Demon Driven (8 page)

“Downtown, this is DHS Nightstrike, inbound
to pick up two, over,” came a radio call on the operator’s
speaker.

“Nightstrike, this is Downtown heliport, the
pad is clear. Please land in transient, advise on the go,” was the
calm reply from the controller who had been called Mitch by the
other controller.

“Do you have a visual on Nightstrike, Ian?”
Mitch asked.

“Not quite yet…gottem! Holy Shit! Nightstrike
is a Blackhawk!” Ian said.

“No shit? Let me see!” Mitch answered. Then a
second later: “Crap, you’re right. Big mothers, aren’t they?”

I opened my eyes and looked at Gina who was,
oddly, not staring at me. Gina was always evaluating me; now it
looked like she was avoiding my gaze, which immediately told me she
had been talking with Lydia.

Why I chose to introduce those two, I’ll
never figure out. All I can say is it seemed harmless at the time.
The human police sergeant and the vampire confidant had hit it off
instantly, the two immediately making my life hell. Apparently, my
human handler and Tanya’s vampire handler felt the need to confer
on virtually every detail of my bizarre life.

I settled my Oakley sunglasses on my nose,
grabbed my gear and stood up just as the one named Ian poked his
head out of the control room and said: “Looks like your ride is
here. You’re going in style!”

I merely nodded and headed out to the
heliport, ignoring Gina as she came calmly along behind me.

The D.O.A.A. helicopter was a black UH-60
Blackhawk, the utility workhorse of the U.S. military.

The standard Army version could carry a crew
of four and eleven other passengers. I knew Brianna’s group was
well funded, but I hadn’t expected this.

The crew chief jumped out of the bird and
waved us over, the rotors spinning and hitting us with heavy blasts
of air as we ran over to the door of the helicopter. The chief, who
was female, directed us to our seats, the only two left open.
Looked like a full flight. She got us buckled up, jumped back out
to check her bird, then hopped into her own seat after a quick
signal to the pilot. The big copter spun up to full power, lifting
off with a forward tilt like a giant dragonfly.

Normally I would have been enjoying myself
immensely. I love flying and have always wanted to fly in a
Blackhawk. But I wasn’t really capable of generating enthusiasm for
anything at this point.

I settled back in my seat and looked over my
fellow passengers. Agent Duclair was setting closest to the cockpit
and wearing a crew headset so she could confer with the pilot,
which she appeared to be doing now. Eric Adler loomed to her left,
his ice blue eyes watching me appraisingly. Seven other pairs of
eyes were checking us out as well. Two sets belonged to male and
female agents, dressed in khakis and polos, with the look of crime
scene technicians. The other five were dressed in
[wore]
combat dress much like my own, but dark blue instead of black. I
knew them immediately for what they were. A strike team. Armed with
assault rifles, body armor, and tactical vests, they were the
team’s hunters. Their guns would be loaded with silver tipped
bullets, their job would be to terminate the rogue when it was
located and cornered. Four men and one woman, all hardened
operators, probably with military backgrounds. They would all have
a cool team nickname for instant use in a firefight. The names
would also help bind them as an elite group, helping them feel and
act as a unit.

I recognized Agent Simmons, he was probably
something like Snake. The giant refrigerator-sized black guy I had
met as well. They probably called him Dozer or Brick or something.
The girl, who had Eurasian features, was easy. They would call her
Angel – as in angel of death. The tall, rawboned white guy had to
be Crane or Tex. The wiry average-sized dude, who was snapping gum
aggressively, would be Mongoose or some other fast and nasty
predator. They were sizing us up, although Simmons rubbed the side
of his nose with his middle finger while meeting my eyes, then
started to leer at Gina. The big black guy nodded and leaned back
with his eyes closed. The girl was working the tough chick thing as
hard as she could, a slight sneer on her otherwise attractive
features. Gina pulled out a notebook and started to study the
contents and I, being in a window seat, stared out the heavy
plexiglass, watching the ground go by at a hundred and seventy
miles an hour.

It was cathartic, the steady change of
scenery. I suppose it would be blurry for the others, but my eyes
didn’t perceive it as too fast. The sprawl of the city gave way to
the outlying suburban terrain and then to mostly trees and forests.
Occasionally, a village or other island of civilization would pop
into view and then be gone again in moments. I put my earbuds in
and cranked up my iPod, letting the dark, heavy tones of
Disturbed
wash out my brain. I drifted, afloat like an empty
barrel on Niagara, headed for the falls.

The flight was fairly quick, taking just over
an hour to reach the little airport on the north edge of
Bennington. The pilot circled the tiny field, finally landing on a
spur of runway, coming to halt next to a small armada of black
SUVs. Local police were parked nearby, the officers standing next
to their cars, watching our arrival and trying hard not to look
impressed. The crew chief hit the door and Duclair’s strike team
piled out like they were entering a hot zone. Show-offs.

Adler followed, then the technicians, Gina
and myself, and finally after a quick word with the pilot, Agent
Duclair descended to the ground, projecting the very essence of a
self confident Special Agent. We moved as a group to the vehicles
where drivers stood ready to help load gear. Briana headed toward
the lead vehicle, stopped, turned and reversed till she was right
in front of Gina and me. Adler moved up next to her, his eyes
fastened on mine, the rest of the strike team closed around us in a
tense circle.

The blackness inside me reared its head,
sensing possible violence like a dog sniffing steak.

“As this is Vermont and you’re NYPD, I’m
afraid I need your sidearms.” She said with a tight little
smile.

“Vermont has no restrictions on carrying side
arms. Briana, and Chris and I are trained officers,” Gina countered
without hesitation.

Duclair frowned, a small furrow forming
between her brows.

“Well, this is a federal operation and you
haven’t been cleared by our people. Hand them over.”

“Briana, Inspector Roma agreed to our
participation with the distinct understanding that we would be able
to follow OUR protocols. Going unarmed after a rogue were is NOT
protocol.”

“Detective Velasquez, YOUR COMMISSIONER
agreed in writing to your following ALL of my orders,” Duclair
replied, waving a piece of paper at Gina, who took it and started
to read.

Simmons chose that moment to step forward
from behind and grab Gina’s left hip with one hand and her
holstered gun on the right hip with his other. She started to
react, but I had already joint-locked his right wrist, spun him
around and stiffed-armed him away. Immediately, he spun back with a
vicious back fist, fast enough to tell me he had been anticipating
my reaction. He didn’t anticipate my catching his fist in one hand,
stopping the blow like it had hit a tree and squeezing his hand
hard enough to drop him to his knees.

In the next instant, the rest of his team
started to move, and the black berserker inside me crowed with
delight and shook its restraints.

“STOP!” Gina commanded, freezing everyone in
their places. “Chris, this letter is legit, we have to comply.” Her
eyes were worried as they watched me.

I went completely still for a moment as I
contemplated going unarmed after a rogue werewolf, but the
blackness inside, although irritated at the cessation of violence,
was utterly confident in our/my/its abilities, not to mention I was
still carrying enough silver to serve tea to the Queen of
England.

I let go of Simmons and he jumped to his
feet, his face red with rage and pain, but Adler stepped between
us. Gina handed over her Glock, then turned to me.

Again I paused for a moment, then I
drew
, pulling both guns at once, reversing them so I was
holding them by the barrels, butt forward, then spun in place and
offered them to each team member faster than they could follow.
None of them had a chance to react before I came back around and
finally offered them to Duclair, whose face had gone white. I could
have shot the entire team before they could react.

* * *

“If we’re done playing bullshit kindergarten
games, let’s get this clusterfuck underway”, I said. “The faster we
put this puppy down, the quicker I can get home. I gotta see some
people, about some bullshit orders.”

I started to walk toward the second vehicle,
but tossed a final comment over my shoulder.

“I call shotgun,” I said with a chuckle.

Behind me I heard the female, Angel or
whatever, say, “That went well,” in a sarcastic tone.

Duclair spoke to Gina, “Is he insane?”

Gina answered her quietly in a low hiss: “You
have no idea what you’re dealing with, Briana. Why do you think
Roma insisted I be here? My full-time job is
him
. And he
started the day on a razor’s edge. Oh, I know, you’re playing
dominance games, trying to show him who’s boss, but all you’ve
really done is piss him off.”

“If he’s that volatile, then I’m glad we
disarmed him,” Duclair came back.

“Disarmed him? Listen, if he wants a gun,
he’ll just take one of yours. And there won’t be a damned thing any
of you can do about it.”

Chapter 10

I grinned at the driver of the second SUV,
who knew something hinky had taken place, but was unsure what, and
then climbed into the front passenger seat. Three of the others
climbed in back. My senses told me they were the huge guy, the tall
guy, and the average guy. Starting to sound like the three bears,
only I ain’t no Goldilocks.

The others distributed more or less evenly in
the other vehicles and we headed out.

* * *

The William H. Morse State Airport sits on
the west side of Bennington at about 800 feet above sea level.
State Route 9 traverses the village from west to east, then climbs
up into the Green Mountain National Forest, where the road reaches
elevations of 2600 to 2800 feet. Led by Vermont State Police, our
little convoy of black vehicles roared through town, breaking every
posted speed limit along the way. Of course we drew the attention
of everyone. I was real glad for the tinted windows, ’cause I was
embarrassed to be associated with Briana’s little circus.

The road climbed quickly in elevation until
we turned onto another road, Harbour Rd.– according to the sign,
which had police vehicles blocking access. We went on for what
seemed like a mile or mile and a half till we came to a cluster of
official vehicles, which included another couple of government
SUVs. The driver pulled right into the middle and screeched to a
halt.

Briana dismounted the lead car, striding into
the group of approaching officers and agents, and began to receive
their reports. Agents wearing FBI raid jackets were combing the
woods along the eastern side of the road, searching the ground
carefully for evidence.

Gina had gotten out of the back of the lead
vehicle as well, but she chose to wait for me, rather than get
towed along in Duclair’s wake. The two technicians hurried into the
mix, but the strike team slowed up, obviously keeping an eye on
me.

“How ya doing?” Gina asked in a low voice. I
didn’t think she was referring to the gun confiscation thing.

“I’m here and I haven’t killed anyone,” I
answered.

She didn’t take it as a joke, which was good,
’cause it was a heartfelt response.

She nodded, pushing a strand of long brown
hair back behind her ear. I kept walking toward the little hive of
worker bees circling around the queen, Briana, and Gina fell in
beside me, not saying anything else. I was grateful for that,
because I had nothing to say and didn’t want to talk.

Eric Adler moved up next to us, his long legs
making short work of catching up.

“I need to introduce the team,” he said
simply, as if nothing had happened earlier.

We stopped and turned to look where he was
pointing. The five-member team was moving up behind us, eyes wary,
tricked-out M4 rifles slung patrol style across their torsos.

“I believe you already know Simmons, his team
name is Rattler.”

Blockhead said nothing, just gave me a flat
stare and Gina a head-to-toe appraisal.

“The big guy is Books, our heavy weapon
specialist. Next to him is Data and Splitter.”

That covered the wiry little guy and the tall
lanky dude.

“Finally, we have Balls,” he said, indicating
the girl.

Gina asked the obvious question, “Why
Balls?”

“’Cause I got brass ones!” the girl answered,
with a cold grin.

“Okay, Data is your technical wizard,
Splitter is a sniper who ‘splits hairs.’ But I don’t get ‘Books.’ ”
Gina said.

Adler shrugged. “He’s always reading
one.”

The niceties’ out of the way, I turned away
and moved over to Duclair, who was in her element, issuing orders
and asking questions. She noticed our approach and stopped an agent
in mid-sentence to speak to us.

“Mr. Lassiter was found by a passing car,
right over next to the woods, twenty-nine days ago. He was
unconscious and had severe bite wounds to both legs and his right
arm. The responding EMT’s felt he would expire before he got to the
hospital, but he made it and subsequently healed at a near
astonishing rate,” she said. “Lassiter lives about two miles up
this road, but he hasn’t been to his house in days and so we’re
checking both the house and here for possible fresh sign. You know…
revisiting the scene of his attack and all that. Chris, I’d like
you to see if you can find anything we’ve missed.”