“Of course,” Attwood replied. “Let’s go right out to the accident site.”
The Suburban was outside with the engine running, driver behind the wheel. General Attwood held the rear door open for Al Jarvis, then slid into the front passenger seat. The general half-turned in his seat.
“Sheriff, one of our people saw the pair of trespassers just as they were attacked at a remote location inside our fence. It was quick and violent. Unfortunately, both were killed before our security personnel could get to them. My people considered the three bears a threat. They had no alternative but to put them down.”
“My security people have been guarding the accident site with explicit orders not to touch anything until I could get you there. The only thing they did was repair the opening in the fence. We’re really not sure how long ago the fence was damaged or when the bears came to that part of the property since it is unused right now and reserved for future development. It appears the trespassers entered BoDex property through the damaged section of fence for the purpose of doing something with an urn full of ashes.”
Al Jarvis rubbed his chin. “Uh, exactly how did you become aware of the attack if there’s nothing going on out there?”
“We recently activated surveillance cameras in that area.”
“And they didn’t show the damaged fence?”
Attwood didn’t hesitate. “As I said, that section of our property is not being used right now. Except for a few surveillance cameras, there is nothing out there. The camera covering that particular area had a defective directional motor so we were not able to see the damaged fence. Normally, it would have been repaired as soon as it was discovered but it just fell through the cracks. It was purely by chance that the attack happened in front of the camera so we could see it.”
“Hmmm,” said Jarvis.
The driver stopped the Suburban at the site of the attack. General Attwood and Sheriff Jarvis climbed out of the vehicle and saw a group of armed men standing around what the sheriff assumed were the bodies of the two deceased trespassers covered in blood-stained sheets. Nearby lay the carcasses of three very large bears.
“After you, Sheriff,” said Attwood.
Jarvis took in the area, glancing over at the fence.
“It’s up there.” Attwood pointed at a tall pole tucked in among the trees. The pole had been painted brown to blend in. Jarvis finally spotted the small surveillance camera perched near the top. The camera panned to follow their movement. “The electronic specialists were just here to fix it,” Attwood offered. “I’m told we just missed them.” The general’s satellite phone beeped. “Please excuse me, Sheriff.”
Jarvis squatted next to the first body and lifted the corner of the sheet. He was temporarily shocked by what he saw and reflexively dropped the sheet. He took a deep breath and lifted the sheet again. Jarvis had seen quite a few animal attacks and even an occasional bear attack, but never anything like this. The damn thing had nearly severed the man’s head.
“That was Arnie Vought,” Attwood said. “He called to say it was safe for you to open the roads.”
Jarvis walked to the other body. He lifted the sheet and looked at the woman. Her head was crushed. Jarvis did not see the claw marks or bites representative of a bear attack.
Attwood noted Jarvis’s lingering look. “It appears one of the bears rammed her against a pole supporting the fence. You can see the evidence on that pole right there.” Attwood pointed to the woman’s blood, more of it around the base. “The bear was dragging her over here when my men arrived and shot it.”
Jarvis stood, brushed some loose dirt from the knee of his uniform trousers, and walked to the pole. He noticed the red Jeep parked outside the fence. “That theirs?” he asked.
“Yes,” Attwood replied.
“What happened to the windshield?” Jarvis asked.
“I got that information directly from the victims’ daughter. She said she was sitting in the rear seat with headphones on listening to music when the urn crashed into the windshield, then the windshield and urn fell into the front seat. She looked out the window and saw her parents being attacked by the bears. That’s when she jumped out of the vehicle and ran off into the woods.”
“Where is she now?”
“Jack MacGregor found her in the woods and brought her back to his place, where his wife, Sara, took care of her. My personal team tracked the girl to Nature’s Haven Resort. We brought her back here and I have her situated in one of our visitor residences with the MacGregors.”
“I’m gonna need to interview the daughter. And before we move the bodies, did anyone take pictures of the scene?”
“Already done.”
“I’ll need copies. General, I’d like to speak with the people who were first on the scene, especially the ones who shot the bears.”
General Attwood sensed trouble. This investigation should have been wrapped up by now and Jarvis should have been on his way. Attwood decided it was time to go government.
“Sheriff, with all due respect, I called you as a courtesy. As this occurred on government property, it falls under my jurisdiction. I think it best for me to take over the investigation. I will be more than happy to forward my findings to you.”
“Well, General Attwood,” Al Jarvis said, “with all due respect, this happened to civilians, therefore—”
“Civilians on government property, Sheriff,” Attwood interrupted. “As of this moment, it is under my full control.”
The two men glared at each other like a pair of gunfighters. Finally, General Attwood broke the stalemate.
“Al, this doesn’t have to turn into a turf war.” Attwood forged ahead. “Look, I have the full weight of the United States military behind me. That gives me access to unlimited resources. I give you my word that I will keep you informed every step of the way.”
“Just how much of a choice do I have?” Jarvis asked.
“I’d like to think you would want to go along with this for the welfare of the victims’ daughter.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then all I have to do is make one phone call and you’re officially out of the loop.”
“Fine.” Jarvis tried to control his anger. “It’s all yours.” He strode to the Suburban, got into the front seat, and slammed the door. “Take me back to my car,” Jarvis said. The driver did not start the vehicle until he got a nod from Attwood.
“Okay, people,” Attwood called out to the group. “Let’s get this place squared away!” He pointed to a man standing guard over the Pruitts’ red Jeep. “Get that vehicle back to the hangar. Move these poor souls back to the cryogenics lab. Let’s go! It’ll be dark soon.”
It didn’t take long for the site to be wiped clean for the second time today. Personnel had no desire to be out in the wilderness when darkness fell, not with four Centurions still unaccounted for.
A lone figure crouched in the dark, hidden beneath the low-hanging branches of a tall pine tree. He watched in silence, searching for any sign of life. This is where it had all started. This is where it would end. Only through a baptism of fire could he find redemption.
After eluding the four rampaging Centurions, thanks to sacrificing Black, Collins backtracked to the resort, careful to avoid the personnel searching the woods for bodies. He arrived just as the caravan of vehicles from BoDex was leaving the parking lot with the helicopter wreckage. He waited patiently for darkness to fall before making his move.
Collins no longer had his submachine gun or sidearm. Without ammunition, they were useless, nothing more than dead weight slowing him down. He buried them in the forest along with his communications gear, wishing to leave no trace of his existence. He still had his combat knife and had used it to sharpen the end of a fairly straight and stout branch, creating an effective spear. Collins fondled the makeshift weapon, pressing a finger hard to the sharpened point, marveling at the spot of blood that appeared on his fingertip. He had seen so much blood today. I am the point of th
e spear. Collins intended to track down the beasts that had decimated his entire team. He envisioned taking the skin of the big Centurion for a coat after he killed him.
Collins was confident everyone left with the convoy. He crept across the empty parking lot, knife and spear in hand, under the cover of darkness, and ascended the steps to the porch. The front doors were unlocked.
The lobby was empty, lit only by a dim lamp on the check-in counter. He stood in the shadows listening for any sign of life. The only sound was the ticking of an old clock behind the counter.
Collins moved slowly across the lobby and through the dark dining room, finally stepping into the kitchen. He scanned the room, lit by a pair of surprisingly bright nightlights, then tossed a black rucksack onto a counter and began searching through the cabinets. He stuffed his bag with as many canned goods and non-perishables as it could hold, then added a few small bottles of water. He grabbed several boxes of matches and a pair of large kitchen knives.
He passed a white box emblazoned with a big red cross mounted on the wall and pulled it down, removing some first aid items. He put them in an outside pocket of his pack, then left the kitchen to explore the rest of the building.
Every room Collins visited was in some stage of renovation, with tools, ladders, and cans of paint. He opened the door to the room at the end of the downstairs hallway. Making sure the window shade was drawn, he flicked on his small flashlight, and was encouraged by what he saw. The owners were using it for storage, all kinds of boxes and bags stacked against the walls.
After much digging, he found an assortment of camping gear. Collins pulled out a sleeping bag—a high-end model for serious outdoor enthusiasts—and tossed it near the doorway where he had left his spear propped against the wall. The beam from his flashlight fell upon a recurve bow in the corner. The smooth, highly laminated wood gleamed under the light. Collins could not believe his good fortune. It was the perfect weapon. Next, he found a pad of targets attached to an easel. Each sheet had a large bullseye made of colored concentric circles. Hanging by a leather strap from the corner of the easel was a quiver stuffed with arrows. The vanes formed a rainbow of bright colors.
Collins put the bow and quiver over his shoulder, tucked the sleeping bag under his arm, and left the room with his spear in hand, making his way back to the lobby where he had stashed his stuffed rucksack behind the check-in counter.
When Collins reached the lobby, he dropped the rolled-up sleeping bag by the front doors, then lay the bow and quiver next to it. He leaned his spear against the wall, then grabbed his rucksack and placed it on top of the check-in counter. He opened one of the bag’s side pockets and pulled out a small box of wood matchsticks he had taken from the kitchen.
Collins’s eyes locked on the image before him. A haggard wreck of a man stared back at him from behind the counter, his black hair a tangled mess matted with pine needles and other forest debris, the unshaven face covered in sweat, dirt, and cuts. The figure wore torn black fatigues covered with dried blood stains.
It took a moment, but the realization finally hit Collins. He was looking at himself. The yellow-orange glow from the dim light on the check-in counter gave his face the look of some hellish demon. He studied the image before him, the only survivor of the elite Reapers. It made sense to his shattered mind that he would be the only one left to seek retribution. He was alive because he was the best, the most cunning, the deadliest of the Reapers.
Collins snatched the telephone off the countertop and threw it as hard as he could. It struck the mirror with a loud crash, shards of glass falling to the floor. His fractured reflection looked back at him from the crazed glass in the dark wood frame.
Collins grabbed the box of matchsticks. He strode into the kitchen. Nodding as if a decision to an unspoken question had been made, he struck a matchstick against the side of the box, watched the tip flare up, then touched it to the curtains. Flames crawled up the fabric. He repeated the process on the rest of the curtains, then stood in the doorway, watching his handiwork.
On the front porch, Collins calmly shrugged into his heavy rucksack, slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder, and stuffed the sleeping bag under his arm. He grabbed his spear and leisurely walked to the parking lot where he looked back, watching the flickering orange flames and tendrils of smoke creeping over the threshold and down the steps, seeming to follow him. He crossed the parking lot, gravel crunching under his boots, and entered the woods at the far end.
Collins stood just inside the tree line. Yes, this is where his failure would be washed away in a storm of fire. In the distance, Collins heard the chilling howl of one of the Centurions. He knew it was their leader, Alpha. He shifted his load, then disappeared into the dark wilderness, the fire spreading through the resort behind him.
“I’m coming for you, Alpha, and when I find you, I will kill you,” Collins vowed in a soft voice.
General Attwood lifted his head and squinted at the bright sunlight coming through his office window. He rubbed the grit from his eyes, then grabbed a ceramic mug off the desk and took a sip of cold coffee, trying to loosen the gumminess in his mouth. His eyes fell upon Arnie Vought, stretched out on the leather couch, softly snoring.
The two men had worked their vast network of contacts tirelessly through the night as they cleaned up the last vestiges of yesterday’s disaster. Countless men and women around the country had been rousted from the comfort of their warm beds to make seemingly impossible things happen quickly for General Attwood. Although the wheels of government, by their very nature, grind agonizingly slowly, Attwood had called in every favor he was owed, and even made a couple of future promises, to make those wheels spin at breakneck speed.
General Attwood pressed the intercom button. His personal aide’s voice came through the speaker. “Yes, sir, General.”
He watched as Vought began to stir. “Joy, would you mind putting on a fresh pot of coffee?”
“Yes, sir,” Joy Eriksson answered.
In his bathroom, Attwood splashed cold water on his face and took a swig from a bottle of mouthwash. He went back into his office, ran his fingers through his short gray hair, and looked at Vought. “Let’s go, Arnie. We have work to do.”
Arnie Vought groaned as he swung his feet to the floor.
“Joy just put on some fresh coffee.”
Vought disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, Attwood was sitting back at his desk with two steaming mugs of black coffee. Vought dropped into a chair facing the general and grabbed one of the mugs. “Now, where were we?” said Attwood.
“Well, sir,” Vought began, then failed to stifle a yawn. “I believe we have all bases covered.” He slipped on a pair of reading glasses and checked a pad of handwritten notes. “First item is the Black Hawk. We informed the commander of the unit the Reapers commandeered the helicopter from, that it was involved in an accident. He was told it was a top secret project and nothing could be divulged and that the wreckage had to be cut up so it could be recovered from the crash site. We have gotten approval to dispose of it ourselves.”
“Next?” Attwood asked.
“The trainers,” Vought said. “The official report will put them in the Black Hawk that went down with only one survivor: Tony Bascombe. We will handle disposition of the remains and all expenses for the families.”
“Two birds, one stone,” Attwood remarked. “Nichols?”
“Dr. Talbot thinks he had a complete nervous breakdown. She’s calling in an expert with top-secret clearance.”
“Very good.” He felt bad about Nichols. He really was a good man. “What else?”
“The Reapers,” Vought said. “We’re still missing one of them. A guy named Collins. We sent our own helicopter out this morning, but we didn’t have any hits with the infrared detection gear. He’s just gone.”
“Well, if he does show up, he won’t say anything,” Attwood said. “These guys may be a different breed of spook, but they’re still spooks. I’ll find
out what to do with their remains.” Attwood was not looking forward to calling the mystery man who had initially sent the Reapers.
“Yes, sir,” Vought replied. “We’re missing four of our Centurions: Alpha and Subjects F, H and I. Infrared did not pick them up either.” Attwood wasn’t sure what he could do. They were wild animals in the wilderness. Who knew how far away they were by now. “And, sir? Subject H is a female.”
“Which means?”
“Just that, well, there is the issue of possible reproduction.”
“There’s nothing we can do, Arnie, except hope they die off before it gets to that.”
“I’d like to keep the helicopter in the air a few more days. And I have patrols doing a grid search,” Vought said.
“That’s fine,” Attwood replied. “Who knows, we might get lucky.” Something told him Collins and the Centurions were long gone, however. “What’s next?”
“Last items are the deceased Pruitts, their daughter, and the MacGregors.”
The intercom buzzed. “Go ahead.”
“Excuse me, General. Sheriff Jarvis is on the line,” Joy Eriksson said. “He says he needs to speak with you right away.”
“Put him through.”
“Hello, General.”
“Yes, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”
“General, I’m calling to let you know there was a fire at the MacGregors’ place last night. Pretty serious, multiple points of origin. One of my men happened to be out that way. He called it in before the whole place went up. He said no one was there.”
“The MacGregors and the young girl spent the night here,” Attwood said. “I will let the MacGregors know and offer whatever assistance they may need. Is there anything else?”
“No, I just wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Attwood cut the connection. “Now, where were we?”
“The Pruitts,” Vought replied.
“Right, the Pruitts. This whole disaster started with them.”
“Yes, sir. It surely did.”
“Where are we?”
The Devil's Claw Page 25