Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (6 page)

8

“Mind telling me what you’re doing on my land?” the man asks. He’s dressed
like a local—blue
jeans, flannel shirt, Red Sox cap—but it feels too local, like a costume rather than genuine attire. And it’s far too warm for flannel. It’s only 6 in the morning and the temp has to be pushing mid-eighties. Going to be a scorcher today, but this guy is dressed for
Fall
. I give a quick up and down glance. He’s lanky, maybe a buck eighty, but he’s got an unnaturally thick torso. The flannel is hiding body armor, I’m sure of it.
Definitely militia material.

“Just in case you missed the uniform,” I say, “you’re pointing that thing at the Sheriff.”

He turns the barrel toward me.

Better.

Then I realize I’m not armed, unless you count the one and a half inch keychain blade still in my hand. But that’s like bringing—well, a one and a half inch knife to a shotgun fight.

“Sir,” Collins says sounding just as calm as ever, “I’d appreciate it if you lowered your weapon.”

“Not until y’all tell me what you’re doing on my land.”

Y’all.
Not a Yankee.

“Doesn’t look like your land,” I say, motioning to the sign.

“Bought the site in ninety-five,” he says. As he speaks, he puts a hand to his cheek and scratches twice, with all four fingers. I know a hand signal when I see one, even if it’s cleverly disguised. He’s just invited some friends to the party. Things are going to go from bad to worse fairly quickly unless we can disarm this guy—mentally, not physically. Without knowing what we’re up against, I’m not about to start a shootout.

“Cool beans,” I say. I’ve always hated the phrase, but it’s ridiculous, non-threatening and shows a good degree of disinterest. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble. I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. A bear in the area has ransacked a cabin nearby.
Nearly mauled the old guy down the road.”

“Mr. Johnson,” the guy says, catching me off guard.

“You know him?”

“We’ve met,” he says.
“In town.
He the one that called you out?”

“Yeah,” I say, but then regret it. If these people are as dangerous as I think, I don’t want them anywhere near the Johnsons.

“Look, sir,” Collins says, and I note that she’s not doing any normal cop stuff, like asking for a name. “We just need to know if you’ve seen the bear.
Big black bear.”

“Maybe seven hundred pounds,” I say. If he’s patrolling these woods, he’s likely seen the bear I encountered and the more accurately I describe it, the more likely he is to believe our story. “Has two cubs.”

The man’s doing a great job of hiding his thoughts and emotions, but I see a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He’s seen the bear.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve seen her, but not for a few days.”

The guy has just unknowingly admitted to patrolling the woods.

“Well, give us a call if you do,” Collins says and puts on a crafty smile. “I’d tell you to be careful, but I can see you know to handle yourself.”

Militia or not, killer or not, Collins’s smile and radiant eyes are enough to bring peace to the Middle East. The man rubs his cheek again, this time with a flat hand. He taps his skin twice.
Another hand signal, telling his buddies to hold off.

While this is a relief, it’s also disconcerting. Whoever he’s motioning to is close enough to see his signals, through the gate. Even worse, if the people on the other side of the gate were obeying his hand signals, and I have no reason to believe they weren’t, then they’re pros. Like Mr. Johnson, I’ve got pretty good ears, but I didn’t hear a thing. Not a rustle of leaves, a snap of a twig or a shift in the breeze. I’m still leaning toward a militia, but these guys aren’t just backwoods conspiracy theorists. They’re ex-military, possibly even ex-Special Forces.

He lowers the shotgun and my blood pressure lowers a tad. I give him a nod and a smile. “Thanks.”

“I’m going to assume you have a permit for that,” Collins says, motioning to the shotgun. “Just make sure I don’t get called out here for any kind of nonsense.”

She’s smart. Leaving without a warning would be decidedly too easy and the guy might think we’re just trying get away so we can come back with reinforcements, which is actually true. We can’t come back here without a small army.
Maybe a large one.
Thankfully, despite being the team leader of Fusion Center – P, I am still a fairly high ranking DHS agent, just not a
very
respected one. But I can easily find out if these guys are on anyone’s radar, and if not, put them there.

“In the meantime,” she says. “Put up some actual no trespassing signs. If it’s not posted, it’s not illegal for us or anyone else to be out here.”

She’s pushing it now, but he just nods and says, “Will do.”

Collins turns her back to him and starts away. I stay rooted in place for a moment, waiting to see if the guy will make any kind of threatening move. He turns toward me, clearly annoyed that I haven’t followed her. He motions toward Collins with the shotgun.
“Go on,
git
.”

Git
.

Kansas, I think, but keep the deduction to myself. Where he’s from has no bearing on who he is now or what’s going on out here. It just confirms that everything about him is a sham. No way
a man from Kansas is
an honest to goodness Sox fan. “You’re a baseball fan, who’s your pick this year? I’m partial to the Angels.” That last bit was just to let him know that I’m not a Red Sox fan, which is a lie, I am, but it gives him the freedom to answer honestly.

“Royals,” he says.

Thought so.
“Huh,” I say.

He stares at me with eyes that say he’s losing his patience. I turn away with a wave and say, “Watch out for that bear. She’s a testy one.”

He doesn’t say a word as we make a casual retreat along the dirt road. Neither of us looks back. Neither of us speaks. She knows as well as I do that we were lucky to get away in one piece.

Five minutes into our walk, when I’m sure we can’t be seen, or heard, I speak softly. “What’s your assessment?”

“At least three of them,” she says.
“One behind the fence, one behind us.”

This surprises me. I pride myself on my powers of observation, but that’s a detail I missed.

“The hand signals were for the guy behind the fence. Never saw him, but I’m sure he was there,” she explains. “Never saw the second guy, either, but he kept glancing past you like someone was there.”

“Anything else?”

“Best guess?
Maybe a marijuana farm.”

“Good thinking.” And it was. I jumped right to militia, but there were probably a good number of other possibilities, none of them legal.

“Can you dig up the records on the land?” I ask. “Find out who owns it?”

“Already planning to,” she says.

“I’ll make some calls, see if there are any ongoing investigations, try to get some updated satellite images, and see about getting us some backup.”

“What about the whole
Preternatural
thing?” she asks. “Won’t they yank you from the case?”

“Paranormal,” I admit. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know what Preternatural meant. And yeah, they probably would try to yank me from the case, but the nearest Fusion Center is Boston, so it will take some time for them to get here and I intend on being so fully entrenched in this case by then that they won’t have any choice but to keep me on.”

“I can request it too, if it will help,” she says.

This gets a big fat grin from me. “Thanks.”

She shrugs like its nothing. But it’s something. Or maybe I just hope it’s something. I remind myself that I’ve only known Collins for about an hour. If I apply
Occam’s Razor—
the simplest explanation is usually the right one—then it’s most definitely nothing.

“Fuck you, Occam,” I mutter.

“What was that?” she says.

“Nothing,” I say quickly,
then
point up ahead. “Look, there’s Mr. Johnson.”

She turns forward and offers a wave to the man.

He doesn’t respond.

The hairs on the back of my neck spring up. Something’s off.

I look closer, taking in all the details. He’s sitting in his rocking chair, facing toward us, not rocking. His eyes are open, but he hasn’t acknowledged our approach, despite the fact that he’s eager to find out what’s going on in his woods. The bright orange can of Moxie is on the porch next to him, but it’s on its side. Brown fluid drips from the deck floor to the staircase’s top step. No way
an old guy would
let a spill like that go. It’d get sticky. Attract ants.

That’s when I see the hole in his forehead. It’s small.
9mm probably.
Hard to see.
But it’s there and Mr. Johnson is very dead.
Probably his wife, too.
And since we never heard a
gunshot, that
means the hit was sound-suppressed.

Definitely pros.
Given how fast they got to Mr. Johnson, the shooter must have been sent the moment I uttered the man’s name. The Royals fan was wearing a
mic
. These guys are organized and deadly, and we’re about to be next.

I do my best to hide my fury, slide up closer to Collins and wrap my arm around her waist. She tenses and I know I’m a second away from getting pummeled, so I speak fast and serious, “Johnson’s dead.”

She starts to look, but I stop her with a growled, “Don’t look!” I force myself to calm and say, “Put your arm around me. Lean your head on my shoulder.”

She listens and I whisper through a big phony smile. “In ten seconds, I’m going to shove you into the woods to our left. Run like hell until you can’t see the road, then turn a sharp right and make for the Watson’s cabin.”

She nuzzles into me. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll be right behind you. Your car is compromised. We need to get to Betty. Ready?”

I feel her body tense under my hand. “Go.”

I thrust her to the left and she hits full speed by the time she reaches the side of the road. I’m on her heels, picking up speed fast.

The bullets start flying before I make it five steps.

9

My hand goes to the side of my head as a flash of pain nearly knocks me to the ground. I’m sure my hand will come away bloody, but it doesn’t. Not shot, just still
hungover
. The coffee and painkiller quick fix works well if you’re kicking back and taking it easy, not so much if you’re sprinting through the woods while unknown assailants are trying to blow your head off. Of course, those things also make the pain easier to ignore. Despite the white hot agony ping-ponging through my head, I do not want to die.

I run flat out, as fast as I
can,
bunny-hopping bushes, rocks and fallen trees. When there isn’t an obstacle to leap, I zigzag like a slalom skier. I probably look ridiculous, but the idea is to not get shot. Moving unpredictably is my best bet at throwing off their aim. Even with all the chaotic movements, I’m pretty damn fast. But Collins—the woman must be part greyhound. Not only am I not gaining on her, but she’s actually leaving me in the dust.

Bullets tear through a tree as I pass. I duck my head instinctively, but don’t slow and don’t look back. Any delay and I’m screwed.
Which means that making a quick getaway in Betty is out of the question.
Even if the truck started on the first try, it would be close. The driver’s side door faces the road and contrary to what is seen in movies, bullets make short work of car doors. More than that, Betty takes a good minute to get going. These guys could casually stroll up to the truck and tap on the glass before popping me in the face.

“Collins!”
I shout. “No time for Betty. Just get the backpack out of the flatbed and keep on going.”

She doesn’t nod or reply in any way, but I’m sure she’s heard me.

I hear a coughing sound behind me. Bullets tear into the earth around my feet. Pain, like a bee sting, flares in my right thigh. I’ve been shot, but I don’t fall to the ground, so it’s not bad. But their improving aim and the fact that I can now hear the sound-suppressed gunfire means they’re closing in.

The cabin emerges through the thick forest. Collins forks right, heading for Betty. I watch as she clears the trees, picks up even more speed—which seems impossible—and leaps into Betty’s flatbed. Without missing a beat, Collins leans over, snags the backpack and hurtles out the far side. A string of holes appear in the truck’s side, each punctuated by a metallic punching sound.

Sorry, Betty.

I maintain my course, heading for the cabin’s bedroom window. Blocking my path is a wood pile, cut and stacked for the stove inside. I leap the pile as bullets tear into the wood, falling gracelessly on the far side. But I don’t slow as I roll back to my feet and come up with a ten-pound log. I heave the thing ahead of me.

The bedroom window shatters a moment before I arrive. I throw myself through while the glass is still falling. My feet hit the floor, but forward momentum pulls me onto the bed. I roll over the corner, grasping the thick, black wool blanket in one hand and snatching my gun from the nightstand with the other. Then I’m out the bedroom door and charging across the living room.

The back door is locked and barricaded to keep the bear from returning. And the front door will make me an easy target. So I whip the blanket around my arm twice, hold it above my head and leap through the window on the opposite end of the living room. I curl into a tight ball and let the blanket shield me from the broken glass.

As I hit the ground atop the blanket, I feel a pinch in my arm, but ignore it. I get to my feet and keep running. The blanket billows out behind me, which makes me easier to see, for the moment, but also disguises my body.

I half expect a barrage of bullets to turn the blanket into a Light Bright page in the hands of a maniacal child, but nothing happens. The house is blocking their view, or maybe they don’t know I exited the far side, though that seems doubtful considering the amount of noise I made. Still, I don’t seem to be a target for the moment, so I reel in the blanket and ball it around my right arm.

I round a tree and come face-to-barrel with a handgun. I try to stop, but the downward slope and leaf litter keep my feet in motion while my top half tries to stop. I fall on my ass, while raising my weapon, but neither gun goes off.

“Fuck,” Collins says, lowering her weapon.

I climb to my feet. No time for sharing apologies. “Let’s go.”

She pauses, looking uphill. “I see three of them.”

I take her arm and yank her back.
“Now!”

The slope makes our flight a little faster, but we’re forced to slow down when the forest grows thicker or else we risk taking a fall. The bullets have stopped flying for the moment, but any delay on our part might change that. When we reach the base of the hill, I turn right. There’s no real logic behind it, there just isn’t time to think about a direction.

Turns out, it was the wrong choice. The woods end abruptly at the site of an old landslide. The wide arc of land curves for a hundred feet in
either direction and
the trees are sparse around the rim. We stop at the edge and look down. The grade isn’t too bad. We could make it. But we’d be easy targets on the way down and the forest doesn’t start again for another few hundred feet.

A branch cracks in the woods behind us. Without discussing our options, Collins and I both leap over the edge. But we don’t run. We duck.
A tangle of roots dangle
from the overhang of earth, and we use them to keep from tumbling down the slope. I place my handgun to my lips, “
shhh
.”

She nods.

Fast approaching footsteps slow as they approach the edge.

“Think I saw them go over,” a man says.

A second man, sounding a little winded, says, “Me too.”

“Careful,” says a third voice I recognize as the man from Kansas. “The cop was carrying.”

Dirt trickles over the edge as just one of the men approaches. “Not seeing them.”

“No
way they
made the woods,” Kansas says.

I see a forehead slide into view. Another inch and he’ll see me. More dirt falls from above. The earth flexes. The idea must strike Collins at the same time it does me because we both grab hold of the roots hanging from the flexing ledge of soil and pull. The ground bows forward and with a shout, the man falls over the edge.

I don’t watch him land. Instead, I spring up and level my weapon at Kansas’s surprised face. Then I erase it. A second, louder gunshot makes me flinch, but
its
good news. The second man hunting us spins away, a hole punched in the center of his chest.

I’m about to congratulate Collins when a hand grips my shoulder and spins me around. A fist like a concrete block finds the side of my head and spills me to the ground. I flip head over heels, tumbling down the slope. I strike a number of large rocks and scraggly bushes on the way down, but nothing slows me. The hillside is content to beat the shit out of me. I stop at the bottom and groan when I
lift
my head.

Collins tumbles to a stop a few feet away. She doesn’t move, but she’s breathing. I look for our guns. They’re both gone.

The good news is that the man pursuing us has lost his weapon, too. The bad news is that he’s built like a steroid addict. He’s got the seething rage to boot.

I cough and collect my beanie cap from the ground, dusting it off before putting it back on my head like I haven’t got a care in the world. It’s an act, of course. The living freight train looks like he could tear my head clean off. I just don’t want him to expect a fight.

I add a stagger to my step, moving slowly away from him. I place a hand on my arm like its hurt and am momentarily surprised to find it warm with blood. As he closes the distance, I realize that a lot of my act is easy to pull off because it’s not an act at all. I’m shot, cut and beaten.

Shit.

As he winds up for a punch, I shake off my weariness and step forward, kicking out hard, aiming for his nuts. I connect hard, but not with the soft flesh between his legs. I look down and find his hand wrapped around my foot. He caught my kick.

As he raises his other hand, I see his eyes go to my knee. He’s going to break my freaking leg. Unable to do anything else, I try to duplicate a move I saw in a kung-fu movie once. I jump up and kick with my other leg, aiming for his head. The kick misses, but the sudden twist frees me from his grasp.

I stagger quickly to my feet, but then he’s on me, throwing hammer punches. I do my best to block the blows, but he connects with my shoulder, numbing the arm. As my defense falls, he does the opposite of what I expect. Instead of bashing in my face, he sweep kicks my legs out from under me, sending me hard to my back. My fall is broken by a twisted root that digs into my ribs and further pushes the air from my lungs.

This guy is big, fast and knows how to fight. At my best, I might not be able to take him, and right now I am so far from my best, it’s silly.

But I am not alone.

Shickt
.

I recognize the sound a moment before the big man
does,
and I grin.

Collins strikes before the man can turn around, bringing the telescopic steel baton hard against his left arm. The strike would have broken most people’s arms, but the meat surrounding this guy’s bones protects him.
Doesn’t stop it from hurting, though.

“
Argh
!” the man shouts, spinning around and swinging a punch that would knock out a horse.

Collins avoids the strike, leaning just out of range—the mark of a confident fighter.

I remember the calluses on her knuckles and see the look of loathing in her eyes. Whatever happened in Collins’s past to make her train in hand-to-hand combat to the point where her fingers tell the
tale,
it’s coming to the surface. Then she lets it loose.

Collins swings twice, striking the man’s arm in the same spot, and then a little higher up, on the clavicle, which breaks, audibly. The man howls, but lets out a punch of his own. Collins leans back, dulling the blow, but it still connects with her shoulder. She moves with the strike, spinning away. But the man presses forward, swinging again. Using the momentum of her spin, Collins brings the club around and whips it into the man’s wrist.

The combined force of both strikes shatters the man’s forearm, but it also knocks the club out of Collins’s hands.

She’s far from weaponless. While the man staggers away, she pulls a can of mace from her belt and sharp-shoots the liquid fire into his eyes. Then she’s on top of him, throwing punches, elbows and knees to every part of his body. He’s on the ropes, but this man is hardcore. Despite all the injuries, he kicks out hard and fast, catching Collins in the side of the head. She goes down hard.

The man stumbles over to her prone body. After balancing himself, he lifts up his leg. One good stomp could shatter her skull. But the man has made the same mistake twice.

Collins is not alone.

I bring the metal baton against the back of the man’s neck as hard as I can. He crumples in on
himself
, spine shattered, control removed. He falls next to Collins who wakes and rolls away, getting back to her feet, ready to fight. When she sees the man on the ground, she lets her pain show. She holds her head and winces. I’d like to hold her. Take a look. Tell her she’ll be okay. But I can’t. There isn’t time. These three were definitely not acting
on their own
. There will be more and we need to be long gone by the time they arrive.

I look back to the slope and see my backpack at the base. “Get the pack. I’ll try to find the guns.” She grunts her agreement and we separate. It takes a minute for me to scale the slope, but once I’m at the top I quickly find our weapons, and the big man’s—a sound suppressed M9 Beretta, preferred sidearm of the U.S. Army. If these guys are Special Ops, they’re probably Rangers. That doesn’t really mean the man is a Ranger—no way he could ‘
roid
up while on the job—but it’s possible he used to be in the Army’s employ.