by Ronald Kelly
`"Leave it to us, boss," assured Russ. "We'll shake this flying pig and pick you up a half-mile down the road."
"Come through for me on this, Vincent, and you'll be in my good graces forever," promised Dellhart. "You'll even get a nice share of that goldmine we just discovered."
Vincent Russ smiled at the corporate head as the helicopter lifted and rose away from the two-lane highway. "Don't worry…I'll do the right thing." Then they were racing over the trees, watching as Dellhart began to drag his hostage down the roadway.
Hollinger looked over as Russ left the back of the chopper and took the second seat of the cockpit. "What was all that jazz about a goldmine?"
"A potential for vast wealth is hidden inside this scrubby mountain," Russ told him. "The bad thing about the whole matter is that Dellhart will be enjoying the lion's share of the fortune. That line of bull he gave us about making us rich men was just a false promise. The only way we could benefit from that gold would be to literally take it away from him." Russ sat back in his seat and smiled slyly. "And luckily, I know exactly how to do that."
The pilot regarded his passenger with a conspiratorial grin. "Are you thinking about turning traitor, Russ?"
"Why not? The world of corporate finance and industry is a cutthroat business, just like the mercenary profession. Some join the rat race out of personal drive and loyalty, hoping to gain wealth by hard work and persistence. Others are drawn to the game by pure old-fashioned greed and ruthlessness. And like you, I'm of that latter fraternity."
"My kind of guy!" laughed Hollinger, reaching out and shaking Russ's hand. The black man piloted the Bell around the eastern side of the mountain at the same time that the police copter took the western route. "It looks like we're in luck. The cops are heading around the other side and I don't think they even know we're here."
"Then we've got a clear shot," said Vincent Russ with great satisfaction. He turned to the pilot next to him. "I have a business proposition for you, Mister Hollinger. If you get me safely to Memphis, you may end up gaining more than a mere ten-thousand-dollar bonus. You might be just the man to help put together a plan that I've been hatching for several days now. A plan that could make both of us billionaires in a short period of time."
"Where did they go?" wondered Glen Tucker. He felt his frustration rise to a maddening pitch as they emerged from their lengthy trek through the mountain tunnel and discovered that Dellhart, Russ, and Jenny were nowhere to be found. Of course, they had gained a good ten or fifteen minute lead over him and Rowdy after pulling that dirty trick and caving in the passageway with the grenade.
They probably went down the pathway here," said Rowdy. "Let's head that way and see if we can spot any sign of them."
The two men set off down the narrow mountain trail. They had passed the bordering thicket of thorny bramble and were nearing the picturesque pathway of pale flowers when they stopped dead in their tracks. There were five men marching up the trail toward them—men dressed in camouflage fatigues and berets, carrying enough firepower to orchestrate a small military coup.
At first, both parties could only stand there and stare at each other. Then the leader of the strike force—a swarthy man with the name JACOBI stenciled on the breast of his flak vest—raised his M-16 into line. "Remember your orders, men," he called out. "All trespassers are to be eliminated, with no exceptions."
Glen and Rowdy weren't about to be subject to an uneven showdown. They turned and ran back up the pathway as a burst of gunfire chewed the rocky earth around their feet. Rowdy whirled and let loose with a short burst from the MAC-10. The .45-caliber rounds missed Jacobi, but they did hit a soldier carrying an AK-47. The mercenary lurched backward as the slugs stitched across his chest, then hit the ground with deadly finality.
Moments later, the two were back within the shelter of the cave. They stayed well away from the entranceway, but could still see the remaining four commandos crouched behind boulders with their guns aimed toward them. "What are we gonna do now?" asked Rowdy, breathing hard, partly out of exertion and partly out of shock over having had to actually kill a man.
Glen saw a soldier make a quick dash from one boulder to another and sighted down the ported barrel of the .357 Magnum. He fired and pegged the commando in the upper thigh a second before he reached cover. "Well, we sure can't put up a decent fight, that's for sure. I've only got a few more rounds in this revolver, and it won't be long before your machine gun runs dry if you keep firing it on full auto."
Rowdy nodded and flicked the MAC-10's selector switch to single fire. They ducked farther into the tunnel as the soldiers sent a steady barrage of automatic gunfire toward the entrance. Slugs slammed into the inner walls of the passageway, sending sharp slivers of stone and coal into the air.
"You might as well come out and face the music," called Jacobi. "Hiding in that cave won't help you. We have enough ammunition and explosives to blow you to kingdom come. If you walk out with your hands over your heads, we promise to give you a quick and relatively painless execution."
"Screw you!" growled Glen. The thought of Jenny struggling in the grasp of Jackson Dellhart while these mercenaries blocked their way enraged him to no end. He snapped a thunderous shot from the Magnum and chiseled a hunk of granite from the boulder that Jacobi was crouching behind.
"Suit yourself, hotshot. We can dish out just as much as you want to take." Jacobi shucked the empty magazine from his rifle and slapped in a fresh one. "Okay, boys, lay it on them hot and heavy."
Glen and Rowdy retreated a few yards farther into the passageway, to avoid the bee swarm of gunfire that speared through the peaked opening of the mountain cave. "Where's the freaking cavalry when you need them?" asked Glen. "Those state troopers in town should have heard all this ruckus by now."
"Life ain't like a John Wayne movie, my friend," replied Rowdy. "The cowboys don't always ride off into the sunset. Sometimes the Indians end up winning the battle and going home with their share of bloody scalps."
Glen didn't reply. He knew the hopelessness of the predicament they were in. He and Rowdy certainly couldn't hold off the seasoned soldiers, not with their limited firepower. He only hoped that Lance LaBlanc might have some idea how to turn the tables when he and the others arrived moments from now. If not, the glorious cavern they had just left might very well turn out to be a golden tomb for them all.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Shortly after he and Jenny Brice had been left on the highway, Jackson Dellhart knew that he had been betrayed.
It shouldn't have taken Hollinger more than five or ten minutes to elude the police copter and come back for them, yet fifteen minutes had passed and still there was no sign of the Bell transport. Several times Dellhart had spotted the police's Cayuse from his vantage point on the roadway. It buzzed around the mountaintop in a steady, searching pace which indicated that they were totally unaware that another chopper had even been in the area.
"Russ, you lousy bastard!" Dellhart cursed beneath his breath. "Where the hell are you?" But he really didn't need to ponder that question, did he? He had a pretty good idea exactly where his right-hand man was at that moment. Vincent Russ was winging his way straight to Memphis with the spectacular image of that golden cavern blazing foremost in his mind. But he would never profit from his treachery; Dellhart vowed that. As soon as he reached a telephone, the corporate executive intended to call up one of his mob connections and put a contract on Russ's head. If he had his way about it, the traitorous crony wouldn't live to see the following morning.
"So, your trusty henchman dumped you, didn't he?" asked Jenny with a spiteful grin.
Dellhart tightened his grip on the woman's arm and prodded her with the muzzle of the Magnum. "Just shut up and keep walking."
They had walked nearly a half-mile and were now approaching the stretch of highway that circled the western base of PaleDoveMountain. Dellhart knew that they needed to find a dependable source of transportation out of the area pretty soon. If he could make it to
Knoxville without incident, then he could charter a private plane and reach Memphis before nightfall. He thought of Russ again and his temper flared anew. His backstabbing assistant had spare keys to his office and the combination to his safe, where he kept his most valuable contracts and a considerable amount of cash. Dellhart cursed himself for being so blind. He had always considered Vincent Russ to be nothing but a flunky, a man who was on a much lower scale than he was, both mentally and socially. But now he grudgingly realized that they were predators of equal degree, driven by the pursuit of power and wealth. Although he hated to admit it, he knew that Vincent Russ might even have the advantage on him. He possessed the sly savvy and gritty ruthlessness of a common street criminal, a strength that Dellhart sorely lacked.
The roar of a diesel engine sounded from the roadway behind them and they turned to find a Greyhound bus approaching from the south. "Okay, this is going to be our ticket out of here," he told Jenny. He tucked the gun into the back of his waistband and pulled the tail of his sport shirt over it. "Now, I want you to help me flag this guy down. But remember, if you so much as utter a single wrong word, I'll blow your freaking brains out. You know what I'm capable of, so you know that I mean what I say."
Jenny nodded grimly, surrendering to her captor's threat. She certainly knew the lengths that Jackson Dellhart would go to in order to get his way.
As the bus neared them, they stepped up to the road and began to wave the vehicle down. The bus began to slow and, with a hiss of air brakes, stopped next to them. The narrow door unfolded and a black driver dressed in a crisp gray uniform smiled down at them from his lofty seat. "You folks need some help?"
"Yes, said Dellhart, stepping up to the doorway. "We were out hiking in the mountains this morning and…well, hell, it's sort of embarrassing to admit, but we got lost. Can't even find where we parked our rental car. I was wondering if you could give us a ride." He took a fifty-dollar bill from his pants pocket and held it out to the man. "Will this get us a seat?"
"Sure enough will," smiled the driver. He reached down and snatched the bill from Dellhart's fingers. "Climb aboard. I've got a straight route to Knoxville, but I can let you off at Tucker's Mill or Mountain View if you'd like."
"No, Knoxville is fine. That's where our hotel is anyway," replied Dellhart as he ushered Jenny up the steep stairway of the passenger bus.
"Then we crossed paths at just the right time." The driver closed the folding door and nodded toward the double row of seats behind him. You folks grab yourself a seat back there and leave the driving to us."
Dellhart escorted Jenny down the narrow aisle way toward the center of the bus. The vehicle was nearly empty. Only a few passengers sat scattered along its length—a solemn nun reading a Bible, a cowboy drifter snoozing with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and a perky, fresh-faced family consisting of a husband, wife, and giggling baby girl sitting at the rear. They couldn't make any of the passengers out very well, for the interior of the bus was shadowy due to the dark tint of the windows. Very little sunlight seemed to filter in at all.
Denham chose a seat isolated from the other passengers and, with a warning glare of his crisp blue eyes, directed his hostage to sit down. Jenny passively obeyed and took the spot next to the window, stifling the urge to start kicking and screaming for help. She knew that the bus was no place to try a foolish escape attempt, for the simple fact that it could endanger the lives of the other passengers and the friendly driver as well. Jackson Dellhart was a very desperate man at that moment; she could clearly see that caged emotion in his eyes. If she sounded the alarm, Dellhart could end up killing everyone on the bus in order to save his own hide.
The driver put the Greyhound into gear and headed north along Highway 411. Dellhart settled back in his seat and let the deep thrum of the engine lull away the tension of the past hour on PaleDoveMountain.
Jenny wasn't so relieved to be on the road. She knew the sudden change in Dellhart's plans didn't exclude the fate he had in mind for her. Sooner or later, she must try to escape. Perhaps when they reached the bustle of the crowded airport, she would find an opportunity to make a run for it and hope that she didn't catch a bullet in the process.
"It stinks in here," she complained as the bus cruised around the western side of the mountain.
"Stop your bitching," Dellhart warned. He breathed deeply and found that she was right. It was a little rank inside the vehicle. A nasty odor that smelled like spoiled meat hung in the air. In fact, the entire bus had an oddly uncomfortable feeling to it. The interior was much too warm and humid, and the black upholstery of the seat was strangely damp and sticky to the touch.
Dellhart craned his neck and watched through the broad windshield of the Greyhound—which seemed as darkly tinted as the side windows—and saw the turnoff that led up the western face to Brice's cabin. There were a couple of state patrol cars parked there with their blue lights flashing. At first, Dellhart was sure that they had set up a roadblock across the highway. But on second glance he saw that they were only sealing off the mouth of the access road.
The bus began to speed up slightly as they neared the two cars, which were parked nose to nose at the mouth of the mountain road. Dellhart smiled, feeling smug satisfaction at having escaped the mountain undetected and triumph at having pulled the wool over the eyes of the state police.
However, those emotions soon gave way to a heart-pounding jolt of fear and confusion as the driver jerked sharply on the wheel and steered the bus off the surface of the main highway and straight for the two patrol cars.
Abruptly, there was a tremendous crash. The blunt nose of the Greyhound slammed into the front fenders of the abandoned cars, pushing them aside as if they weighed nothing. The driver laughed loudly as he stepped on the accelerator and sent the bus into a swift, climbing ascent up the mountainside.
Jackson Dellhart drew the magnum and lurched from his seat. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, brandishing the gun threateningly.
The driver cackled wildly. "We're taking a shortcut…straight to hell!"
Dellhart was about to run forward and take control of the bus himself, but he was frozen in his tracks when the driver turned around, revealing his face. A loud crackling echoed through the bus as a strange transformation began to contort the man's features. The friendly face of the black man was turning increasingly lighter in pallor, almost to the point of grayness, and the bone structure of the cheeks and jaws were growing gaunter in nature. Suddenly the metamorphosis was completed and Dellhart found himself staring into the ashen face of a man he knew only from the pictures in his Project Pale Dove file. The face of an elderly man whose horrible torture and death he had been responsible for.
Dellhart raised his gun and aimed it at the leering face of Fletcher Brice. He was about to pull the trigger when the hand of the silent nun reached out and grabbed his arm. He screamed out as the bones of his wrist were instantly ground into splinters by the viselike fingers of the Sister. The .44 Magnum spun from his convulsing hand and landed on an empty seat, where it was swallowed up as though sinking into some dark mass of absorbent tissue.
He looked down, his ears filled with the unnerving sound of crackling, and watched as the face of the nun slowly switched from one countenance to another. The passive features that had once glowed with the inspiration of the Holy Scriptures now grimaced in rage, the smooth gray skin deeply furrowed with battle scars. "Where are you going, Dellhart?" rasped Frag Hendrix. "Sit back and enjoy the ride!"
Dellhart wrenched his broken arm away from the creature's slimy grasp and stumbled backward. A multitude of strong hands clutched at him from all sides of the aisle way, dragging him off his feet and pressing him back into his seat. The crackling grew in intensity and volume. He flailed out and his fist hit one of the side windows. His hand rebounded as though it had hit a tautly stretched membrane—darkly translucent, yet incredibly durable. The bogus windows on each side of the bus began to slowly thicken and close in on th
emselves, for the illusion was no longer necessary. The deception had already served its purpose and the prey was securely ensnared within the trap.
"Jenny!" called Fletcher Brice from the driver's seat. "It's time to let you off!"
The woman sat crouched in shocked immobility, watching the fetid, gray-fleshed things as they grappled with Jackson Dellhart. At the sound of her father's voice, however, she stood up and scrambled past the struggling executive. "Hurry!" rasped one of the things that held Dellhart captive in his seat. Its face pulsed and swirled, the features slowly molding into a ghastly replica of Deputy Homer Peck.
She made it to the center aisle and started forward. The floor of the bus heaved and settled with a life of its own.
Mucus-like secretions boiled around her feet and sucked at the soles of her shoes, threatening to bog her down like an insect on flypaper. As Jenny neared the front of the monstrous Greyhound, sunlight broke through the gathering darkness as the nose of the bus split open. A toothy maw appeared there. She hurried toward the gruesome exit way, feeling the bus slow to a lumbering creep.
Jenny paused for a long second and regarded the familiar face of the driver. "Papa?" she whispered as emotion threatened to overcome her.
The thing masquerading as Fletcher Brice smiled gently at her with all the love and tenderness that her true father had never shown her. "You'd best leave now, daughter," he told her in that gravelly voice she had known since childhood.
Tears welled in her eyes as the mouth of the bestial bus yawned, giving her enough access for escape. Suddenly, she had a million things she wanted to say, a million things she wanted to tell this eerie incarnation of Fletcher Brice before she took her leave. But she knew that she only had time to say one. "I love you, Papa," she managed.
"I love you, too," said the Dark'Un with a gentle smile, voicing the words that she had longed to hear from her true father. "Now, get going."