If the acolytes had fanned out from the site of the explosion, then they had Eveland at their backs. Bolan realized he had a marker from which to work out their position, and more importantly, the direction in which he needed to take Elena.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing her arm and heading away from the approaching sounds. “We need to get out of here, quick.”
Chapter 13
The two groups of cult members might as have well have been one force by the time they’d started to fan out in the undergrowth. In effect, the eight men formed a long line, if a ragged and uneven one, with Ricke at one end and Duane at the other. The only thing differentiating the teams was that half of them looked to their left for leadership, and the other half to their right. Not that Ricke could offer them much in the way of direction. He had never been a fighter in the physical sense, relying much more on his sly wits to get him somewhere. Out here, he felt out of his depth, and although he wanted to make sure Duane didn’t run loco and lose them the girl—who was the only asset they had left after this night—he was happy to let his lieutenant lead the way in practical matters.
“Keep in sight of the man on either side of you. That way we don’t break the line,” Duane whispered as they started to move apart. This message was passed on until it reached Ricke, at the far end.
The cult leader could see the sense in this. At least, doing so, they were unlikely to mow each other down in friendly fire. On the other hand, as they thrashed and hacked their way into the darker, thicker and muddier recesses of the swamplands, it became harder and harder to see more than a few yards in either direction as the greenery closed in. Although he could see that it was near dawn, and soon would be light, it didn’t seem that way in the dank shadows that enclosed them under the canopy of leaves.
It was all Ricke could do to keep an eye on the man next to him. The figure slipped in and out of his line of vision as he circled trees and got lost behind sprouting grasses and plants that seemed intent on trapping them. He could hear the man fighting his way through the terrain, and the man beyond him...but how much of the sound could he attribute to his acolytes, when they were invisible to him? How did he know these noises weren’t coming from the intruder as he circled back to take them down?
Ricke’s paranoia was working overtime. The man who’d taken Elena was a trained soldier, possibly—make that probably—sent by the government. It wouldn’t be hard for him to outwit a bunch of amateurs, some of whom were still fogged by the hallucinogen. Ricke could have cursed himself for such a lack of foresight. If he was going to drug the girl, he should have just had Duane do it in the cinder block hut. That would have been safer. Yet he’d been certain that the psychological effect of doing it as part of a ceremony would lower her resistance further, make interrogation easier.
That had been a bad call. It had been a worse one to come out here with his people. Time for him to face facts. In this maze of swamp, there was no way he could keep Duane under any kind of observation. If his lieutenant did go crazy, then by the time he reached him—even if he could find him—it would be too late to make any difference. Ricke would just have to try and ride whatever luck he had.
He dropped back off the shoulder of the man next in line, and began to go backward instead of forward. He kept the guy in sight for a while, wanting to see if he would be missed. But the acolyte was too concerned with trying to hack his way through the undergrowth to keep tabs on his leader. And perhaps wrapped up in his own fear of finding the intruder and being found wanting.
Ricke couldn’t blame him, if that was the case. The last thing he wanted was to stumble across the bastard in the blacksuit. It would be far better—for him—if he got the hell back to the compound. Girl or no girl, he needed to be ready to make a run for it.
Ricke let the man move out of sight altogether, then hurried back the way he had come, stumbling as he tried to get through the foliage as fast as possible. He was panting hard, sweating so much that he felt he would slip out of his clothes. He tripped once and fell flat, hauling himself up and tumbling forward without even feeling the pain from the cuts and scratches he’d received as he went down.
By the time he was out of the thick swamps and into the defoliated area where the explosives had ripped up the earth, he was calmer. The panic had passed, and he tried to control his breathing. There was hardly anyone left in the compound—his wives and Susan Winkler, tending to the wounded—but even so, he still had his pride. He was their leader, and they must not see how rattled he was.
He stopped after he’d clambered back into the park. In answer to their questioning looks he told them that all was in hand, and that he must prepare for Duane’s return with Elena. He asked solicitous questions of the wounded, and calmly left after blessing them. It was only when he was sure that he was out of sight that he started to run once more, headed for his apartments, spurred on by what he heard.
In the distance, there were exchanges of SMG fire.
* * *
BOLAN CONCENTRATED HARD. His thigh felt as if it was on fire. He needed to clean out the wound and apply a dressing and local painkiller, but there was no time for that now. Until they’d cleared the swamps, there was little he could do about the stiffness. He would have to factor this into any action he took. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, but right now he was struggling to stay focused, and he knew that he couldn’t afford to get it wrong. Not if he was going to get Elena Anders out of here.
Bolan paused to equip her with some hardware of her own.
“Have you used a gun before?” he asked, taking an Uzi from a duffel bag and handing it to her with some spare clips. “Any guns?” he added, noting the careful way she took it from him and the dubious expression on her face.
“I’d be lying if I said I was an expert, but I’ve used a Lee Enfield on the ranch where I grew up. And I shot some handguns for self-defense classes. I’m the only woman in Florida without a Saturday night special, though.”
Bolan nodded. “So you have the basics. You can’t afford to be nervous. Not now. I have no idea when this poison is going to confuse me again, and you need to be protected.” He swiftly ran her through the basics of using an SMG—the way to hold it, the recoil, reloading, setting to rapid or short burst fire. Her face was rapt with concentration, and when he had finished she held the Uzi in a more assured grip, weighing it.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll hit anyone, but I’ll make them run,” she said quietly.
“That might be enough,” Bolan told her, forcing a reassuring smile. He felt feverish, and the colors were leaking in his night-vision headset once again. He pulled it off. “Damn thing’s no good now. Besides, it’s nearly light. Can you hear anything?”
“They’re out there, all right,” she murmured. “Can’t tell where, though...”
Bolan shook his head. His hearing was distorted by the toxin again, and he’d hoped she would be able to pinpoint the sound. “I think they’ve spread out,” he said, “but I can’t tell if they’re in front or behind us.”
She looked at him squarely. “It doesn’t matter, does it? We have to go the right way for us, and if we run into them, then we just have to make the best of it.”
“I’d rather we avoided them,” Bolan replied, thinking of her lack of experience and his own disadvantage. “But I guess you’re right. Come on.”
He beckoned for her to follow, and kept low. He’d taken what bearings he could, but his senses were warped by the crap running through his system. He could feel it surging once more, the undergrowth around them alive not with the enemy but with the rustling of creatures the likes of which had never been seen down in Florida. He was sure he spotted the yellow eyes of a timber wolf staring at him, and deeper into the bush, he made out the flashing stripes of a tiger as it slinked between the leaves. He knew it was impossible for these animals to be here, so he kept enou
gh self-control to not fire. If he saw human faces, though, he wasn’t certain whether or not he’d recognize if they were real or simply phantoms.
“Can you get a direction?” he whispered. He would need to rely on Elena’s clearer head to assist him.
She seemed to realize this, and paused to listen hard before answering. “Shit, they’re all around us. Not directly behind, but they sound like they’re straight ahead and to the left and right.... Like they’re in an arc, and we’re at the center of it.”
Bolan’s head throbbed. The blow he’d taken earlier had likely given him a mild concussion. That would have been manageable under normal circumstances, but currently it was one more thing he didn’t need. The injury clouded his thinking even more.
Just a moment too late, he could see what was happening. In their pursuit, the cult members had fanned out in an arc, advancing so that they could trap their prey within the circle they were forming. He guessed they intended to separate the two of them. In all likelihood, they wanted him dead and Elena alive.
He had grenades in the duffel bag, and was tempted momentarily to throw them in opposite directions. The blasts would take some of the cult members out, flush out the others.... But Bolan would also be giving away their position, and setting off explosives in this terrain could also create more problems than it would solve..
He knew what he wanted to do.
“Can you estimate distance?” he murmured.
Elena nodded. “They’re not much farther than a few yards ahead, a bit more on each side. I’m surprised we can’t see them,” she added.
Bolan studied the thick curtain of foliage and the densely packed tree trunks. He saw ripples of movement as the less experienced cult members moved through the swamp, and if he listened hard he could make out individual footfalls into puddles of mud. Given time, he could have tracked them and silently taken them one by one, using a knife. But there wasn’t time, and the stiffness and burning fire in his thigh told him it would be too difficult under present circumstances.
Two tree trunks directly to their left crossed and formed a small niche at their base. Bolan indicated for Elena to use this as shelter.
“Shoot at anything that comes near,” he whispered.
“What if it’s you?” she returned.
“I’ll try and make sure it isn’t.”
She took up her position, and though she looked far from happy, there was something about the grim set of her face as she settled the Uzi into a comfortable grip that told him he wouldn’t have to worry too much about her as he went about his task.
Bolan’s plan was simple. Engage with the men coming directly toward him, blast through them and try to draw the straggling line away from Elena so he could pick them off. It wasn’t the greatest plan he’d ever come up with. For a start, he didn’t know how many men were actually out here. He figured that, with the damage he’d caused inside the park, around a dozen would cover it. Those were heavy odds, especially with the wound and toxin working against him, but they were evened up somewhat by the fact that he was a more experienced fighter.
The rustling came closer, and he stopped, settling in behind a trunk running with sticky sap. He could feel it against his cheek as he leaned forward, and concentrated on this feeling as a wave of nausea passed through him. Bolan couldn’t tell if this was concussion or toxic effect, but knew above everything that he couldn’t afford to have it overwhelm him now.
The wave ebbed as the greenery before him began to vibrate and shimmer with the approach of an enemy. There was a tiny clearing between his position and where the foliage grew thicker. He would wait until the man stepped into this gap before firing.
Bolan shouldered the HK and waited, with the SMG set to quick burst. He checked his surroundings again, noting the spaces he could dive into for cover. The first sound of fire would undoubtedly bring answering shots toward him.
He waited, finger tense on the trigger, until the vegetation parted and a man in a purple robe stepped through. He was wild-eyed, holding his SMG at a downward slant, and seeming more scared than anything. Part of Bolan regretted what he would have to do. This man was no soldier; he was a fool who’d found himself in a situation he didn’t want to be in. But he was dangerous precisely because he was scared, and he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot as soon as he saw Bolan.
Which he did. His eyes locked with the soldier’s across the space of a few yards, and he jumped with fright. At the same moment his finger tightened on the trigger and he fired a burst directly into the swampy ground at his feet. The earth was torn up, mud and filthy water splattering around him.
Bolan aimed and tapped in one fluid motion, the short burst catching the man across the torso and throwing him back.
Before he even hit the grass, the soldier had moved from his position, diving into the undergrowth to his left. Bursts of answering fire chattered around him, a few stray shots taking splinters out of the tree he’d just been leaning against.
The sounds of machine gun fire were sharper and easier to pick out than the rustle of movement, and they gave him markers for where the nearest men were located. He could hear the crashing of leaves and branches as they rushed to where they thought he was, panic and inexperience overriding any caution, or instruction they may have received.
Two men emerged from the foliage. They paused, SMGs raised, and peered across the shadowed expanse of green. That pause cost them both their lives. Bolan swiveled and fired once, taking out the man to his left at chest level. He swiveled again and took the other man with a burst that caught him as he tried to dart out of range. His head took a round as he ducked, and it burst like a ripe melon.
Bolan was already on the move. He had taken down three men, but the noise they’d created would make taking the rest that much harder. He kept low and sped toward the area where he’d left Elena. He could hear the shouts of those who were left standing, frenzied and anxious. They were trying to identify who was down, hoping their prey was one of the casualties.
That was their tough luck. They were panicking. They would make mistakes.
He would have to exploit that before the hallucinations hit him again.
Chapter 14
MARTHA’S PHONE WENT OFF at 3:00 a.m. She read the time on the old clock radio she’d kept since her days at college. It was white and clunky, and the digital panel could be kindly called retro, its green figures casting a glow across her bed. She always felt safe when she woke up and saw it standing mutely in the night, like a sentinel.
But not tonight. For some reason, she felt a churning in her gut as the phone continued to ring. She was usually a heavy sleeper, but she’d suffered a disturbed rest as the words of Matt Cooper had weighed on her. She’d barely dozed off when the phone woke her. She laid there waiting for it to cease, but it rang on and on. Giving in, she got up to answer it, despite her sense of dread.
“Martha, I hope I didn’t wake you....”
“You did,” she said hesitantly. “But I guess you knew you would.”
“Quite.” There was forced cheerfulness in his tone, and she could hear the tension in his voice. The silence stretched out until she thought she’d have to scream. Eventually, he spoke again. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked me why I’m calling you at such an unusual hour.”
She tried to make herself sound casual, but probably failed. “It must be something pretty important, Mr. Montgomery. You wouldn’t call me unless it was.”
David Montgomery III, owner of the Midnight Examiner, spent most of his time in his office, away from the newspaper staff. He seemed to be mostly concerned with living out his fantasy as a feudal lord of the area, running Griffintown County by remote control. At least that’s what Martha gathered, judging by the stream of local officials who came into the building. Montgomery took only high level meetings at the paper, and the most he ever inte
racted with Editorial was when he called Martha’s boss in to bawl him out, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently.
Maybe there was a reason for that? She had been digging at the Seven Stars for a while, and had thought her editor’s dismissal of the topic was something personal. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was about Montgomery and what had been said behind closed doors.
As this flashed through her mind, the big boss continued. “Something’s come up, Martha. Something I think only you can handle. I know you’ve been looking into the Seven Stars, and that your investigation has drawn only disinterest or disapproval. Well, there’s been an incident that makes me think it might be the right time to focus on them. I usually dislike the idea of shitting on your own doorstep, which is why we’ve tended to avoid the cult. But that can’t be done anymore. Your time has come, even though it is an unlikely hour,” he added in a feeble attempt at lightening his tone.
Martha tried to parse his words. She thought she knew what he really meant, and she didn’t like it one bit. It was time to run, and maybe call the number Cooper had given her a few hours earlier than she’d been asked.
“That’s fine,” she said slowly, attempting with more success than her employer to keep the tension from her voice. “I guess we all want our big break, and we just have to be ready when it comes. Give me time to get dressed, climb in the car and get my ass down to the office—”
“No, no need for that,” Montgomery replied, just a little too quickly for it to be natural. “I’ll send a car for you. I’ll get Ramirez to send one. It’ll be quicker. Just be ready in ten minutes.”
Martha felt her chest tighten, fear making it hard to draw breath. Ramirez was the sheriff. Montgomery wasn’t even sending his chauffeur for her, he was sending the lawmen who owed their election to his campaign fund. The lawmen she had seen at work throughout the day, tailing Cooper.
This was looking bleak.
“Okay,” she replied, in as clear a voice as she could manage, hoping the fear didn’t come through. “I’ll be ready, boss.”
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