Hunted (26 page)

The satellite truck had been hidden in the barn, the technicians standing by, ready to relay. Stormy and Ki were at the remote cabins of the three families who were attacked by federal agents, ready to roll tape.

Hank and Carol stopped short at the sight of George Eagle Dancer, sitting on the porch, Pete and Repeat on either side of him, but recovered quickly. “You're just in time for the show,” George told the pair from IAD. “Go right on in. If you don't mind, I'll pull your car around to the barn. We don't want our unexpected guests to be tipped off.”

Hank looked at the mercenary with the hard eyes, taking in the face with the map of the world written on it. He shrugged and tossed him the keys. “All right. I'm not too old to enjoy a surprise.”

“Go in the house,” George told the hybrids. Pete and Repeat rose as one and padded into the house, through the door held open by Carol.

“Jesus!” Carol said, stepping into the den and spotting Darry.

“There are a lot of people looking for you, Mr. Ransom,” Hank told him.

“So I've been told. I believe you know Chuck and Craig. Get yourselves a cup of coffee and relax for a few minutes. The show will start in about fifty minutes.”

“What show?” Carol asked.

“One I'm sure you'll enjoy,” Darry said.

Hank poured two cups of coffee and turned to Darry. “We got a tip that something big was going to take place here. The call came to us, through the sheriffs office, about two hours ago. The sheriff didn't seem all that interested in it.”

Chuck smiled. “Greg don't have much use for you federal people.”

“We gathered that much,” Carol said drily.

“Would either of you care to make a statement for the press?” Craig asked innocently.

“I think not,” Hank said. He looked at Darry. “It is my duty to inform you, Mr. Ransom, that you—”

Darry waved him silent. “Save it for later.”

Hank sighed and sat down. He looked at his partner. “Why not?” he said.

* * *

Max Vernon really wasn't very intelligent. But he was prodding and thorough, and given enough time, he could figure things out. Now, squatting on a ridge about half a mile from the outfitter's house, he finally put it all together.

“It's a set-up,” he told his men. “That goddamn mercenary set us up.”

“How do you figure?” a young agent named Pat Lewis asked.

“Call it a gut feeling,” Max answered sourly. Like the others, he was physically tired, mentally exhausted from being on the run, and his clothes were stiff with dirt and sweat. “Among other things.”

“What other things?”

Richard Adams said, “I'm with you, Max. That ranch down there is just too goddamn peaceful-looking to suit me.”

“Max?” called Marty Stewart, who had been bringing up the drag. “We got . . .
things
behind us and to the left and right of us.”

“Things?” Max said, twisting around. “What the hell do you mean,
things?”

“Just what I said, Max. Things. They walk upright, but they're not human. They're things.”

Max smiled and then chuckled. “You've got a vivid imagination, Marty.”

A series of low growls came from the brush all around the knot of maverick agents. The men moved closer together and tightened the grip on their weapons.

“Remember those footprints we saw back in the cave, Max?” Pete Elkins reminded him, nervously looking all around him. “I think those things out there made them.”

“I hate this goddamn place,” Sonny Martin said. “It's spooky out here.”

Max glanced at his watch. It had stopped. He sighed. “What time is it?” he asked.

“We're supposed to hit the ranch in fifteen minutes,” Pete said.

“Then let's do it,” Max said, standing up.

From out of the brush and the timber and the rocks there came a strange sort of laughter. It was not human, but yet, oddly, it was. The sound rattled the nerves of the rogue agents.

“I hate this goddamn place,” Sonny repeated.

“If we go down there, we're gonna die, Max,” Richard said. “I feel it.”

“Would you rather go to prison for the rest of your life?” Max countered.

That was met by stony looks.

“That's what I figured. Move out. We got a couple of goddamn dogs to kill.”

In the loft of the barn, Craig's cameraman was filming the advance of the rogue agents. In the house, Hank lowered his borrowed binoculars.

“What in the world is the fool thinking?” Hank said softly.

“Oh, he's coming here to kill my dogs,” Darry said. “He's now working with the mercenaries—he thinks. But they set him up. They called you and told you about the ‘something big' going to take place here.”

Hank and Carol both pulled their S&W stainless steel 10mm autoloaders from the high-rise regulation holsters.

Chuck snorted and tossed Darry the .375 Winchester. Darry levered a round into the chamber.

“You stay out of this, Ransom!” Hank said sharply.

“They came here to kill my dogs,” Darry said. “That makes me a part of it.”

“I am ordering you to ... oh, to hell with it!” Hank said.

Carol turned her head for a moment so Hank could not see her smile.

“Call in!” Hank told Carol. “Tell base to ...” He fell silent. “Sure we will. How are we going to do that when the damn car's in the barn?” Hank looked over at Chuck. The man was standing by a window, a rifle in his hands. The IAD man looked over to his right. George Eagle Dancer stood by a window, a heavy caliber rifle held in his hands.

“Hank,” Carol said. “Max and his people are armed with automatic weapons. These pistols aren't going to do us a lot of good.”

“Rifle rack's over there,” Chuck called. “Hep yourselves.”

Carol chose a .308, Hank picked up a 7mm mag, and both loaded up, dropping a few extra rounds in their jacket pockets. By now, Max and his people were well within range. Before anyone could stop him, Hank stepped out onto the back porch.

“Damn fool!” Chuck said.

“By the book,” Carol said. “That's the Bureau way. We're both wearing vests.”

“Not over your heads, you ain't,” Chuck replied.

“Hold it, Max!” Hank called. “FBI. It's Hank Wallace. It's over, Max. Give it up. You men, lay your weapons on the ground and advance toward me, hands where I can see them.”

Max cut loose with a burst of .223 rounds, and Hank just managed to drop to the porch floor, safe behind a stack of firewood. The rogue agents scattered, two of them heading for the barn. Craig had left the house just after Hank and Carol had arrived and was in the loft. When the agents ran into the barn, Craig tipped over a tall stack of baled hay and flattened the two men, breaking the arm of one and knocking the wind out of the other. He jumped down and retrieved their weapons, then used their own handcuffs to secure the men.

“I got all of that, Craig!” his cameraman called.

“All right!”

Carol drilled one of the rogue agents in the belly with her .308, and Chuck doubled one over with a round from his old .30-30. Max, Marty Stewart, Peter Elkins, Richard Adams, and Sonny Martin headed for the road and crossed it, making the timber. Young Pat Lewis and the rest threw down their weapons and stepped out, hands in the air.

“We were just taking orders from the team leader, Mr. Wallace!” Pat hollered. “We were just following orders, that's all! I swear it.”

Carol looked over at Darry and was shocked. The man's expression was one of sheer savagery. His pale eyes were glowing with an eerie light.

“Just following orders,” Darry said, his face losing its barbaric look and the glow fading in his eyes. “Just following orders.”

“There's been more innocent people killed by assholes just following orders than fleas on a bear,” Chuck remarked.

Carol said nothing. But silently, she agreed with the outfitter.

The satellite truck was driven out of the barn and equipment made ready for broadcast.

No one noticed that Darry had slipped away as silent as the breeze . . . until the sounds of a fast-galloping horse reached them. But there was nothing anyone could do to stop him, for first off there was the business of arresting people to attend to.

“Don't say a word,” Carol advised Pat Lewis. “It can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the young agent said.

She advised him of the rest of his rights as Hank was reading the rights to the others.

“Why?” an older agent now in handcuffs asked. “Just answer me that, Inspector. Why?”

“Why what, Dickerson?” The two men had known each other for over ten years.

“Why send us against people who haven't done anything wrong, that's what?”

“That's the very question a lot of American people are going to be asking,” Craig Hamilton said, walking up, a microphone in his hand and his cameraman filming.

“There will be an official statement later on,” Hank said. “Until then, no one here has anything to say.”

“I do!” Dickerson shouted. “By God, I do!”

“Shut up, Dickerson!” Hank warned him.

“Max Vernon knew all along those hippies were clean,” Dickerson plunged ahead. “And so did some of the other people in the various agencies involved in this screw-up.”

“Goddammit, Dickerson!” Hank roared, trying to wrestle the man away from the damning microphone and the camera. “Will you be quiet?”

But Dickerson wasn't having any of it. “It's political. That's all it is. The orders come from higher up. We just take them and follow them. If we don't, we lose our jobs. And that's the God's truth.”

“He's right, Mr. Hamilton!” young Pat Lewis shouted, jerking away from Carol. The mike and camera swung around. “It's political. Waco didn't have to happen. Neither did those killings up north of here. All that could have been handled without bloodshed. The government is out to get anyone who opposes it. And I mean anyone.” The young man stared at the logo on the microphone and then shifted his eyes to the big van. “Coyote Network. But I thought you were with . . .” He trailed off. “Well, it doesn't make any difference. News is news.”

“It is now,” Craig said. “Now it's from the side of the people.”

Hank and Carol could see their long careers with the Bureau slowly fading into the sunset with each damning word from the mouths of the captured agents. The men were in their custody; it was up to them to put a lid on comments from them.

Hank looked at Carol, and she smiled. Both could retire whenever they wanted. They had their years in. Both were lawyers and both wanted to practice.

“Well,” Carol said. “Fuck it!”

“Yes,” Hank said. “That sums it up rather well. Just. . . fuck it!”

They backed away and let the rogue agents talk. And talk they did.

* * *

In Washington, D.C., the President of the United States put his head down on his desk. He felt like weeping. He could practically hear the flapping wings of the circling buzzards, coming to pick the bones of his career clean.

Over in Justice, the AG wondered if it was time to start desk cleaning.

At the Hoover Building, the DIR/FBI leaned back in his chair, a strange smile of satisfaction on his face. No one else would ever know exactly what that smile meant. But then, the press had missed one important fact of his college days: the student had almost not gone on to law school. He had come very close to choosing another vocation, for his drama coach thought he would be a really terrific actor. And not only was the man ambidextrous, but the director had another talent besides the ability to play a part so well he almost believed it himself, and did, in fact, sometimes get so immersed in a part he actually played devil's advocate in his own mind: he would have also made an excellent forger, for he could copy anyone's signature well enough to fool most experts. He used to practice doing so with the signatures of his close friends.

* * *

“Is this what the government's coming to?” The man whose home had been ransacked and whose wife and ten-year-old child were now in the hospital spoke into the camera. He was angry but keeping that anger under control... with a visible effort. “Neither my wife nor I, and certainly not our ten-year-old son, committed any crime. Neither my wife nor I have ever received so much as a traffic ticket. We belong to a group of citizens who think that government has grown too large and is out of control. And we speak up about it. We send out literature detailing government excesses. We are not racist; we have people of all creeds and colors in our group. What happened here”—he held out a hand to the destroyed living room of the home—“is nothing more than a move by the government to attempt to silence us. Well, it won't work, Mr. President . . .”

“I didn't have anything to do with it,” the Pres muttered, his eyes fixed on the TV screen in his office. “You think I know every damn thing that goes on in every agency? How the hell can you blame me?”

Because you make the policy, stupid.

“This tragedy just strengthened our resolve,” the man said. They had moved into the bedroom, which was a shambles. The camera panned to the bathroom, where the sink had been torn from the wall and the commode ripped from the floor. The man pointed a trembling finger at the camera. “Now you hear me well, Mr. President. You're going to have to kill me to silence me. But when you kill me, there will be someone else to take my place. And yet another person ready to take their place . . .”

“It's not my fault!” the Pres yelled, startling his chief of staff and others in the room.

Oh, but it is, Pres. You're the Man with the power. You could stop it with one phone call.

Mark Cole, the reporter for the Coyote Network, said, “The phones in the small offices of the Citizens Against Big Government have been ringing nonstop all day. People from all over America calling in to sign up, to pledge money, asking what they can do to prevent another tragedy like this from occurring. And the answer is always the same: get organized. The number to call is . . .”

“Jesus Christ!” the Pres hollered. “News programs don't do things like that.”

“Relax,” the President's legal counsel told his boss. “Those captured Bureau agents are just babbling. Nothing they have said or will say can be proven. You certainly didn't order that tragedy at Waco, and you weren't in office when the killings took place in Northern Idaho.”

“I'm in office now,” the Pres mumbled.

Most senators and representatives were in their Washington offices, watching the special reports from the Coyote Network on TV. Their phones had been ringing incessantly, fax machines dinging and donging; telegrams were pouring in.

“I think,” the recently elected Speaker of the House whispered in awe at the events unfolding, “the revolution has begun.”

* * *

“No sign of Ransom,” Ike Dover reported in by walkie-talkie. “But I thought I heard shooting over at the outfitter's ranch.”

“Stay loose,” Mike ordered. “He'll be along. Out.”

That was the last report Ike would make on this day.

“Phsstt!” the sound came from behind Ike.

The mercenary turned around. “Oh, shit!” he managed to say, a micro-second before Darry hit him on the side of the jaw with the butt of the Winchester .375. Dover's world turned dark as he kissed the ground.

Darry trussed him up, threw his weapons into the brush, and moved on.

The mercenaries had formed a loose semicircle around the cabins of the families Stormy was about ready to interview, laying back about a half mile from the shot-up homes.

Miles Burrell felt a stinging in his butt and twisted around. He saw the feathered syringe sticking out of his left buttock and cussed as the powerful drug began to freeze his muscles, preventing him from moving. Within seconds he was fast asleep. Darry gathered up the man's weapons, reloaded his tranquilizer gun, and moved on.

John Webb thought a bee had stung him in the butt. Then the knock-out drug began working on him, and he realized what had happened. But he could not move. He sighed, drifted off, and Darry moved on.

A few moments later, when none of his men would answer his radio calls, Mike Tuttle smiled grimly. “Damn, but you are good, Ransom. Just about the best I have ever seen.” A feathered syringe buried itself in Mike's butt, and Mike grunted as he went to his knees. “Another day, Ransom. We shall meet again. Bet on that.”

Mike Tuttle collapsed on the ground and didn't fight the drug. He knew that to fight it was useless. He drifted off to sleep and would remain that way for several hours.

* * *

A federal judge, after sensing the political winds were very rapidly changing directions, had ordered the immediate release from jail of Kevin Carmouche, Vince Clayderman, and Todd Noble. In his decree, he wrote, “Law-abiding citizens of the United States have the constitutional right to protect themselves against armed aggression, even when that aggression comes in the form of duly constituted officers of the law who have clearly made a mistake.”

The ruling was landmark, and the attorney general of the United States went ballistic.

“Don't say a goddamn word,” the chief legal counsel to the President warned the AG. “The attention span of the American people is too short to sustain it. The Coyote Network is a fluke. It will pass.”

He was sure wrong about that.

Darry Ransom slipped back into the deep timber of the wilderness, stretched out under the shade of a tree, and took a nap. He went to sleep with a very satisfied smile on his face. This was not the first time he'd helped fan the flames of revolution.

* * *

The American people had never seen news such as the reports airing on the Coyote Network. Those with any astuteness about them at all were mesmerized. Work in many factories and businesses around the nation slowed to a snail's pace that day, as the special reports kept coming in. The workers, whenever possible, were glued to TV sets.