Hardbingers rj-10

by F. Paul Wilson

  He'd have to try the road. He could keep the Jeep's lights off and work his way out along the isthmus until he saw the house lights, then go the rest of the way on foot—head out onto the ice and approach the house at the same angle he would have if he'd been able to cross the harbor.

  Yeah. That would do it.

  He hurried back up the slope to the lot, started the Jeep, and put it on the road. He kept it in four-wheel drive. The pavement was much like the hotel lawn: drifted in some spots, bare in others. But a hundred feet past the end of the asphalt he had to hit the brakes.

  A fallen pine blocked his way.

  Jack jumped out and tried to push it aside, but couldn't budge it. The way it was wedged across the road, he'd need a power saw to get past. And there were no side paths out here—hell, there were barely sides.

  Back in the Jeep he banged the steering wheel and let his head drop back against the safety restraint. How the hell was he—?

  And then he saw a pair of LCD letters in the overhead console: NE.

  A compass—the Jeep had a built-in compass.

  He slumped back. So what? Not as if he could rip it out and carry it with him across the ice.

  Unless…

  Did he dare?

  He didn't see that he had any choice.

  He flipped the Jeep into reverse, turned around, and headed back to the Wauwinet.

  8

  "Gin," Diana said as she slapped three eights and an eight-high straight of clubs onto the table.

  Dressed in an NYU sweatshirt, jeans, and her shades, she said it with little enthusiasm. Cal hadn't expected her killing time with him to relieve the pain of her loss, but hoped the distraction would dull it.

  He smiled for her and shook his head. She'd just learned the game—apparently her father hadn't believed in card games—and already had beaten him five out of the last eight hands.

  "Luck. Pure luck. Okay, total up your points."

  He was getting creamed in the point tally. He fancied himself a fairly decent card player, but his strength had always been in reading his opponent. That wasn't possible with Diana—even if she had her shades off he doubted he'd be able to suss out anything in those black eyes.

  She leaned back. "I'm hungry."

  Only five-thirty. Kind of early, but he took her hunger as a good sign. She hadn't eaten much the past couple of days.

  He craned his neck to find Grell and spotted him in front of the TV.

  "Yo, Grell. What's dinner?"

  "Chicken/ranfaise. Hungry?"

  Cal glanced at Diana. "Yeah."

  Grell rose from his seat. "It's all set to go. Gimme half an hour. In the meantime, take a look at this storm. It's big."

  Diana rose from her seat. "I think I'll take a shower before dinner. I'm kind of rank."

  He smiled. "Could've fooled me."

  She turned away, then turned back. "Thanks for staying with me last night. It was… nice."

  He shrugged. "You needed a friend."

  "Do I have to call you 'Davis' all the time? What's your first name?"

  "Yeniceri never use first names."

  "Couldn't you make an exception for me?"

  He shook his head. "Not even for you."

  He saw her lips tighten, then she turned and strode to her room.

  Cal closed his eyes and let out a breath. I'm not cut out for this.

  Maybe Grell was right. Maybe she'd be better off without them.

  He wandered over to the TV where the Weather Channel was showing satellite images of the storm. The reception kept breaking up as gusts of snow peppered the dish on the roof. But the feed held together enough to display a swirling mass of white running north along the coast. Accumulation predictions ran from two to four feet, depending on location.

  He gave a mental shrug. Long as the ocean didn't act up too much, a blizzard was a good thing for them. Not much chance of anyone making a move on the place during weather like this.

  On the other hand, someone might think they'd lower their guard because of the storm. He had to warn the men not to slack off.

  He crossed to the big picture window and stared out at where the harbor was supposed to be. He heard the wind pelting the glass with snow. He could see nothing but swirling white. The bright security lights made the whiteout even worse. The house could have been moved to Siberia or Antarctica or Jupiter for all he knew. He had to trust that the rest of Nantucket was still out there.

  And hope that no one was foolish enough to be heading their way.

  9

  Jack had figured driving down the hotel lawn to the ice would be the easy part. And he was right. No sweat with four-wheel drive. And no one around to raise a ruckus.

  Now the hard part: Did he dare roll out there in this thing? He had no idea how thick the ice might be. Yeah, it had been cold lately, and the ice had looked thick in daylight, easily capable of supporting a single man. But how would it hold up under a couple of tons of SUV?

  He shook his head. What was he stalling for? None of that mattered. Gia and Vicky were at stake here. And having no other options made the decision simple. He was going.

  But slowly.

  The ice would be thickest and safest near shore, most likely frozen all the way to the bottom. Farther out, he couldn't say. He knew nothing about the head of the harbor and hadn't had any time to learn.

  He took his foot off the brake and let the Jeep ease down the last few feet of the slope and onto the ice.

  It held.

  Watching the overhead compass readout, he turned off the headlights, angled the wheels to the right, and gave her a little gas.

  A little proved too much. Even in four-wheel drive, the wheels spun and the Jeep side-slipped. Zero traction out here. He put it into first gear and tried again. Better. He began to move ahead. He adjusted his direction until the compass read N, and kept rolling. But just barely. If the ice wasn't going to hold this baby, he wanted to find out before he was too far from shore.

  He watched in the rearview as the snow swallowed the lights of the hotel. And then, only blackness behind, only blackness ahead. Like driving through ink. No moon, no stars, the only light coming from the dashboard. He couldn't see the snow, but knew from the crinkling sound it made against the windows that it was out there.

  The wipers squeaked across the windshield. At first he thought to turn them off—nothing to see out here anyway—then he remembered that there soon would be. Or so he hoped.

  He seemed to be traveling an awfully long time. Had he got off course? Was the gale causing the Jeep to side-slip?

  And then he saw a faint blob of illumination at one o'clock, but only for an instant—as if someone had lit a candle in dense fog and then blown it out. As he angled toward where he'd seen it, it flashed again through a break in the snow. A few feet more and it became a steady glow.

  Yeniceri-ville. Had to be.

  He stopped the Jeep and shut her off. If he needed to return, he could find her by using the remote to flash the headlights. He hoped.

  A lot of hoping going on.

  He'd been running through what Heth had told him about the place. Breaking in at ground level would do no good because it gave no access to the living space. The only way in was through a single door atop an outside stairway. He'd bet the ranch the place was alarmed up the wazoo. A soft entry seemed impossible. So he'd come prepared to go in hard.

  He'd loaded the two H-Ks with Devastators—so-called exploding bullets—each with an aluminum tip and a lead azide center designed to deto-nate on impact. He checked to make sure each had a round in the chamber. Then he filled his pockets with the various goodies he'd brought along. When he was loaded up, he slipped on a pair of safety glasses, grabbed the white comforter, and stepped out into the storm.

  The wind hit him like a fist, driving the tiny hard snowflakes against his exposed skin. Good thing he'd thought of the goggles. His face felt like it was being sandblasted.

  He grabbed the comforter and starte
d walking—

  And then froze as he heard a booming crack and felt a shudder run through the ice. He made out the vague outline of the Jeep, still safe and sound where he'd left it. He couldn't see a break anywhere, but that meant nothing. He couldn't see much of anything.

  Just a noise. Maybe the infrastructure of the ice was adjusting to the two tons of car perched on its back. Or maybe this was what frozen lakes and harbors did whether or not anyone was on it.

  If a tree falls in a forest…

  He heard-felt a second crack boom through the ice. As he stepped back to check the Jeep he heard something else.

  A splash.

  He pulled off a glove and squatted to check the ice. Wet. Covered with at least half an inch of water. And more gurgling up through a half-inch crack.

  Quelling a surge of panic, fighting the urge to run, he shuffled back to the Jeep and eased inside. He started her up, put her into first, and began a slow right turn… to the east… toward the nearest shore.

  Hang on, he told the ice. Hang on.

  His only consolation was his assumption that the closer he got to land, the safer he'd be—the ice would be thicker and more stable in the shallows along the shore. He just had to make it there. But how far was there?

  Finally the Jeep nudged against something. He put her in park and stepped out. He had the headlights and a flashlight but didn't dare use them—not with the house lights visible to his left.

  He knelt and felt piled snow. He dug through and sighed with relief when he found sand.

  Made it.

  He rose and looked around. His original plan had been to approach the house from the west. He didn't want to change that, so he'd have to walk out onto the ice and loop back to the house.

  The big question was how safe was the ice out there. He weighed a hell of a lot less than a Jeep, but was it too unstable even for a single man? He wished he knew.

  What he did know was that falling through the ice would be the end of him. Even if the frigid water didn't throw him into shock, even if he didn't drown and managed to drag himself to thicker ice, a water-soaked man would die of exposure in this frozen wind long before he reached warmth.

  But he had to risk it.

  He pulled the comforter from inside the Jeep and held it up ahead of him where it served as a shield while blurring his human outline. He started walking, peeking over its upper edge to make sure he was on course.

  No more ice booms. Small comfort. He felt it could crack open under him any second.

  He kept the glow to his right and slowly it began to take shape. He'd arrived. And he was facing the house's western flank.

  He crouched and draped the comforter over his head like a shawl, then pulled out his binocs. He picked out the stairs leading up to the only door: solid, no glass, probably steel. He'd been hoping for but not expecting a few panes of glass. Solid steel offered the best protection. The only glass needed was a peephole.

  He'd worry about the door later. He first had to cross a hundred feet of ice and a couple of hundred feet of snow to reach it. Those last two hundred feet were well lit. Very well lit.

  Like Shea Stadium.

  Lots of light inside too. He shuffled closer and scanned the windows: regular casements on the lower level; big picture type centered in the top, with sliding glass doors onto the deck up there. The big window was the major threat to his arriving unseen.

  No one there now. Maybe he should—

  He spotted movement in a top-level window to his right. He focused on it. Just a silhouette… but it was brushing long hair.

  The new Oculus—Diana.

  That settled it. He knew where he had to go, and knew it had to be now.

  Stuffed the binocs into a pocket. Then, staying in a crouch, held the comforter before him and let it flap in the wind as he charged the house. Got off to a slow start on the bare ice, but that changed as soon as he hit the snowy shoreline. His sneakers dug into the calf-high powder and he sprinted a zigzag course across the two hundred feet toward the base of the house. Felt the ground change as he crossed the road; stumbled in one of the ruts, but kept his balance.

  When he reached the wall he flattened his chest against it and pulled one of the H-Ks. Then he waited for an outcry or a commotion.

  Nothing.

  Except for the howl of the wind, all remained quiet.

  His scars itched like they had at the warehouse when the Oculus was present. That clinched it: She was here.

  Turned to face the way he'd come and—

  Footprints… a trail of them winding from the icy shore to the house.

  Damn. He'd known he'd have to leave some, but the lights cast shadows along their edges, making them stand out. As he watched, though, the wind began to fill them with snow. In a little while they'd be gone—before anyone spotted them, he hoped.

  His back to the siding, he inched around to the steps and inspected their undersides. Risked a few blinks of his flashlight—doubted they'd be noticed in the flood of light from the spots—but couldn't find any wiring. As expected. Early warning sensors might make sense in a city, but out here the salty air would strip the insulation from exposed wires in no time.

  Made his way up the steps—slowly, carefully, hugging the cedar siding all the way. When he reached the landing he inspected the door. Just as he'd expected: steel, secured by a knob lock and a dead bolt. Gave the knob a try—you never knew—but it held fast. Would have been nice simply to push it open and let them think the wind had done it.

  But that would have been too easy. Had a feeling nothing was going to be easy tonight.

  Opened his parka and uncoiled the rope from around his waist as he studied the top-floor deck. It sat a couple of feet above his head and five feet north. On a good day he could stand on the landing's railing and jump, grab the edge of the deck, and pull himself up. This was anything but a good day. Grab and hold on to a snowy deck? Good luck.

  Thus the rope.

  Tied a slipknot and made a two-foot loop. Brushed the snow off the landing's two-by-four railing and climbed atop it, spreading his feet to shift most of his weight to the ends of the board. Leaning against the cedar shakes for support, he threw the loop at the deck's corner post. The wind blew it back. Tried again, throwing harder. Same result.

  Made it on the fifth try.

  Tightened the loop, then knotted his end of the rope around the base of the landing's inner post. Now he had a makeshift rope ladder to the deck. But he wasn't leaving the stairs just yet.

  Pulled off the white parka. The wind sliced him as he stuffed the comforter into it, even up into the hood, then zipped it closed. Using his Spyderco he cut off a length of the remaining rope and used it to tie the parka to the top step, back to the door.

  Flattened himself against the siding and pulled out one of the three M84

  flash-bangs he'd brought along. He yanked the safety pin but held the clip in place as he drew one of the H-Ks.

  Then he pounded his fist on the door.

  C30

  With the dish reception shot due to the storm, Diana had started the DVD of her favorite film, Napoleon Dynamite. Cal tried to watch but found it a lost cause. He saw why she might identify with a movie about geeks who simply can't fit in with the rest of the world. She probably saw herself as the ultimate geek.

  He glanced at the other two occupants of the room: Lewis was dozing on the couch while Geraci fiddled with the puzzle.

  He wandered over to the harborside picture window. No letup in the snow. At least the ocean wasn't acting up.

  He was turning away from the window when the snow suddenly thinned and revealed what looked like a winding trail of indentations through the snow. Instantly the storm thickened again and hid it from view. Wind could sculpt weird patterns in snow, but this had looked like footprints.

  Crazy. Couldn't be. But he stayed at the window and waited for another break. And when it came he was ready.

  There—a zigzagging line of shallow depressio
ns. Had to be footprints. Goddamn! Someone had come off the harbor!

  He ducked away from the window and yelled, "We've got company!"

  Geraci leaped to his feet. "Where?"

  Lewis mumbled a "Huh?" from the couch.

  "Footprints outside. Go down and tell Cousino and Finan"—this was their watch—"and wake up Dunsmore and tell Grell and Novak."

  As Geraci pounded down the stairs, Cal pointed to Lewis.

  "Get these lights off."

  He hurried over to where Diana sat lost in her movie. Nothing he'd said had registered. He grabbed her under an arm and pulled her from the TV.

  "Hey!" she said with no little indignation. "What're you doing?"

  "Taking you to your room. Someone's here who shouldn't be!"

  The indignation vanished in a gasp. "Oh, no!"

  Keeping himself between her and the sliding glass deck doors, he guided her to her room.

  "Keep the lights out and sit in the closet until we straighten this out."

  He left her, closing the door behind him. When he came out he found Geraci bounding up the steps.

  "You won't believe this. Someone's knocking on the door."

  "Knocking?" That was just about the last thing Cal had expected.

  Geraci started for the sliding glass doors. "I'm gonna go out on the deck and have a peek."

  "No! That might be what they want. They could have a sniper out there waiting for us to do just that. Stay low and stay ready. I'm going downstairs."

  All the bedroom doors had been closed so it was safe to leave the center hallway lit. Cal raced to the laundry room that served as the house's vestibule. He found five of his men clustered around the entrance, weapons out and trained on the door. He pushed through and took a look through the peephole. At the very edge of his view he saw someone in a hooded white parka sitting on the first step. Looked like a woman leaning on the newel post.

  He pounded on the inside of the door.

  "Hey! Hey, you!"

  No movement—no sign of life, for that matter. He turned to the men.

  "All right. We've practiced this. You know what to do. You see anything at all suspicious, do not hesitate to shoot. I'm going upstairs to cover the 0."