Either that, or they knew but weren't saying.
"And it's all secret as hell, right?" he asked.
"Yeah," the guide agreed.
"So when I started poking around, you people decided to feed me to that bastard? Give it what it wanted?"
"Dammit, Schaefer," the guide said as he stepped up onto solid ground, "you're the one who decided to come down here and play tourist! We didn't set that up! You practically volunteered for a suicide mission."
"Yeah?" Schaefer sneered. "And what about Dutch? Was he another of your volunteers?"
"We didn't know back then!"
"But you do now, so you sent me to play pattycake with that thing."
"Look, we don't like this any more than you do," the guide said, "but it's here, it's real, and we're forced to deal with it."
"And just what is it you think you're dealing with?" Schaefer demanded. He paused and looked back .down at the dead thing as the guide pushed past him.
"We don't know," the guide said. "We can only guess. But what we guess is that these things come to Earth every so often to have a good time, play the great white hunter, collect a few trophies-and then they go home again and leave us alone for years at a stretch."
"Come to Earth," Schaefer said as he took a final look down at the creature. "From outer space, you mean? Like in the movies?"
"Something like that," the guide said. He reached the waiting mules and pulled out Schaefer's gun.
Schaefer turned away from the cliff at the sound of the safety being released and found the guide pointing the weapon at him.
"Come on," the guide said. "The general wants us out of here, away from that thing-he doesn't want you fucking up anything else. We've got six hours to make the rendezvous down at the end of the valley. You just keep your hands off the packs, don't touch any weapons, and we'll be fine. Maybe we can still salvage something out of this mess."
Schaefer stared at him silently for a moment.
"You know, chief," he said at last, "you're really beginning to get on my nerves. That thing's dead. It's over."
"Jesus, you don't have a clue, do you?" the guide said, amazed. "You think that was the only one? Come on, move!" He waved the gun.
Schaefer sighed and began marching.
Yeah, he'd thought that was the only one but so what if it wasn't?
He'd be glad to take on however many might be out there.
* * *
22
"You really think those things are going to fucking invade, just because I killed one of them in self-defense?" Schaefer asked as he pushed aside yet another overhanging giant fern.
The two men had been slogging through the jungle for hours, arguing off and on; Schaefer's suggestion that they at least try riding the mules had been vetoed as making an escape attempt too easy.
They had heard a copter overhead at one point but had been unable to see it through the canopy, and the sound had faded away again. Schaefer had looked at the guide, who had just shrugged and kept walking; apparently that hadn't been their intended pickup.
"We don't know what they're going to do," the guide said, "but we don't expect them to just ignore it.
"So why didn't they blow us all away when Dutch waxed one eight years ago?"
"Because it blew itself up," the guide said. "They must have thought your brother bought it in the explosion. He damn near did."
"Or maybe they figured their buddy knew the risks," Schaefer suggested.
"Come on, Schaefer," the guide said, "these things are from another planet, they've got starships and shit, they're maybe a million years ahead of us-you think they're going to let a bunch of apes like us blow away tourists?"
"Why not?" Schaefer asked. "You seem to think we should let them blow away our people-wasn't that what was happening in New York? Let the boys have some fun, and so what if they kill a few of the natives."
"Better they take out a few than the whole lot of us," the guide said.
"Better they not take out any," Schaefer replied. "A point I was trying to make when I came down here looking for that son of a bitch."
"Oh, right. Did you really think you could waltz down here and end it as easy as that?"
Schaefer didn't reply, and the guide went on, "You're not in Kansas anymore, pal. You can't roust these guys like your standard-issue gang-bangers or drug push-"
The sound of a rifle shot interrupted the guide in mid-word, and Schaefer turned, startled, to see blood spurt from the man's shoulder.
"Pushers," the guide said, swaying unsteadily, trying to bring the auto shotgun around, trying to locate the source of the shot.
Schaefer didn't wait for any more surprises; he dived for cover, throwing himself as far from the guide and the mules as he could.
As he hit the ground, the jungle erupted in gunfire.
The guide tottered and went down.
Schaefer listened, looked at the shots he could see hitting, and counted at least four shooters concealed in the jungle, all within thirty yards.
One of the mules went down-a stupid waste, in Schaefer's opinion, but he wasn't about to try to do anything about it. He lay still, half-hidden in ferns, and waited for the shooting to stop.
At least whoever was shooting was using ordinary guns, and not that high-intensity alien shit-this wasn't the revenge of the invaders from space that the phony guide had been so worried about.
Small consolation, Schaefer thought; the poor son of a bitch was just as dead as if he'd caught the alien's fireworks in the chest.
He shifted, very slowly, very carefully, turning to see what was happening.
The firing trailed off and stopped.
The guide didn't so much as twitch; he was pretty clearly dead. The downed mule was still kicking, though, and a man in green fatigues stepped out of the bush, put a gun to the animal's head, and snapped off a single, final shot.
The other mule had skittered off into the jungle; Schaefer couldn't see it as he watched the men appearing out of the forest.
Four of them, all right-two with MAC-10's, two with Chinese AK 47's.
The choice of hardware and something about their attitude convinced Schaefer these guys were Colombian drug-cartel men-but what the hell were they doing here? This place wasn't on the regular smuggling routes, so far as Schaefer knew.
Maybe they'd shifted the routes again, though; the DEA and the local policia might've done that much.
One of the gunmen lifted the guide's head and looked at the bloody, mud-smeared face.
"Este marrano estd muerto," he said.
Another, just behind the first, gave a sharp bark of disgusted laughter. "Eschevera to quiere vivo."
Eschevera?
Schaefer knew a Colombian named Eschevera.
Eschevera had tried to be a big man back in New York, acted like one of those suave Miami Vice types, but as far as Schaefer was concerned, underneath the spit shine Eschevera was just another two-bit drug-dealing prick.
Back when he and Rasche had still been working narcotics, Schaefer had heard about Eschevera from a couple of underlings. Schaefer and Rasche had put in some legwork trying to get something on him, something that would stick, and word must have got around; a couple of Eschevera's boys had shown up with an invitation.
Schaefer had gone along, just for laughs.
Schaefer and Rasche had met with Eschevera in the rooftop garden of a fancy Manhattan brownstone, surrounded by tropical plants that were dying of the New York cold. It had been just the three of them; the bodyguards had stayed out of sight, as a sign of trust and respect.
Rasche had let Schaefer do the talking.
There'd been some preliminaries, each man demonstrating how tough he thought he was, and then Eschevera had spilled a million dollars in small bills across the bark dust and told Schaefer that he and Rasche could have it, that very day, if they'd just back off and leave him alone.
And he'd had a switchblade in the other hand as a warning of what might happen if they didn't take the mone
y.
A million dollars, he'd said, and Schaefer had believed him-the pile of bills hadn't been small.
Schaefer had thought it over for a couple of seconds, just to be fair to Rasche. Half a million could have kept Shari and the boys comfortable for a long time; Rasche wouldn't have had to worry about his pension.
But Schaefer had seen the look on Rasche's face, and he knew that Shari would just have to put up with New York a few years more. He'd expected that.
That settled, Schaefer had grabbed Eschevera and thrown the son of a bitch off the roof.
Only three stories. Eschevera lived.
And Schaefer'd walked out untouched while the bodyguards were running in circles.
Schaefer'd reported it as an accident, said Eschevera tripped. There weren't any other witnesses. Eschevera hadn't pressed charges, he'd packed up and gone home to Colombia to lick his wounds.
Schaefer had figured he'd bump into Eschevera again sooner or later, though; the people of the Cali cartel were known to carry grudges.
This wasn't quite how or where he'd expected the encounter, though.
Had Eschevera's men been after him?
He couldn't see why they'd want the guide in particular, or what drug dealers would have to do with aliens, so, yeah, they'd probably been after him, and nailed the guide just because he was there.
So how'd they known he was anywhere in the vicinity?
He wondered if Hanson had sold him out, told Eschevera where to look for him; it was possible, though he'd always thought Hanson was still straight.
Maybe one of Philips's men had leaked.
Or it might have just been a coincidence, a stroke of bad luck-but if so, it was one hell of a coincidence.
"Yo voy a mirar aqui," someone said, reminding Schaefer where he was.
The gunmen were looking around now; whether they were after Schaefer specifically or not, they apparently knew the guide hadn't been alone. Not that it was hard to figure that out, when there were two mules, and they both had saddles.
They weren't being too bright about the search, though; they'd spread out and weren't watching each other.
Schaefer moved slowly into a crouch, ready to spring. One of the men was approaching.
Then he was right on top of Schaefer, and the detective burst up through the ferns, planting a solid right on the man's jaw; the Colombian went down, and Schaefer snatched up his MAC-10.
By the time he'd untangled the shoulder strap from the dazed man's shoulder, though, the other three had turned and opened fire; Schaefer dived for cover again.
He checked the gun quickly, found the magazine still half-full, and returned fire.
The thing wasn't very accurate; it was meant for spraying fire across an area, not for hitting targets. Schaefer didn't really expect to hit anything, but it would make the Colombians keep their heads down.
Now that he'd been spotted, there was no point in staying quiet or trying to hide; he worried about cover, but not concealment, and he kept moving, cutting from one tree to the next in short dashes, spraying bullets each time.
The Colombians fired back but usually only succeeded in putting a dozen rounds through the space between trees after Schaefer had already reached cover. That didn't mean they were stupid, just human-reaction times weren't fast enough. They didn't know when he'd move, or which way.
If they'd had the firepower, they could have kept up a steady fire and pinned him down while one circled around behind-but they didn't. There were just the three weapons, and they'd probably shot off half their ammo taking down the guide and the mule.
The one mule, the guide's mule. The other one, the one Schaefer had ridden originally, was still alive and unhurt, and Schaefer figured his best chance-his only chance, really-was to get to the animal, and to the rest of the arsenal he'd brought up from Riosucio. The Colombians hadn't touched it yet. With that stuff he could lay down enough fire to maybe take out one or two of his enemies, despite the thick jungle, and if that didn't scare the others off, it would at least keep them down long enough that he could mount up and make a run for it.
He wished the damn mule would hold still, preferably behind some sort of cover; it was wandering slowly through the jungle, staying well clear of the larger trees.
It didn't seem to-be bothered by the gunfire, and Schaefer wondered just where the guide had got it, and how much experience the animal had had with this sort of thing.
He worked his way closer to the animal, and when he thought he had a chance, he made a run for it.
The mule started and shied away at his approach-gunfire hadn't scared it, but Schaefer apparently did. .
"C'mere, damn you!" he shouted, grabbing for the bridle. He got a hand on one leather strap, and the mule pulled away, rearing slightly.
"Down, dammit!"
Holding the bridle with one hand, he reached for the gun box with the other, turning the mule to keep it between himself and the Colombians as he pulled out his reserve shotgun. Hanson had been generous, and Schaefer appreciated it.
"All right," he said, "my turn." He lifted the weapon-and froze as hard steel touched the back of his head.
"Drop it, marrano," a cold voice said in his ear, "or I fear that Senor Eschevera will be deprived of his evening's entertainment."
Maybe they hadn't been able to pin him down, but one of them had circled around anyway, and Schaefer hadn't heard or seen a thing.
His grip tightened on the shotgun as he considered his next move-and then a gun butt hit his head with a sharp crack, and Schaefer, no longer considering anything, went down.
* * *
23
"The transponder signal's coming in fine," Doheny said as he swung the radio locator in a narrow arc. "Now let's hope Niner put it in the right place."
Behind him the other three men of the pickup squad were unloading the metal mesh basket that was supposed to hold the dead alien.
The copter had set down in the crater it was the closest thing to clear terrain anywhere in the area.
"Over that way," Doheny said, pointing.
"Come on, then," Johnson barked.
Together, the four men pushed their way through the jungle, hauling the basket between them; the chopper waited, engine idling.
The general had said to keep the engine running, to be ready to run at any moment-the aliens might be coming to make the pickup themselves.
No one knew if they cared about their dead the same way people did, but judging by the bomb the first one had used, there was something they didn't want to leave lying around-bodies, equipment, something.
Doheny knew all that. He'd been working with Philips's group for years, and he knew the aliens were supposed to be very real and very deadly-but somehow, deep down, he didn't quite believe it. Intellectually, sure, the aliens were real, but emotionally the idea just hadn't sunk in.
He swung his machete-the briefings had said they'd be safer unarmed, but he'd insisted they needed to be able to clear the way to get the basket through. And there might be more mundane menaces than the killer aliens around here; besides the machete Doheny had his sidearm, as did the others.
Philips had advised against it but Philips wasn't out here in the jungle with the snakes and vines.
When the four men reached the cliff edge, Romano, holding one of the front corners, almost went over before he caught himself. Johnson swore at him.
Doheny looked over the edge and spotted the creature almost immediately, lying at the bottom thirty yards off to the right, draped across a fallen tree with a five-foot limb stuck through its chest.
"Shit," he said quietly.
It was real.
And it was going to be a royal bitch to get it off that chunk of wood and into the basket.
And there was no way in hell they were going to haul it up the cliff by hand, through all that brush; they'd have to rig a harness, get the chopper over with a line and hook, and hoist it up.
At least with the river right there they'd be
able to get a hook down without snagging in the canopy.
"Come on," he said, starting the climb down the precipice, "let's get on with it."
Reluctantly, the others followed, tipping the basket up and sliding it carefully over the edge in a controlled fall.
Doheny was halfway down when he glanced over at where the dead alien lay, and froze. He blinked, hoping it was some sort of illusion, maybe some kind of refraction caused by spray from the river, something that would disappear.
It didn't disappear.
"Shit," he said again.
Johnson, Romano, and Sturgill glanced at him, saw where he was staring, and turned their own gaze.
All four men froze, staring.
There were four of the things-five, counting the dead one. The four of them were standing in a circle around their fallen comrade.
Then one of them looked over at the men, hanging there halfway down the cliff.
Johnson let go his hold on the basket and began climbing upward. "Go!" he called. "Get out of here! Back to the chopper!"
Sturgill, caught by surprise by the sudden increase in weight when Johnson released his share, slid several feet farther down before he was able to free himself of the basket. The basket crashed downward past him, tearing through leaves, flipping end for end every time it hit an obstruction, until finally it landed with a splash, half on the bank, half in the river.
Sturgill hung for a moment, making sure his hold was solid; then he turned to find that Johnson and Romano had already scrambled halfway back up.
Doheny was waiting for him, though.
"You okay?" Doheny called.
Sturgill nodded. He glanced over at the enemy, then blinked.
"They're gone," he said.
Doheny looked, startled.
Sturgill was right-the four live aliens had vanished.
Had they imagined it, then? Had the creatures been an illusion of some kind?
No, that was nonsense-all four men had seen them there. Johnson and Romano wouldn't be fleeing in panic otherwise. They'd seen something.
So where had the four creatures gone? Doheny hadn't heard anything, hadn't seen any movement, just suddenly they were gone; could they be that fast, that silent?
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Predator 01 Page 14