clear, Markman stood up, leaned over the hedge top and shoved the gun into the man's back. The man jerked upright and froze.
"Am I allowed to take prisoners?" whispered Markman.
"How the hell did you do that?"
"Shut up. I can't be hanging around here if you know what I mean. You didn't answer my question."
Markman pushed through the hedge and stood holding his gun on his prisoner. The man lowered his weapon and turned to face him.
"Well, I'm not quite...."
Almost too late Markman noticed the flicker in the man's eye, the telltale signature from within that betrays people who are not practiced at deception. Markman dropped roughly to the ground, twisting around as he fell. He blindly fired a close spread of paintball bullets behind him as he dropped, and just as suddenly, shots rang out from the same general direction. Paint balls whizzed by, missing him by only inches, striking his prisoner in the stomach and chest.
Markman tilted his head up and looked. At the edge of the clearing, another man in a black suit had been hit twice, once in each shoulder.
"God darn it, Frank, you shot me, you idiot!" said the man nearest Markman.
"Do you have any idea what a poker face is, Pete? You might as well have told him I was coming!"
"Son of a bitch, we'll never live this down."
Markman climbed to his feet and brushed himself off, watching intently for other predators. Without speaking, he took off in a new direction. The three-way clash was certain to attract the attention of those wasting their time on the other areas of the perimeter. He dashed toward what he hoped would be a more central location within the forest. The remaining adversaries were likely converging on the area of the previous conflict. With luck, there could be a proper greeting arranged.
He came to a dirt service road that ran through the heart of the woodland and stretched off in the general direction of the wall. Both sides of it were generously contoured with plants and trees. He chose a large maple tree whose base was surrounded by neatly trimmed brush. He climbed quickly to a comfortable spot and reloaded. From his location he could drop directly to the ground and be within good cover. An exit could be made in any number of directions without difficulty, and he could clearly see in both directions along the grass-dirt road. He wormed himself into the most comfortable position possible, listened, and waited.
Chapter 13