Vengeance Road

by Christine Feehan

  Freeman had dark brown hair that was thick and wavy. At six two he was all muscle, without an ounce of fat. His eyes were a dark blue and held an intensity; when he flicked Barry a careless glance, Barry’s gut reacted as if punched. The man had rugged good looks that had catapulted him into stardom in the modeling world. Ordinarily, Barry and the crew would have been making fun of him behind his back, but no one did—especially after one of those smoldering, scary glances. Not one single bead of sweat marred his good looks.

  “Five minutes out.” The call came from the front via Freeman’s radio.

  Barry held up five fingers and the five men in the helicopter barely reacted. The helicopter was coming in with guns ready. They knew they wouldn’t have much time to retrieve the wounded U.S. Rangers, Kopassus or civilians. The gunners were in position and tension mounted.

  Members of the WHO, the World Health Organization, had come at the request of the government to examine the remains of the dead in Lupa Suku, a small village in a remote part of Sumatra. Every man, woman and child had died of what appeared to be a very fast-acting and deadly virus, possibly a dreaded hemorrhagic one. Before they could set up their equipment, the WHO members had been attacked by a small terrorist cell known to the government.

  The Milisi Separatis Sumatra, or MSS as the government referred to them, had sprung up in the last few years. They were growing fast and were well funded. Their goal seemed to be similar to that of most other terrorist cells—to take down the government. They were now suspected of having chosen the small village of Lupa Suku to test a hemorrhagic virus, but where it came from and how they got it, no one knew. But they needed to find out fast.

  The rain forest of Sumatra was rich in plants and wildlife, although over the years it had been shrinking significantly. The trees were thick, the taller dipterocarp shooting up to the sky providing shade, vines climbing them and flowers wrapping around them. Mangrove roots pulled sediment from the river, leaving large areas of peat swamps with rich nutrients promoting thicker growth at their edges. The village of Lupa Suku was surrounded by the forest and tucked in just far enough from the river to be a perfect target.

  The government had sent in their special forces, the Kopassus, to rescue the single WHO representative still alive. The Kopassus were known worldwide as tough soldiers able to stack up against any army. They were well trained and very skilled. They’d been ambushed as they were trying to aid the wounded man. A small force of U.S. Rangers had been called to aid the Kopassus who were pinned down, some reportedly badly wounded. The Rangers were then attacked and pinned down as well.

  It began to look as if Lupa Suku had been sacrificed in order to draw the Indonesian soldiers into fighting a guerrilla-style war on the terrorists’ home turf. Whatever the rumor, there were wounded men needing aid and six of them were soldiers of the United States. Now this team was going to try to bring those soldiers out of the hot zone—along with any Kopassus and the remaining living representative of the WHO.

  “Two minutes.”

  Barry held up two fingers and the team moved, readying themselves for a quick departure.

  “Ten minutes is all you’ve got and then we have to get into the air,” Barry reminded them. “If we can’t hold our position, we’ll come back around for you.”

  Freeman flicked him a quick glance. It was one of those looks that seemed to burn a hole right through him. Barry shivered, not liking those eyes on him. They were intelligent, focused—almost too focused. They didn’t blink, and it felt like death looking at him.

  The team leader, Dr. Joe Spagnola, gave him a quick look as well. It pretty much said, “You maggot, if you leave one of my men behind, don’t ever go to sleep because I’ll be coming for you.” At least Barry interpreted the look that way.

  * * *

  • • •

  Joe Spagnola ignored the way the helicopter crew was looking at his team. He didn’t look at them or his own men, but instead reached telepathically to his GhostWalker unit. GhostWalkers were enhanced psychically as well as physically. The first they’d signed on for; the last, not so much. Still, they were classified soldiers and they did their job, no matter how fucked-up it was.

  Each branch of the service had one GhostWalker team consisting of ten members. The first team experimented on had a few major problems. Some needed anchors to drain away the psychic energy that adhered to them like magnets. Others had brain bleeds. Every subsequent team had fewer flaws until Whitney, the doctor performing the experiments, had rolled out his prize group, the pararescue team. They might have what Whitney considered fewer flaws, but they also had more genetic enhancements than any of them cared for.

  He leaves us, we’ll be finding him and his candy-ass crew when we get out of here. Joe’s voice slid into their minds.

  * * *

  • • •

  Draden’s gaze shifted, just for one moment, to Barry Font and then over to his fellow teammate, Malichai Fortunes.

  There are a hundred and fifty volcanoes in Indonesia, Malichai, their fact man, informed them all telepathically. We can shove his ass out of the helicopter right into one of them if he tries leaving any of us behind.

  Draden let amusement slide into his eyes for a moment but didn’t let it show on his face. Malichai had been spouting all kinds of facts about the rain forest and the wildlife at risk there. That was his way of coping in a dangerous situation, and all members of the team just let him carry on.

  Their enhancements made them predators any way you looked at it. Hunters. They were very good at their jobs. They looked like soldiers. Doctors. Officers. But they were much more than that, and anyone in close confines with them felt the difference sooner rather than later. All of them could smell the fear the helicopter crew was giving off, and that fear had nothing to do with flying into a hot zone. No, Barry and the crew were used to that sort of danger—they just didn’t like their passengers.

  Draden couldn’t give a rat’s ass if he was liked or not. He had a job to do. They were going into enemy territory to bring out the wounded and make certain they stayed alive until they got them back to the hospitals.

  The helicopter set down with a jarring thump and Draden was out fast, running with his fellow teammates in the dark toward the southern tip of the tree line. Deliberately, they’d chosen to fly in at three in the morning, when their enemy was least likely to be at its sharpest. The sound of the rotors was loud in the night, something that couldn’t be helped. He knew the noise would draw the enemy. That couldn’t be helped either. They just needed a few minutes.

  The terrorist cell had set its trap with live bait. They knew the terrain and had chosen it carefully. The MSS had the advantage, especially when the Indonesian government had wounded soldiers waiting for help. They knew the authorities would send their elite and it was a chance to mow them down.

  Draden fanned out to his left while Gino Mazza went right, both flanking the others as Joe went down on one knee and flashed the tiny blue light in each direction three times. They received a response from the west. Instantly they were up and running again toward the returned signal.

  Thirty feet from the thickest brush, they spread out even farther, running in absolute silence as only GhostWalkers could. Joe, Malichai and Diego Campo dropped down, their weapons ready, while Draden and Gino continued forward. Draden slipped into the cover of the brush, a place he was at home.

  He found their contact ten feet in, crouched down in the thick buttresses of a dipterocarp tree. “How many wounded?” Draden asked, his voice a thread of sound.

  “Fifteen.”

  Draden gave a mental shake of his head. Fifteen wounded was a lot of wounded. They had room in the three helicopters, but maybe not the time to get them all in. “Can anyone besides you help get them to the choppers?”

  “Two others.”

  That wasn’t good either.

  “Enemy?”
/>
  “No idea of their numbers. They seem to come and go. At least we think they’re gone and the moment we move, they open fire.”

  Draden nodded. “Any of you sick?”

  The Ranger shook his head. “The only one to go near the village was Dr. Henderson, and he was in full hazmat gear. We stayed out of there. Henderson wants the village burned.”

  Draden turned and signaled the others in. They came like wraiths, sliding out of the night in complete silence. Draden gave them the number of wounded telepathically while Joe tapped his watch.

  Move fast, gentlemen, we don’t have time to triage here. Get them into the choppers.

  Joe didn’t sound alarmed, but Draden felt it nevertheless. They had about eight minutes, and getting to the wounded would eat up at least a minute or two.

  He was already on his feet, so they followed their contact through the thick forest to the small dip in the terrain hidden by brush and the buttresses of wide tree trunks. The Kopassus looked grim—two dead, three of them badly wounded, but guns steady as rocks. One was still standing and ready to pack out his teammates, already gathering their weapons. The Rangers were in similar straits—one dead, the others in various states of badly wounded, or just broken and bloody. Those with lighter injuries were gathering up their teammates to pack them out. The WHO doctor, clearly in bad shape, staggered as he stood. None of them looked as if they could walk more than a few steps.

  The GhostWalkers were all business. Gino took the worst Ranger, slapping field dressings on his wounds to keep him from bleeding out while they ran to the choppers. The Kopassus followed with one of his fellow team members. Joe took a Ranger and Diego a Kopassus. Malichai took the civilian. One of the Rangers staggered to his feet.

  “I can walk out.”

  Draden nodded and waved him after the others. He moved from wounded man to wounded man, giving water and seeing to the worst of their wounds. All the while he listened for any changes in the sounds of the night that could indicate members of the MSS had returned at the sound of the helicopters.

  Gino returned, hoisting another Ranger onto his back. The Kopassus soldier returned with him and took another of the wounded. The soldier didn’t look in good shape, but he wasn’t leaving anyone behind. They wanted to pack their dead with them as well, not leave them behind, but the dead had to go last. Joe, Diego and Malichai all had the next round of wounded and were gone, disappearing into the darkness, when Draden felt his first prickle of unease.

  He crouched low and signaled to the remaining soldiers for absolute silence. The remaining men showed why they were considered elite. In spite of their wounds, they immediately went into survival mode, weapons ready, sliding deeper into the depression for cover. Draden moved away from them, toward the north. There were no sounds of insects. Not even the continual drone of cicadas or loud croaks of tree frogs. For a moment the forest had gone unnaturally quiet, signaling something was moving into it that didn’t belong.

  He was part of the forest and could read every sign. He moved fast, slipping through brush without a whisper of sound. Sinking into the thick foliage, he waited. A man emerged from a small group of trees, heading stealthily toward the encampment of the wounded. Draden saw another fifteen feet from him, and a third man the same distance out, as the terrorists moved in unison toward the small group of soldiers.

  Draden waited until the nearest terrorist had passed him then rose up swiftly, catching him around the head, his hand muffling any sound as he plunged his knife into the base of the skull before lowering the man to the ground. The forest floor was thick with vegetation and cushioned the fall of the rifle. Draden was already melting into the dark, making his way across the expanse to the next man in line.

  As the next terrorist turned his head toward where the fallen man should have been, Draden was on him, repeating the kill and slipping away. Behind him, more of the terrorists were emerging into the kill zone. They were filtering through the trees and shrubbery, making little sound, coming up toward the encampment where the remaining wounded waited to be transported.

  Draden took the third man on their front line and then glanced down at his watch. He needed to buy Joe and the others an extra couple of minutes to pack out the last of the wounded. Then he’d have to double-time it back to the choppers so they could get out of there before the MSS had time to get real firepower set up.

  He reached up, leapt, caught the branches of a durian tree and pulled himself up, waiting for the next line of soldiers to pass in front of him. Although he was aware of every second ticking by, he was patient. The moment the five men crept through the darkness, he dropped down, placing himself between the MSS filtering through the forest. They were creeping stealthily toward the helicopters, trying to insert themselves between the choppers and the remaining wounded soldiers.

  MSS coming at you, Draden warned his team. I’ll buy some time.

  Draden moved much faster, risking being seen by one of the terrorists behind him as he cut down first one and then a second in that line. Glancing at his watch, he ran toward a third, his knife stabbing deep into the base of the skull as he shot past. He held on to the hilt of the knife, so that as he ran, it spun his victim around before the blade came free. He threw a balanced throwing knife sideways into the neck of another as he sprinted out of the protection of the trees.

  We’re in. We’re away, Joe reported. Circling to bring you home.

  Coming in on the run.

  The last of the helicopters had lifted from the ground, gunners providing cover, spraying the tree line to keep the terrorists from taking aim at Draden. Diego and Malichai used automatics to aid the gunners as Joe and Gino worked on the wounded. A rope was dropped down as the chopper circled back. Draden kept running as gunfire erupted from the cover of the forest. Bullets spat around him.

  The chopper came slipping out of the sky toward him. It was coming in low, the rope flying like a slinky tail. Behind him, the forest went strangely silent. No gunfire. He didn’t stop. He leapt for the rope, his gloved hands catching hold, the jerk so strong it nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets. Still, his enhanced strength allowed him to hang on while the chopper began to climb.

  He was twenty feet up when he felt the sting in his thigh, and his heart stuttered with instant awareness. He glanced down to see a dart protruding from his muscle and knew why the terrorists’ weapons had gone silent. They had a sniper, and he wasn’t armed with a bullet. He was armed with a virus. If Draden went up into the helicopter, he was condemning everyone in it to the same death as those in the village. Without real conscious thought, he let go of the rope, dropping out of the sky and back to earth.

  Virus injection. It was the best information he could give them, so they would know to leave him behind.

  Malichai was staring down at him, their eyes meeting as he fell away. He saw Malichai practically dive from the helicopter, but Diego caught at him, holding him back. Draden landed in a crouch, his enhanced DNA allowing his legs to act like springs and absorb the shock. He somersaulted forward and stood up, facing the forest, his arms spread wide. Let them shoot him if they wanted, but if they didn’t, he was infecting the bastards. He began walking toward the edge of all the trees and brush.

  Draden. What the hell happened? Joe’s voice slipped into his mind. It was faint, as if the distance was already too far. He heard the helicopter circling back so Joe would be able to reach him. He pictured Joe holding a weapon on the crew. He could get that intense.

  By the time he reached the trees, the MSS had faded away, leaving him to die however the villagers had. He’d seen the reports the Indonesian government had shared with the WHO. It was one of the reasons his team had been in the region. Two team members were two of the leading scientists developing treatments, therapies and pharmaceuticals in the field of viruses.

  Infected with the virus.

  Draden had taken the time to fi
nish both his doctorate and MD, to be an asset to others on his team. He’d dabbled in biochemistry but finished his undergrad with a BS in genetics. Stanford offered a dual MD and PhD program and he’d taken advantage of that. He’d gotten his MD as an infectious disease doctor and his PhD in microbiology and immunology. He found it ironic that he would be dying of a weaponized virus after all that work to earn his degrees. Determined to be of some use, he decided to record everything he could about his symptoms, along with any suppositions he might have before he put a bullet in his head. He’d leave final conclusions for them.

  Tell Trap and Wyatt I’ll leave behind a recording. Don’t know if they can use whatever I find, but they should be able to remotely access my recorder without touching the device.

  I’m sorry, man. Trap and Wyatt may have ideas.

  Draden knew, just from the earlier reports, that their ideas would be too late. The virus acted too fast. He would be dead before Joe had time to make it back to the States.

  I’ll torch the village. He hoped he’d get that done fast so he could hunt the terrorists who were infecting people and using them as bait to kill more. He wanted to kill as many of the bastards as possible before the virus took hold and left him too sick to go after them.

  He could hear the chopper circling back around a second time. Hope you didn’t put a gun to their heads. He injected humor he wasn’t really feeling into his voice.

  Maybe if we get you back we can find the treatment before it’s too late, Malichai said.

  Too fast-acting. Can’t chance infecting all of you. We all signed up for a one-way ticket when we joined the GhostWalkers. It’s just my turn.