Hunted (12 page)

Ray was groaning and trying to sit up when Karen reached his side. “You know better, Ray,” she admonished him. “Just lie still and let me take a look at you.”

While his wife bathed the small cut on the back of his head and then applied antiseptic, Ray told them what had happened. As much as he knew.

“Federal officers?” Karen questioned. “That can't be. They wouldn't do something like this.”

Neither mother nor father saw the look that passed between brother and sister. The kids were much more “with it” than their parents. They both had friends whose homes had been raided by cops, local and federal, looking for drugs in the much overused and abused “Anonymous Tip” bullshit in the nation's so-called War On Drugs. In the cases that Terri and Paul knew about, no drugs were found, but the house had been wrecked by the cops: stuffing pulled out of sofas and chairs, commodes torn loose, paneling ripped down, mattresses cut open, and pistols and cash taken. Paul and Terri were rapidly joining the ever-growing ranks of people who distrusted the cops and had absolutely no use for federal agents.

“I lost consciousness more than once,” Ray said. “Drifted in and out. I heard snatches of conversation. I really believe they were federal officers. They were talking about survivalists. There must be some sort of survivalist camp close by, and they thought I was one of them.”

Karen picked up her father's wallet and plastic bag from the ground where it had been contemptuously tossed. “They didn't take any of your money, Daddy.”

“This is outrageous!” Karen said, the attorney in her surfacing. “By God, somebody is going to answer in court for this.”

“It happens all the time, Mother,” Paul said softly.

Ray sat up and looked at his son. “What do you mean, Paul? ‘It happens all the time'?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Just what I said, Dad. About fifty or so percent of the paper money now circulating is tainted, to some degree or the other, with cocaine residue. A lot of people who carry large amounts of cash have been stopped and searched in airports and had their money seized. Sometimes they get it back; sometimes they don't. The way I understand it, the cops don't have to prove you were going to make a buy; you have to prove you weren't. Innocent people have died from heart attacks when the cops kicked in their front doors in the middle of the night and manhandled them. All in the name of law and justice ...”

The parents were both staring in disbelief at their son. Karen had not practiced criminal law in years, but until she specialized, she had worked all sorts of cases for a few years.

“The people who choose to live out here in the wilderness,” Paul continued, waving a hand at Darry's cabin. “Say . . . they're racist or just believe in anything that goes against what the current Washington administration believes in, why, they get investigated by government agents. Sometimes the federal agents kill them.”

“Kill them?” Ray questioned, sitting on the ground.
“Kill them!”

“Sure,” Terri picked it up. “I've seen specials on TV about that. There are survivalists all over the nation, arming themselves and stockpiling food and water and medicines and stuff like that. The government is going ape-crap about it.”

“Why?” Karen asked, enthralled and amazed that her children were so well-informed on a subject she knew practically nothing about.

“I guess the government is scared these people will start some sort of revolution,” the young woman answered. “But they seem to forget that this nation was built out of revolution. What's the difference between then and now?”

Kathy had come out of it with a raging headache. Using water from her canteen, she cleaned her slight head wound and then went to work on Jack. The bullet had gone right through the fleshy part of Jack's shoulder, and the bleeding had stopped. That was good. She bathed the wound, front and back, and applied antiseptic from her small first aid pouch, then bandaged the wound. Jack was awake, his eyes shiny with pain.

“Did we really see what I think we did?” Jack asked.

“We sure did. We've got to get out of here and report. This is a cluster-fuck, Jack.”

With a small groan of pain, Jack got to his boots and fumbled around for his compass. He took their bearings and pointed. “That way. But we'll never make it to our camp before full dark. We'll find a place to hole up.”

“That woman back at the cabin, Jack. She wasn't armed.”

“I know it. Those guys killed her in cold blood.”

“Some of those men back there were Bureau people,” she reminded him.

“I know that, too.”

“What are we going to do?”

Jack shook his head. “I don't know, Kathy. I just don't know.”

* * *

George Eagle Dancer found the tracks of Darry, the two women, and the dogs. But the animal tracks were slightly different from those of a dog. Hybrids, George thought. Part wolf. He followed the trail until it grew too dark to see; then George ate from a packet of MREs, wrapped a blanket around him, and settled in for the night.

* * *

Johnny McBroon, Pete Cooper, Lew Waters, and Jay Gilmore settled in for a cold night after eating field rations and washing them down with water from their canteens. They did not dare risk a fire for fear it would draw gunfire. They had heard about the escape of Sam Parish and about thirty of his followers over a small receiver Jay had in his pack. Nighttime was not the time to go blundering around in the wilderness.

* * *

Kevin and his friends bunkered in with lanterns and candles out and weapons ready. They had no way of knowing what the night would bring with it . . . but they were ready for trouble.

* * *

Paul Collier, after helping his father down the bluff and to his tent, went back up to Darry's cabin and found a Winchester lever action rifle chambered for .22 magnum. He rummaged around and found three boxes of ammunition and a cartridge belt. “If I can't get the rifle back to you, mister, I'll pay you for it, and that's a promise,” he whispered to the empty cabin.

He filled the cartridge belt and buckled it around his waist, pulling his shirttail out to cover it. He wrapped the rifle in a piece of torn tarp and hid it in the rocks halfway down the bluff. Paul was still in the Boy Scouts—al—though he seldom went to meetings anymore—and he had been trained in how to handle a rifle. He had made up his mind that nobody was going to rough up his dad again. Nobody.

* * *

Nick Sharp and Dennis Tipton caught up with the other team members and told them what had taken place back in the now bloody little spring-flowered meadow where the federal agents had confronted them.

“The hell you say!” Bobcat Blake said. “Did the bastards give you a reason why they were bracing you?”

“Not a clue,” Nick replied. “They were just arrogant and rude as hell.”

“Give me that H&K,” Ike Dover said, holding his hand out for the 9mm submachine gun taken from a dead federal agent. “Nobody runs me out of a place.”

“You guys serious about this?” Mike asked. “You're blowing off a lot of money—not to mention risking your lives and a long prison term.” He nor any of the others mentioned the dead agents, for they simply didn't care about them.

Mess With The Best And Die Like The Rest was their philosophy.

“Fuck it!” Joel Bass said. “I don't like federal turds waving guns in the faces of my friends.”

John Webb said, “Let's go pick up some more weapons. We're going to need them if we're planning on starting a war with the feds.”

Miles Burrell nodded his head in agreement.

“Oh, hell with it, then!” Mike said. “Count me in. Finding a good war nowadays is getting harder and harder anyway.”

* * *

“We have any press in on this?” Max Vernon was asked by a man from the Justice Department who had just flown in from Washington.

“Not a peep, sir.”

The official stared hard at Max. “I find all of this very hard to believe.”

“It's the truth, sir. Every word of it. Look.” He walked over to a camp table that had been set up and lifted the edge of a poncho. “Three keys, sir. Three keys of high-grade cocaine. We found these in Stormy's camp, tucked away in her things. We found what was left of a laboratory in a shed behind the cabin belonging to a Jody Hinds. He burned the lab during the shoot-out.” A shed had been burned, but Jody hadn't set it on fire. “We're sure that Agent John Santo was killed by another member of this dope ring. A hippie-type name of Kevin Carmouche and two of his friends. We've got his place surrounded and will move against him tomorrow.”

“Who is this Darry Ransom person?”

“We're not sure. He may be the go-between.”

“Any idea who ambushed those agents and blinded Ron?”

“Friends of the hippies running this dope operation, we're sure. We don't know if they're still in the valley, or managed to slip out. We think they're still in the area.”

“God, this is touchy, Max. Real touchy. Ms. Knight is a big-time TV journalist. There isn't a blemish on her anywhere. Even in college she was known as unapproachable when it came to drugs. And Ki Nichols is the same. Highly respected camera-person; won lots of industry awards.”

“They're dopers and worse, sir.”

“Worse?”

“They were fraternizing with a known and very dangerous survivalist group. We have pictures of her laughing and big time buddy-buddying with Sam Parish. She was the guest of honor at the cookout when we arrived and they opened fire on us.”

The official nodded his understanding. “Max, we don't want another screw-up like Waco. We can't stand the heat. No play on words intended.”

“I understand, sir. There will be no mistakes on this one. We've got them cold. We have the evidence that will stand up in court.”

“How many civilian dead so far?”

“Eleven.”

The official winced at that. “Any kids?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I've got to get back to Washington. Max, you're in charge. I don't want any screw-ups. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“I want this operation neatly wrapped up with a nice big pretty bow on top. The evidence looks good. Wrap it up, Max.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

* * *

When Darry was certain the two women were sound asleep and not likely to awaken until their bodies had been refreshed by rest, he stepped outside of the cave and became his Other. He padded silently down the ridge until he smelled man-scent. He stood for a moment, staring and smelling the night. He walked on silent paws to stand a few yards from the sleeping George Eagle Dancer. He sensed this man was not a federal agent. His manner of dress and hair style was all wrong, and he wasn't pretty enough to be a fed. This man was a warrior, a hunter of men. But Darry sensed that this man was no enemy of his.

If he had been, Darry could have easily killed him with one crushing snap from powerful jaws. Darry did not like to kill, and seldom did in his Other form; only a few times in this century. But sometimes it was necessary.

Darry let him sleep and moved on through the night, running effortlessly and soundlessly. He scented blood and moved in that direction. He stood on the crest of a small slope and looked down at the two FBI agents who had visited his cabin, Jack Speed and Kathy Owens. The man had been wounded in the shoulder. But by whom?

He did not know.

Darry moved on, running for several hours, circling the area. He found the sleeping mercenaries and a dozen or so camps of federal people—the smell of nervous sweat and fear and indecision was strong there. He found several camps of Sam Parish's people—the smell of sweat and hate was strong there.

Darry went to his cabin and knew instantly someone had been there. A rifle was gone. He picked up the scent and loped over to the river bluffs and looked down. A family unit was sleeping on the flats. He scented out where his rifle was hidden and left it.

Everywhere he'd been that night stank of trouble. It hung in the night air like a strong poison.

Tragedy everywhere, Darry thought, as he began the run back to the cave.

* * *

Max Vernon learned early the next morning that he'd lost two more agents during the night. Someone had slipped up on them while they slept and cut their throats with a very sharp and a very large knife. Boot prints showed the man to be big, about two hundred pounds. The cabins of Kevin Carmouche and his family and friends were surrounded by dozens of agents, and they could not have broken out to do this. Max just thought Kevin and his friends were trapped. Even a rabbit had more than one hole, and Kevin had had more than twenty years to dig his.

“Jody Hinds,” a man said.

“Yeah,” Max grunted. “Jody Hinds. Did we get anything back from Records on this guy?”

“Air Force Commandos, among other things,” Max was informed. “Silver Star in 'Nam. The guy is good.” He did not add what many of the agents already knew: Jody Hinds was clean, he'd never even received so much as a traffic ticket in his life, and he certainly didn't do drugs.

“The son of a bitch is not ‘good,' Johnson,” Max snapped at the man. “He's killed federal agents.”

“We started it,” another agent muttered, being very careful that Max Vernon did not overhear his comment. He wished desperately that he could find a way out of this ever-growing mess. But he was in too deep for that. Just too goddamned deep to get out of it.

* * *

Most of the now several hundred agents in the area had been helicoptered in. The people in the tiny surrounding towns (and they were miles away from the hunt area) knew absolutely nothing about the massive manhunt going on. When Rick Battle returned from the north, having found the missing young couple, he was astonished to find the road leading to his station closed and blocked and guarded by federal agents. He had a hell of time just getting past them. Then he found his station being used as a command post.

“What the hell is going on?” Rick demanded.

“You don't have a need to know,” he was bluntly informed. “Pack up a few things and go find a motel to live in until this is over.”

Rick kept his cool . . . barely. “I will find out what is going on,” he said tersely. “One way or the other. This is my station, this is my area and you don't have the authority to order me out. You might be able to get it. But until you do, I stay.”

“Mr. Battle,” another man said, stepping in to defuse the anger-building situation. “I just got here a few hours ago. So I really don't know all the particulars of this operation. But I'll tell you what I do know.”

Rick had not noticed a man and a woman, both neatly dressed in civilian clothing, standing off to one side. The man was a senior inspector and the woman an experienced special agent from the FBI. They were from the FBI's Internal Affairs Division. And as far as they were concerned, this whole operation was stinking to high heaven. They sensed something was very wrong. Now they just had to prove it.

The newly arrived man talked, Rick listened, and by the time the federal man had finished, Rick was flabbergasted. “You're not serious!” he finally found his voice. “Don't you think I know the people who live in my district? I've had them all checked out. Every one of them. They're clean. They're good folks. You killed Linda Hinds? Jesus Christ! Have you lost your minds? There is no cocaine lab around here. I've been to Jody's place dozens of times. I've been in that shed. I was there about two weeks ago. He tans hides and does taxidermy work out there.”

“Mr. Battle,” the fed said. “Just calm down, sir.”

“Calm down?” Rick shouted. “Calm down's ass! You raided his place and killed his wife, his sister-in-law, and her boyfriend and you want me to fucking calm
down!”

The inspector and the special agent exchanged glances.

Rick caught his breath and was off again. “You're going to raid the cabins of Kevin Carmouche and his friends? Why? They haven't done anything. They've been here for years and done nothing but good all the while. They've gone on search-and-rescue missions, they've fought forest fires, and never asked for a dime for doing it. Stormy and her camera-person are here to do a story. They interviewed me; they interviewed Darry Ransom. They're not involved in any dope ring. There is no dope ring around here. I knew Sam Parish and his bunch were under loose surveillance, but hell, they haven't done anything either, except hold some rather weird views. I don't believe they opened fire on you people. But it might have been the other way around.”

Again, the inspector and the special agent exchanged glances.

“What the hell are you implying, Ranger?”

“You figure it out,” Rick told him, then spun around and walked off to his living quarters.

Inspector Henry “Hank” Wallace and Special Agent Carol Murphy left to change clothes. They had a lot of work to do. Out in the field.

* * *

“Hank Wallace is here,” Max Vernon was informed.

“Damn!” Max said. “Is that bitch Carol with him?”