The Bear Killer and another man were sitting in front of him with their backs to him and somehow he knew that the Bear Killer was in control. Max lay down, feeling no fear and falling quickly back to sleep. He awoke several times during the long journey, feeling himself being carried, sat down, moved. But it was all like a dream, as though he were seeing it from outside his body. There was pain, fever, chills, nightmares, but through it all, the calm, steady voice, and strong gentle strokes of the Bear Killer kept him anchored to a semblance of sanity that pushed the fear and feelings of panic, that tried time and again to claim him, at bay.
On the day the fever broke, he awoke feeling famished. There was a bowl of water beside him and another with a few chunks of meat. He ate one of the chunks, drank a few laps of water, fouled himself and passed out. It was night when he again opened his eyes. Still too weak to get up on all fours, he managed to sit up. There was no sign of having soiled himself, the bedding beneath him was clean and his fur waste free. The bowls held fresh water and fresh meat. He ate again with the same results. It was like that for four days. On the morning of the fifth, he ate all the meat, drank half the water, and stumbled out of the nest-like bed, through a flapping doggy door to an enclosed yard where he marked several trees and expelled his waste, covering it with a few jerky thrusts in the dirt from his back paws. Max went back inside, finished the bowl of water and slept until the next morning. His strength quickly returned and only then did he realize how close he had truly come to death.
For weeks the Bear Killer treated him, patiently caring for his wounds, feeding him, cleaning up after him, and sometime during those weeks, Max came to think of him no longer as the Bear Killer, but as the Alpha.
He knew he was in a different land. The smells were different and this bothered him. He was so far away from his home there was not even the barest scent of the Gray Wolf who had permeated his thoughts nearly all his short life. The Gray Wolf killed his parents, killed his siblings, almost killed him. And the one mission Max would not be deterred from was his revenge against that great monster.
The Alpha had saved him from the men, Max understood this and was grateful in as much as he was capable, but he had also taken him so far from the Gray Wolf he might never find him and for that Max hated him. The two emotions, with the added conflict of his innate drive to be the pack leader himself, warred within the confines of his mind, shifting his mood back and forth so that at any given time he might want to lick the Alpha’s hand or rip out his throat.
A car’s tires snapped and popped on the hot asphalt that led up the long winding drive to the mountain cabin. It stopped, bringing Max back from the world of the past to the present in a heartbeat. His ears picked up the sounds of a child’s muffled sobs and of a car door opening and closing.
There was no reaction from the cabin, no tingle at his collar. Then the roar of the shotgun going off inside the house shattered the quiet afternoon.
Max waited as the man and the little girl walked by him.
48
Gil
“Joseph, give me the gun,” I said, holding out a hand but making no move toward him. Joseph was crying. His hand shook on the long black barrel of the shotgun, his finger wrapped around the trigger.
“He killed my brother.”
“No, not him. The men he hired, but not him.”
The gun shook a little more, the barrel digging into Doors’ neck, forcing his head forward. “It’s the same thing. He’s responsible.”
“Yes, he’s responsible, but not just him. There are others and we need him to catch them.”
The tears ran over Joseph’s lips so that they flew like spit when he spoke. “I don’t care about them. Only him. He killed Shane!” He jammed the gun in deeper.
Roger Doors had lost all semblance of arrogance. He urinated in his pants, the dark stain spreading from the crotch of his jeans and running down his legs. “Don’t kill me-don’t kill me-please don’t kill me. I beg you.”
“SHUT UP!” Joseph screamed. I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and knew how light the pull was on that particular gun. A second more and Roger Doors’ head and face would be so much jelly on the cabin’s hardwood floor. I can’t say a part of me didn’t relish the idea, but letting Joseph be responsible for that and having to live with the consequences for the rest of his life was not worth it.
“Joseph, wait — easy. I tuned that shotgun to have an extremely light trigger-pull. Back off, please, and let me talk to you.”
For an instant I thought I had lost him. He shoved in so far I thought Doors’ chin would rupture through his skinny chest. But he pulled back. “He has to die.”
“He will be punished, I promise you that. But not by you, Joseph, by the law. That’s the right way to do it.”
He looked up at me and the anguish poured from his eyes. “The right way? The right way? I heard what you said. What they did to my brother. How could they? How could they do that to him? He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t do anything. Shane just wanted to do what was right. That’s all. He wanted to do what was right. He wanted to do what was right!”
“He was cheating me,” said Doors, and I could have killed him myself.
Joseph exploded. “SHUT UP! He wasn’t cheating you. I should kill you. I should kill you right now, you stinking, filthy piece of…” He pushed the gun forward again and I felt my heart go into my throat.
“Yes he was-yes he was-yes he was,” blubbered Doors, drool stringing from his lips, snot dripping from his nose, his pants soaked.
“He never did that,” screamed Joseph. “He never did. He was good. Shane was good.”
Something about the look on Joseph’s face reminded me of our talk in my car before he knew Shane was dead, when the thunder was splitting the sky and making him quake in fear. I remembered how he was about to tell me something, something important, but then the lightning flashed and the moment was lost. I remembered him having that same look when we were in his room and I told him about Shane’s death. There was the grief, the loss, the guilt, but there was something else too.
It hit me. I understood. Doors wasn’t lying. His story about his corporate spies was true. Only he blamed the wrong brother. “It was you.”
Joseph looked up at me, his lips trembling. He nodded.
“You went to the other companies for bids on WTP. Shane had nothing to do with it.”
Racking sobs broke from deep in his chest. “He wanted to destroy it. All that work, all that money, and he wanted to throw it all away just because he thought God wanted him to.” He shook his head. “I knew Hepperman would try and cheat us again anyway and once Shane broke the fake flash drive I thought I would be clear to sell the game to one of the other companies. Then later I would give him his half. I wasn’t going to cheat him, not like them. I just wanted what was coming to me. That’s all, I swear.” He pushed the gun in. “AND YOU KILLED HIM FOR IT!”
Doors screamed back at him this time. “No, you killed him. If I hadn’t thought he was cheating me none of this would have happened. You killed your brother. It was your fault, not mine, yours!”
“Shut up, Doors, or I’ll break your neck myself,” I said, praying I wasn’t too late but knowing I was.
Joseph jerked the gun away from Doors’ head and jammed the muzzle beneath his own chin, his thumb switching to the trigger. “You’re right. I did kill my brother.” He looked up to the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m so sorry.”
There was no time — no way I could get over Doors’ to stop Joseph — nothing I could say that would slow the pressure I saw him exerting on the trigger of the gun.
I kicked Doors as hard as I could in the center of his chest. He went straight back, chair and all, hitting into the shotgun and Joseph at the same time. The gun exploded with an ear-splitting roar and I saw blood spray from Joseph’s face. I was on him in an instant, catching him before he could fall to the ground. His face was painted in red, torn flesh flapping along his jaw.
<
br /> Doors screamed incoherently. The hot stench of blood and sulfur hung in a gray cloud that filled the room. My ears reverberated with a high pitched whine that made me sick.
“Please, Lord, no, please,” I cried as I wiped away the blood trying to assess the slug’s trajectory and lethality. I felt for a pulse at his carotid, my scarlet gloved fingers shaking uncontrollably. Panic. I wasn’t acting like a professional. All I could think of was the Franklins; first Shane, then Amber, and now Joseph. I had failed them, failed them all. Failed them just as I had failed my own family. My slick fingers felt nothing and the blood kept pouring like water from a blown pipe.
Think.
If the blood was still pumping he wasn’t dead — not yet. I wiped away the blood again, forcing myself to slow down. I saw a jagged tear along the bottom of the left side of his jaw. Splinters of bone were visible in the wound, but the gash itself was no deeper than an inch, and only a little wider. I pushed the heel of my hand against his jaw and clamped down, direct pressure being the best way to stop the bleeding.
I looked up to the ceiling and saw a neat hole rimmed in red mist. The top edge of the chair would have hit the shotgun mid-way down the stock of the weapon, forcing it out and away from under Joseph’s chin. The slug must have barely grazed his jaw, the concussion and expanding gasses accounting for the shredded skin. His jaw looked to be broken and he might loose a few teeth, but he would live.
I closed my eyes, concentrating on my breathing — slower — slower. I felt my heart matching the pace. The blood continued to slip past my palm and through my fingers but it too was slowing.
With my free hand, I reached over, grabbed a handful of Roger Doors’ green, short sleeve shirt and ripped down and out. The material stretched, reached its limit and tore in a long strip that stretched from the shoulder to his waist. I gave it another yank and the strip came free. I pressed it against Joseph’s jaw and tied it around the top of his head. I knotted it tightly, the green material going dark and dripping. But it was barely a trickle now, and there was still work to be done before Spock showed up.
I righted Doors in his chair, ignoring his orders to let him go. His nose had long since stopped bleeding, but dried blood caked his lip and chin, looking grizzly.
I pointed a finger at him. “One more word and I’ll use your under-shorts for a gag.” That shut him up. It wasn’t the kind of line Iron Man would have used, but it worked.
My fingers had just closed around the strap of my bulletproof vest when the front door crashed in, showering glass into the room. Spock was there, holding Amber around the chest in one arm. The other arm was extended toward me, the hand holding a gun pointed at my chest.
I hesitated, he didn’t. The first bullet caught me in the right peck, just above the nipple. It felt like the Hulk had hit me with a fist the size of a tank. And it hurt. A lot.
There was no hesitation now. I jerked the vest to chest level, hearing the double crack of the semi-auto as it unloaded two more rounds in my direction. The vest was ripped from my hand and went flying across the room as though it had magically gained the power of levitation. I dove to the side, toggling the switch of the transmitter on my belt, and felt the heat of a bullet scorch the hairs of my chest as it passed me. There was a meaty sounding smack and I saw Roger Doors’ head snap back and forward, a shocked expression on his face. A red dot, about the diameter of a .9 mm, decorated the center of his forehead. His entire body slumped in the chair.
I hit the wall, the impact jarring me. My breath was gone, stolen by the nugget lodged somewhere in my right lung. I coughed and bright, frothy blood splattered the drapes. A spray of wood chips peppered my cheeks as a bullet hit the log wall half an inch from my face.
My legs turned to rubber, the world tilted like a jarred pin-ball game. The barrel of Spock’s gun lined up with my nose.
49
I looked to the chair where my vest had been a moment ago and saw my undershirt and my gun — twenty feet away.
Spock saw the movement and followed. He looked back at me and smiled. “Think you can make it?” Amber was crying and kicking against him. He sat her on the floor behind him without taking his eyes from me.
My chest was on fire, but only a trickle of blood seeped from the wound. That meant I must be bleeding on the inside. Not good. “You killed your boss.” The words came hard, with no air, and it cost me a lot.
He glanced at Doors’ body, shrugged. “Accidents happen. There are other jobs. I won’t go hungry.”
“No,” I said. “You’re a dead man.”
“Really? I’m not the one bleeding out.”
“You won’t get away.”
“Actually, I will. I have another car coming up with a few of my men. A little cleaning up and rearranging and it will look like you killed Mr. Doors.”
“No,” it was so hard to talk, but I had to stall. “Nick Carlino’s men are at the bottom of the hill. They let you up, but no one else is coming.”
The smile left — returned. I’d shaken him for a second.
“You’re lying.”
“No.”
“Time to end this.” He nodded at the gun on the chair. “Want to try?”
I saw Max creep in from the shattered front door behind him. “Oh yes, I want to try.”
He nodded, lost the smile, his eyes as cold as the dead blood that ran through Dracula’s ancient veins. “Go ahea…”
Max hit him at the base of the skull, roughly the same spot that Joseph had rammed the barrel of the shotgun against Doors’ head. The impact took Spock off his feet, shoving him face first into the wood floor. The gun went spinning away.
I tried for it, took a step, blood erupted from my mouth in a gout. I landed on my side, the pain a bright, sharp point in a shroud of deepening fog that closed in rapidly. Spock was on the floor screaming, Max ripping at his neck, growls primal and raw rumbling past the blood and flesh.
Spock was a pro, I had to give him that. He swung back with an elbow, striking Max in the ribs; reversed hitting him from the other side, back and forth, the blows raining like a swinging pendulum. I could only guess at the agony those moves must have cost him with his neck in Max’s jaws. But Max was a killing machine. He absorbed the damage and continued on, digging in and wrenching fiercely. Spock changed tactics and grabbed at Max’s head, but Max ducked low, avoiding the clutching fingers and pulled his whole bulk backward in jerking movements that had to have been crushing the bones in the man’s neck. Spock screamed, flailing out with his hands. He grabbed the couch and I saw the cushion, with my shirt and gun on it, slide to the floor in front of him.
I blinked, forcing myself to stay awake, and saw the gun suddenly in his hand. He fired blindly behind him; once, twice, thrice. He was missing Max, but Amber was back there somewhere. She could be killed.
Rage swept through me like a flood. He had tortured and killed an innocent boy; kidnapped a baby, shot me. If he lived, he would kill Amber and probably the rest of the Franklins. I saw my hand, the silver WWJD bracelet shining, and remembered what Christ said about a man who would make a child stumble and how it would be better for a millstone to be put around his neck and for him to be thrown into the sea. And I remembered Amber, the first time I’d seen her, how her plump little fist clutched my finger while she sucked her thumb. I reached out in front of my face, slapped my palm onto the floor and pulled, dragging my body across the shiny, hardwood.
The gun was five feet ahead.
I gripped the wood with my fingertips, pulled, hauling my bare chest and useless legs behind me. Reached again, pulled — again and again and again.
Spock fired a seventh time and I heard Max growl in pain.
My hand closed around the butt of his .9mm. I looked up, saw him staring into my eyes, Max still at work, standing on his back and tearing at the meat of his neck. I pointed the gun at him. He swung my gun at me.
We both fired.
He missed. I didn’t.
Max dropped him lik
e the dead weight he now was.
Through the heavy pounding in my head I heard sirens wailing toward us. But better than that, I heard Amber crying with all the verve a two year old girl could put into it. And that was plenty.
I smiled and passed out. Some tough guy.
50
I got to ride in a helicopter, although I don’t remember much of the trip. Just little patches as I gained consciousness before slipping back out again. I remember the throaty roar of the engine, the loud wop-wop-wop of the blades, the faces of the flight crew who worked on me as we banked and swooped through the sky.
It’s funny that even close to death, your stomach can still get butterflies when the flying machine you are in drops five hundred feet in a few seconds.
I remember the sun blinding my eyes as they raced me across a flat landing pad on a roof and into an elevator. The overhead fluorescent lights snapped past as the flight crew spit out my vitals to the doctors. The sharp smell of antiseptic, the pain in my chest; how hard it was to breathe. I remember grabbing a doctor’s shirt and pulling him close and saying, “Did I millstone him?” Another pain, this time in the side of my chest as they cut a rude hole to shove in a tube the size of a garden hose and relieve the pressure of the blood built up around my heart and lungs. Looking over, I saw about a gallon of blood splat onto the floor, spraying the doctors’ and nurses’ booties they wore over their shoes and splashing up onto their blue surgical pants. I remember thinking there was enough blood there to paint my house. And then I could breathe again and it felt so good.
I asked about Max and Pilgrim. No one seemed to know anything about them and I started screaming for them. What if they were dead or hurt or needed me? I arrested all the nurses and doctors and told them they better save my dogs or I would Whack their Pig and shove them into a computer. Things got a little wild for awhile, but then two orderlies big enough to play offensive tackles for the NFL held my arms down and another one flopped over my legs. Someone snuck a needle into my arm just below the bicep, and that’s all I remember until I woke up in the recovery room. I felt sore everywhere.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 23