Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga (48 page)

Denny swallowed.
 
Oh, God…no…

"Yeah…that's right—that's how I saw that door you hid in the woods!
 
It stood out clear as day—just a little warmer than the surrounding snow.
 
A big old rectangle on the screen.
 
And guess what?
 
All I had to do was knock and old John-boy came right up and opened it for me just now."

Denny felt the bile rise in the back of his throat.
 
That's what John was talking about.
 
I told him it was me, waiting by the hidden entrance.
 
I killed them—I killed them both…

Townsen continued to harangue Denny.
 
"Your little piggies stored away an awful lot of food here.
 
There's a bunch of hungry people back in town could've been using it lately.
 
You know we had a whole family die of starvation just yesterday?
 
Sure was a shame to see them four little kids wasted away like that.
 
They wouldn't take my help—they wouldn't swear allegiance to Barron.
 
So they starved to death.
 
That had to be awful…"

Denny screamed in rage and threw the whetstone across the room to shatter against the stone wall.

"And now we got two dead piggies and a lot of food to take back to town."

"You killed them?" Denny shouted into the radio.

"Oh, you better believe it.
 
Hoarding is considered a capital punishment these days.
 
I know, I know…seems harsh—but these are harsh times we're living in, am I right?
 
Listen to me ramble on.
 
I guess when a man loses a son, he tends to get…philosophical."

"What the hell are you talking about?
 
You killed two innocent people in cold blood!"

"And you killed my son!
 
You wanted a war—all I wanted was peace!"

Denny yelled in impotent rage.
 
"You wanted
slaves!"

"Yeah, well slaves are alive—rebels die."

Denny stared at the radio in his hands.
 
They'd saved him.
 
John and Ruth had pulled him from the ashes of his ruined life.
 
And how did he repay them?
 
By dragging them into his little rebellion.
 
I killed them.
 
Death by association.

Denny dropped the radio and stumbled to the door of the old ranger station.
 
Behind him, Townsen continued to shout taunts over the air and warned him he was coming and would find Denny soon enough.
 
Townsen promised a slow painful death.

Denny ignored the threats and stood in front of the door, numb.
 
He unlatched the door and pushed it open, letting in a blast of cold air.
 
Some snow drifted in on the wind.
 
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, inhaling the fresh, clean mountain air—cold and crisp.
 
Cleansing.
 
He stood there, arms spread wide without his coat and prayed John and Ruth's spirits would find their way, and would forgive him.

Denny had failed.
 
He could not save them.

He opened his eyes and saw the blackness that faced him on the other side of the open
 
doorway.
 
His grandfather's voice echoed inside his mind.
 

You've been to the dark place before.
 
You didn't like what happened.
 
Men died.
 
Before you the darkness beckons.
 
It is your choice.

"It's not a choice, grandfather."
 
Denny stared into the dark winter night and blinked back frozen tears as the icy wind blasted his face.
 
"It's all death, no matter what I do."

Denny stepped through the door and drew the hunting knife from his belt.
 
He walked away from the door until he was completely enveloped by the night.
 
The wind howled around him, the snow brushed his cheeks as it swirled through the air like the spirits of the dead coming to draw him to the afterlife.
 
He raised his hands high above his head and in one quick movement, used his left hand to slice open his right.

He ignored the pain and squeezed his hand tight, feeling the heat of his blood as it dribbled down his bare arm.
 
He held his fist high and screamed with all the strength he could muster into the wind.

"Lenawe nilla!"
 
Denny gulped down deep breaths of the cold air.
 
"I am Shawnee!
 
Ancestors hear me, now!
 
Grandfather—listen!
 
Spirits of the wind, brother and sister sky and moon!
 
I call upon you to witness my vow!
 
I will not rest until John Townsen is dead and his pestilence has been removed from this town.
 
I swear by the blood I spill on this sacred land, I will do this thing!"

Denny screamed into the wind, he screamed into the night.
 
He screamed for the useless waste of human life, he screamed for the Andertons, his wife, even for Jeb.
 
He screamed until he could scream no more.

C
HAPTER
39

Skye, Scotland.

Dunkeith Castle.

R
EGINALD
LEANED
BACK
IN
his chair, listening to the ancient springs squeak.
 
The noise was comforting.
 
He gravitated toward things that reassured him tonight, especially with the way things were unraveling on the continent of late.
 
His family estate, his father’s study, his father’s chair, they each soothed a part of his soul.
 
He needed it in the face of growing uncertainty at every turn.

The alarm from Uig troubled him deeply.
 
He’d sent Stefan to ensure a squad was sent to investigate, which left him free to monitor things from his lair.
 
He resented the fact he was missing the reunion he’d planned for Jayne and Svea, but he hated uncertainty and wouldn't be able to focus on anything until he knew more about what had happened in Uig.
 
Uncertainty and disorder rankled his sensibilities.
 

That uncertainty seemed to increase by the hour.
 
First, the bio-weapon released in America had escaped its cage and had been having its way with Europe—as if that weren’t bad enough, the damn thing had found a foothold in China as well.  

Reginald frowned.  China was a nuclear bomb waiting to explode and coat the planet in radioactive ash.
 
He’d had to scuttle his vaccine operation and the Council was growing suspicious.

Nor could he blame them—over the past decade, he’d taken billions of pounds of the Council’s money and killed countless people to acquire the blood samples, research notes, and ultimately the vaccine itself, now locked away in his castle’s dungeon.
 
Now that the Council had felt the tender kiss of the Korean Flu, they expected Reginald to wave his hand and save them all.
 
It was only a matter of time before they struck out at him.

Reginald stared again at the digital map on the wall, depicting the current global infection/mortality rate.
 
The clashing colors, red and black—sickness and death—swirled around every major population center in America, Europe, and now China.

He glanced at his platinum and gold Patek Phillipe watch.
 
Within the hour, most of the Council would receive hand-delivered packages containing the long-awaited vaccine.
 
He'd generously supplied enough for them and their families—or whoever they wished to save.
   

Let them see I’m holding up my end of the bargain.
 
Let them see the truth of my words.
 
The balking over money had better stop.

His eyes flicked across the left-most screen on his desk.
 
An email from his contact in Shanghai, begging for vaccines awaited his reply.
 
They had paid the full price, the contact complained, and now that the flu was on China’s shores, where was the vaccine?

All in due time, old boy.
 
I've got to puzzle out this explosion in Uig, first.
 
He checked his watch again.
 
The men he'd dispatched should be on scene any minute.

Motion alarms blinked red on the right-hand screen.
 
Reginald shifted his attention and focused on the blinking icon.
 
Roadside sensors had been tripped on the track leading into the castle town from the south.
 
He took manual control over the closest camera—built into the roofline of the baker's house—and zoomed in on an unassuming black sedan as it kicked up a cloud of dust.

He keyed the intercom, eyes never leaving the screen.
 
“Stefan.”

After a moment, his steward’s calm voice replied: “
Do you require anything, my lord?”

“Indeed.
 
It seems we have a visitor to our fair town.
 
Have we anyone scheduled for arrival?”
 

He already knew the answer:
“Not today, my lord.
 
Shall I send the lads to investigate?”

“Please do,” said Reginald.
 
He locked the camera on the vehicle and leaned back, letting the electronics take over.
 
“Who do we have here?” he mused.

Before he had sufficiently run through a mental list of enemies—and even fewer friends—who knew the location of his family estate, the intercom buzzed again.
 
He slapped the button, watching the slow progress of the now dusty luxury car as it crept through Keith's intentionally narrow and winding streets.

“My Lord, you have an incoming transmission.”

“Who is it?”

“Lord Murata, sir.”

Reginald sat up.
 
Murata?
 
How odd.
 
He adjusted his shirt and activated the closest monitor.
 
The haggard face of the elderly Japanese tycoon filled the screen.
 
He looked even less pleased than normal, if that were possible.

“Murata-san, to what do I owe this great honor?”

The old man stared at him for a long moment, apparently deciding at the last minute what—if anything—to say.
 
His face, normally a blank slate of granite, devoid of all emotion, looked cracked and ready to crumble.
 
Reginald narrowed his eyes.
 
The old man looked…sad.

“Our gracious monarch, King Charles, is dead,” he stated flatly.

Reginald blinked.
 
“The King?”
 
He glanced at the security feed—the car continued to creep toward his castle.
 
“How?
 
When?”

Murata lowered his eyes.
 
“I just received confirmation only a few moments ago.
 
He died this morning.”
 
The watery, dark eyes locked Reginald in their gaze.
 
“Your cursed flu.”

Reginald leaned back in his chair and ignored the jibe, honestly too surprised to do anything else.
 
He knew he should feel some vindication at the very least.
 
The old fool finally pushed too far with this insane plan.
 

“How?”

“We are not positive, but it appears one of his retainers—the man’s wife or her sister—attended a recent event at a library…”

Reginald thought for a moment, putting the pieces together.
 
The last he'd heard, the King had taken up residence in his secured estate in rural Cornwall.
 
If all went according to plan, he'd be ready to claim the soon-to-be vacant British throne.
 

It can’t be…

“The Princess of Wales?” Reginald asked.
 
He closed his eyes and sighed.
 
Beautiful—oh, that’s rich.

“The irony is not lost on the Council,” Murata said dryly.
 
“Nor is the fact that your long-overdue vaccine only arrived
after
the King took his final breath.”

Reginald stared at the screen.
 
“My God.”

Murata grunted, a sound similar to
mmphmm
, produced in the back of the throat, peculiar to the Japanese when words might ruin their legendary stoicism.
 
He stared at Reginald, eyes full of…what?