by Jon Land
McCracken hunched low. The cover of the machinery was serving him well. As he neared the center of the floor in a crouch, he spotted a pair of legs emerging at the end of the row visible beneath a machine that spun thousands of pills at a time in order to dry their bonded coatings. McCracken froze and slowly started to turn.
A bullet clanged off the machine just above him. He pressed himself tight against the floor, thankful for the deafening roar of the machines that kept the gunmen from shouting signals to each other. Blaine pushed himself under the shrink-wrapping machine and emerged along the next row. He was halfway to his feet when a man catapulted over the rolling tread of a conveyor carrying finished packages of an over-the-counter cold medication and slammed into him. Blaine’s hand locked on his pistol and shoved it skyward. He felt the trigger go and a bullet sped upward for the lights. The cavernous room darkened ever so slightly as one of the huge fluorescents twenty feet up was shot out and showered down jagged shards of thick glass.
The man’s free hand found Blaine’s throat, while McCracken continued to keep the gun under control. But the man’s back was pressed up against the shrink-wrap machine, giving him the leverage he would need to strip his pistol from Blaine’s determined grasp.
The gunman’s head brushed against the outlet that dispensed the shrink-wrap over the packages thrust beneath it by a robotic arm. A noise like popcorn popping sounded every time a fresh package was sent on its way to be heat-blasted for final seal. McCracken managed to follow the motions of the robotic arm and saw the opportunity the shrink-wrapping procedure provided.
Keeping hold of the gun as best he could, he drove his right shoulder sideways into his assailant. The blow, barely a graze, was still enough to force the man’s face under the rectangular dispensing spout, just as the robotic arm was swinging the next package into position. The machine regarded his face as that package and spit out the proper segment of plastic with the usual pop!
Then another, and a third as Blaine kept his face there, the machine continuing to dispense its plastic wrap. The man began flailing with his arms, the gun lost, desperate to tear the shrink-wrap from his nose and mouth. He might have succeeded had not McCracken’s final thrust wedged his face against the dispensing spout itself, catching it between motions and jamming it in place. The machine rattled and started to whine. The robotic ami froze in midmotion. The spout continued to spit out shrink-wrap in machine-gun fashion.
McCracken released his hold and the gunman slumped to the floor. A breakdown alarm began sounding in cadence with a flashing red light atop the machine to indicate the source of the problem to the monitors on duty. The massive machine sputtered one more time and shut itself down. The boxes of cold medication that had backed up behind it had already begun to spill over onto the floor. McCracken headed for the next row, the next bit of his strategy suddenly clear to him.
Freddy Levinger grabbed Karen’s arm as they hurried from his office, propelling her toward the elevators at the end of the corridor where a pair of shafts rested directly across from each other.
“You take one, I’ll take the other,” Karen said, the fear driving the numbness from her mind. She hit the down arrow on one side and then the other. The soft whir of the machines’ approach sounded instantly.
“We should stay together.”
“Not if it means reducing the odds of at least one of us getting out.”
“You’ll never make it without me.”
“Like I said, Freddy, one of us.”
When Karen’s elevator arrived just ahead of his, she stepped in wordlessly and pressed G for garage. Before her doors had closed completely, she watched Freddy’s compartment begin to slide open.
A barrage of bullets poured out nonstop from inside. The last thing Karen saw before her doors closed completely was Levinger’s body spiraling backward, turned into a pincushion. The bursts banged off the steel doors of her compartment in the last instant before it began its descent.
Karen shoved herself against the compartment’s rear. The G button glowed alive, the elevator descending fast. For all she knew, more gunmen would be awaiting her once it stopped.
The elevator ground to a halt. Karen froze in place, tensing in anticipation of the barrage she felt certain was to come.
The doors opened.
She nearly screamed.
No bullets poured into the compartment. No one was waiting outside it. Karen rushed down the hallway leading to the garage.
A circuitous route brought McCracken to the station that poured alcohol-rich cough medicine into bottle after bottle before sending them along the line to the capping station. He ducked beneath the dispensing unit and, as expected, located the drain pipe on its underside. The steel cap holding back the overflow contents rested directly over another drain that dropped into the floor. Blaine tore out a piece of his jacket’s lining to use as a plug for the floor drain and then twisted the cap off the machine. Instantly cough medicine spilled outward, pooling across the floor now that entry to the drain was blocked off.
McCracken sopped up some of the medicine in his handkerchief and then pulled a lighter from his pocket. He ducked quickly beneath the next row of machinery and waited as patiently as he dared. When the first sign of approaching footsteps reached him, he touched the lighter’s flame to his alcohol-soaked handkerchief. The poof! of heat singed him an instant before he tossed it into the spreading spill.
He saw the flames catch and rise and was rushing farther away when the resulting explosion of jagged steel and glass shook the entire room. He had no idea how many of the killers had been in range and he didn’t wait to find out; the screams he heard told him the move had been successful.
The fire alarm had begun to wail maddingly when Blaine lunged back to his feet and sped toward a gunman near an exit door whose attention had been drawn to the explosion. McCracken knew he couldn’t close the gap fast enough to prevent the man from firing on him, so he rushed instead toward the huge steam hoses that extended down at various angles throughout the plant from the ceiling. Used to clean the machinery, the hoses pushed steam out at incredible pressure. The gunman had just turned toward him when Blaine leaped for one of the thick black hoses and yanked it downward, tearing it from a feed pipe.
Steam gushed out in a hot, white stream. McCracken managed to hold the black rubber steady long enough to catch the gunman right in the face before he could open fire. His piercing screech bubbled Blaine’s ears, rising above the din of the machines and the wailing of the fire alarm. Weaponless, McCracken elected to go for the automatic rifle dangling from the gunman’s shoulder. He was still trying to strip it free when the remainder of Maggs’s men converged, firing. The burned man became a convenient shield long enough for McCracken to steady the rifle that remained strapped to the man’s shoulder. Blaine fired in a wide arc, hoping to catch all of Maggs’s remaining killers in its spread.
The gun clicked empty. Blaine drew a Beretta nine-millimeter from a holster on the dead man’s belt and let him slip to the floor. He rotated his eyes, searching for motion. He found none in the processing center, but heard sounds of approaching feet thudding from outside toward the exit door he had hoped to utilize. The sprinkler system had activated over the medicine-dispensing station he had destroyed, replacing the angry flames with coarse, dark smoke. Again his options narrowed to one. Holding the pistol before him, McCracken rushed through the thickening cloud toward the door on the far side that led into Van Dyne’s corporate offices.
For Karen, the run was agonizing. It seemed to take forever to negotiate her way to the garage. Panic stole her breath away and left her gasping before even one corridor was behind her. She grew dizzy and had to hug the wall for support. Her feet felt like lead. She listened fearfully for any sounds of pursuit from Freddy Levinger’s killers.
The thumping of footsteps clamored in her direction from in front of her. She had started to back up when more sounded from her rear.
They were coming from both
directions!
She was trapped. It was over.
The first figure rounded the corner of the hall just ahead of her and dropped into a crouch, the pistol that would end everything angling up in his hand.
McCracken had heard someone approaching clumsily just before he reached the end of the hall accessing Van Dyne’s corporate wing. Maybe it was that fact that kept him from firing once he had the gun steady. Maybe it was the look in the woman’s eyes, the look of the hunted and not the hunter. Still, the moment of hesitation lingered into a long second as he stayed in his crouch.
“Help me,” she pleaded in a strained, terrified voice.
A trio of armed figures crashed through a fire door twenty yards behind her. Blaine resteadied the Beretta.
He wasn’t sure how many of the seven shells he fired found their targets; enough to drop them, and that was all that mattered. The woman was sliding down the wall she had been pressed against for support. At first, he thought one of his or their errant shots had struck her. But another gaze into her eyes told him panic was to blame.
Blaine hurried over and pulled her to her feet.
“Come on!” he ordered.
“Thank you,” she said emotionlessly. “Thank you …”
Blaine dragged her forward, supporting her entire weight, as he retraced his steps back toward the manufacturing plant. She was gasping, her weight starting to hold him back.
“Run!” he instructed flatly. “If you want to live, run!”
Spurred by his words, the woman picked up her pace. She seemed recharged, and now had no trouble keeping up with him.
Blaine yanked her behind the cover of an open fire door just before another trio of gunmen tore out from the plant area. The men passed by without taking notice of Blaine and the woman, Maggs stumbling at their rear.
“That should clear us the path we need,” he whispered.
“They were after you,” Karen Raymond said, realizing it for the first time. “I thought it was … me.”
“Why you?”
She was about to answer when more footsteps thundered their way down the hall.
“Christ,” Blaine muttered.
Karen felt him take her hand. He pulled her the last stretch of the way into Van Dyne’s manufacturing center, and together they raced through it and lunged out the nearest exit door into the night.
Karen didn’t bother resisting or arguing. She ran as fast as she could across the open field that rimmed the manufacturing center’s rear. A chain-link fence enclosed the entire complex, and she hurtled toward it with the man she now regarded as her savior. She was only a few yards away when a hail of bullets erupted behind her.
“Keep going!” Blaine ordered as he released his hold.
Before she could respond, he had steadied himself with knees bent and shoulders squared forward. Karen heard the bullets burst from his gun as she approached the fence. She didn’t think of climbing it, she thought of leaping it to generate the momentum she needed to carry her. She landed just a few feet from the top, and a single hoist was all it took to get her prone body over the top. Karen hit the ground on the other side hard, was stumbling back to her feet when the bearded man came over the fence with an effortlessness that defied understanding. He hit the ground moving and grabbed her on the way.
“Don’t look back!” he ordered. “Just run!”
He led her up and over a hill, then down a light slope toward a side road that intersected with the freeway.
“They’re coming!” she noted desperately.
The words were barely out of her mouth when a car running without its headlights pulled up before them. The passenger-side window slid down.
“You’re early, Blainey,” said the huge shape of an Indian from the driver’s seat.
McCracken shoved the woman into the backseat ahead of him. “That’s because I ended up with her instead of what I came to Van Dyne to get.”
“Van Dyne has surprises for everyone,” she said, having recovered her breath.
“Spoken from experience, it sounds to me,” responded Blaine as he slammed the door behind him.
“Bitter experience,” she sighed.
“Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” he said. The car thumped back onto the road, and Johnny Wareagle screeched away into the night.
The woman suddenly lurched forward in her seat. “I’ve got to meet them!”
“Meet who?” Blaine demanded.
“No one in pursuit,” Wareagle announced when the car neared the freeway.
“Take a right,” Blaine said, looking away briefly from the woman.
“No!” she insisted. “Left! Please! I’ve got to meet them!”
Wareagle’s eyes found McCracken’s in the rearview mirror.
“Make that a left, Indian.”
CHAPTER 25
Earvin Early was invisible. Even if he hadn’t arrived at the trailer park in the cover of dark, no one would have seen him. Even if someone had happened upon him in his hiding place back in the woods, they would not have seen him. So long as he stayed still and concentrated hard enough, he was invisible.
There had been no trace of the woman in the hours since he had arrived. Early had never met her, of course, but he could imagine her scent, and sniffing the air told him she was not here.
It didn’t matter. The Reverend Harlan Frye’s orders had been clear to him in this case. If the woman could not be found, he was to go after her two boys the motorcycle gang was guarding. That way the woman would have no choice but to concede. To save her children, she would do anything. They would already be dead, of course, but she wouldn’t know that.
Invisible, Earvin Early hung back and watched over the scene. He studied the placement of the gang members and the weapons they carried with them, weapons that would be useless against him. He charted the position of all the trailer homes the bikers resided in. An old lame one with a ponytail, an eye patch, and a face that looked like tanned leather seemed to be in charge. Early saw him several times, walking with a pair of pit bulls by his side and a shotgun slung over his shoulder as he moved about, checking the security he had set up. Once when the old leader was patrolling, the door to one of the trailers opened and a young face peered briefly out.
Earvin Early had found his targets.
He measured everything off in his head. The armed bikers were well spaced and positioned to watch for intrusions at all vantage points within the park. Early understood now why the Reverend had needed him. They would never expect to be attacked by a single man, never mind one they could look at and not see until he materialized before them.
The first biker he reached after emerging from the woods several hours later when the time was right was the biggest and most alert, accounting for Early’s choice. Early came at him from the rear, his footsteps not even ruffling the soft ground underfoot. The man didn’t so much as turn. Early swallowed his head in two massive hands and jerked it hard. The snap was loud but quick. The man crumpled and Early caught him before he hit the ground and hauled him behind some cover.
The next closest biker watching the perimeter was fifteen yards away, smoking a cigarette. Early sniffed the air and could tell it was a Marlboro. He approached from the side this time, the rear blocked by a trailer. The man turned at the last moment, tried to bring his gun round. But he had to discard the Marlboro first, and the delay proved fatal. Early stripped the rifle out of his grasp and smashed the stock into his mouth before he could scream. The man’s teeth shattered and his eyes bulged with pain and shock. Early continued to shove the rifle butt down the man’s throat. The biker’s cheeks stretched obscenely and his breath was choked off. There was a loud crack and he went limp. His eyes weren’t moving anymore. Early shoved him beneath the trailer.
The next two were huddled together. Early smelled the strong aroma of beer on them. One burped. The other rested his shotgun against a tree and stretched, yawning loudly.
“Shit,” he exhaled, “shit on this night …”
He brought his arms down and reached back for his shotgun to find it was gone, fallen probably.
The biker was feeling about on the dark ground, attempting to retrieve it, when a huge, stumplike hand closed on his wrist and yanked. The last thing the biker felt was another hand closing on the back of his head and slamming him forward. A mushing sound followed as his face was driven through the tree bark.
“What the fu—”
The second biker had lunged round the big tree to see his friend wedged there, face a flattened, bleeding mess incised into the bark.
“Hey!” he called. “Somebody!”
Earvin Early swung the shotgun toward the second biker’s head. The biker never saw the blow coming, even when he turned toward it. The stock cracked his skull wide open upon impact and sprayed blood and brains into the air. The first of those responding to his call got there just as the second biker was falling into a portion of what used to compose the contents of his skull.
“Jesus,” the first one on the scene muttered, “Jesus …”
Another pair were not far behind. Earvin Early waited until all three were standing in a group, easily within his killing range. Then he drew the knife. The knife was old; the knife was rusted. But the knife was his chosen instrument and he whirled into the center of the group, letting himself become visible.
Most had time to see nothing, though, as the knife slashed and cut, ripped and tore. Not a single shot was fired in defense or retaliation. The men died puzzled by the shapeless thing that had killed them, not really sure of what was happening.
When he was finished, Earvin Early headed for the trailer where he had spotted one of the boys earlier. It sat three down the row, sixty feet away. The lame old man who was the leader could still be a nuisance. There might be others nearby who could cause problems, as well, if he got too noisy in his work.