Separation (19 page)

“Go through me first.”

His opponent immediately made the first move,
getting down on all fours and charging with a hoarse bellow
emanating from its mouth. Harry let it pass to slam headfirst into
a tree. “Try again,” he growled, angry that his wife had been
threatened repeatedly. “Try again, and I may let you live.”

Pulling its head back and shaking the loose
bark from it, the creature turned around and bared bloody teeth. It
charged again, and this time Harry caught it with a powerful left
hook to its jaw area as it passed. The blow caused the monster to
reel, but it didn’t go down. “So tell me, Bambi, where’s Allenby
hiding? How many more of you are there?”

Another headshake accompanied by a groan of
pain and anger erupted from the monster’s throat. Perhaps it knew
it couldn’t win, but it had strength enough to say, “My master gave
me a message to give to you. We are close, very close, and there
are more, many more. Get ready for the storm.”

It charged for the third time. Do or die, now
or never, and Harry let his claws out and swiped at the thing’s
side. It staggered and fell, and as it did so, he grabbed it around
its throat and attempted to choke it. However, the creature was
strong and also clever. It snapped its head back and one of its
antlers caught him in the throat.

Gasping for air, Harry fell on his back and
the creature turned over and reared up. Its heavy paws smashed down
repeatedly onto his chest. “You’re weaker than your wife. You have
no tail, no speed... what makes you think you can take me?”

Claws out, Harry swiped the air and
connected, tearing out its throat. “That.”

Blood from the creature jetted into the air
and it fell on its back, pawing the air and making whispering
noises as it bled to death. A moment later, it emitted a heavy sigh
and stopped moving.

Exhausted from the battle, Harry took a few
seconds to regain his strength, retracted his claws, and sniffed to
air to make sure no one else was coming. After finding no sign of
the enemy, he ran back to the cabin, calling his wife’s name at the
top of his lungs.

“I’m here,” she called back. “Did you have a
good time?”

What an absurd question, he thought, but once
he saw Anastasia waiting for him, cellphone in hand and a blasé
expression on her face, he knew things would be all right. She’d
changed clothes into a pair of yellow pajamas and was yawning.
Apparently, the earlier attack hadn’t fazed her at all. “His phone
line’s been busy, so I kept at it. Is the other thing history?”

“Yeah, he’s finished.” Harry wiped his
forehead and smelled the rankness of the dead mutant on him. He’d
had enough of killing after the adventures involving Szabo and his
ilk, but against an enemy willing to sacrifice life, any life, he
knew he could never let his guard down for an instant. If it came
down to him becoming as savage as the opposition, then so be
it.

Anastasia redialed the number, listened, and
then handed it over. “Agent Overton?” he asked.

“It’s me. What’s going on?”

“It seems we have a problem.”

Overton drove up about an hour later with four cars
behind him. Tires squealed as the vehicles screeched to a stop.
Black-suited agents got out, eight in all, with Overton in the
lead. He automatically ran to the house, pistol drawn, and Harry
met him halfway. “I’ll show you where the body is. One of them’s
inside.”

Guiding him and two other agents to view the
now deader-than-dead ferret-deer, Overton pursed his lips in
distaste and surveyed the area. “Are you checking to see point of
entry?” Harry asked, while figuring things out mathematically from
every angle.

“I am.”

It seemed to be a pointless exercise, a
typical macho by-the-book example of how to trap the enemy. In this
case, the enemy was a whole lot more resourceful as well as
knowledgeable.

As for the forest, the entire area was one
large entry point. How could anyone defend a forest with an
incredibly huge number of trees and hiding places? Harry had to
rely on his senses. His wife had to as well, but in any case, he
checked his snark at the door.

Meanwhile, the head agent ordered his men to
take the bodies away and set up shop. “Get everything ready,” he
called out to two of his men who were fiddling with an array of
electrical wire.

“You mean string up a bunch of lights and
cameras, don’t you?”

Overton turned his head around briefly and
spoke as if annoyed anyone would question his judgment. “What else
would you do?” He turned to his men and pointed at the corpse. “Get
that thing out of here.”

Silently, they picked up their cargo and
left, and Overton began to walk back. Harry brought up the rear,
wondering if all this was necessary, and once he reached the cabin,
he saw the rest of the agents in the middle of their task of
setting up an array of surveillance equipment.

Anastasia emerged from the cabin to stand
with him. They watched in silence as the men went about their
business, hooking things up, strategically placing infrared lamps,
motion sensors and cameras around a two hundred yard perimeter.
Once done, an agent gave a thumbs-up sign.

“I feel safer already,” she remarked to
Overton who’d stood near the cabin’s now-repaired front door. Two
other agents came out huffing and puffing as they carried the
female assailant’s body away.

Apparently, he didn’t catch the sarcasm in
her voice. “Glad you do. This was Farrell’s order as well as mine,”
he answered, not taking his eyes off his men for a second. They
drove off and an eerie silence settled over the area.

If the agent hadn’t caught the sarcasm, Harry
did, and he wondered why they’d bothered showing up, since the
danger had already appeared. All the security in the world was not
going to stop a fanatic like Allenby. “Let’s take this inside,” he
said.

Once the door had closed, everyone took seats
on the couch. At least the stain of blood on the floor was gone.
Anastasia had already cleaned it, but the smell of blood lingered.
Overton started off by saying, “Tell me everything that
happened.”

Harry recounted the story and Anastasia
chimed in from time to time, adding details. Overton’s face got a
look of concern on it when he heard the expression the storm is
coming but said nothing.

During the conversation, Anastasia excused
herself to grab some food—which consisted of two whole pizzas she
consumed in the period of less than three minutes—and then came
back with two other pizzas. Overton declined his, saying he had to
watch his weight, but Harry tore through his snack. In between
bites, he asked, “Have you heard any demands from Allenby?”

“Not yet,” the reply came. Overton took out
his cellphone to check it, nodded at the screen, and then put it
away. “Messages,” he said offhandedly. “I’ve been asking Jason and
Maze to check on movements within the USA as well as Canada. This
continent remains our priority. It has to. I understand Europe’s
got problems, and they’re grateful to us for helping out, but their
governments have already informed us they’re going to handle their
transgenic population difficulties themselves.”

“Difficulties,” Anastasia repeated.
“Difficulties for whom, may I ask?” She arched her eyebrows and a
deep rumble came from within her chest, indicating mounting anger.
“If you’re thinking we’re the problem, then you’ve got another
thing coming.”

Overton put up his hands, seemingly as a sign
of conceding her point. “All right, poor choice of words on my
part, but what I said stands. There are difficulties, some of which
we’ve already discussed, homes and jobs, for example. We can’t
meddle in their affairs, and we have to think of ourselves
first.”

“I assume that means thinking of us as
well?”

Once again, Anastasia posed the question, and
this time leaned forward to make her position a little clearer.
“We’re the ones who have to fit in, not you. We’re the ones who
have to put up with the insults, not you. And
we’re
the ones
who’ve been doing your dirty work.”

“Not you,” Harry added.

With their assertion, Overton once more threw
up his hands. “You’re right, so what else do you want me to
say?”

Anastasia pointed a delicate yet lethal claw
at one of the motion sensors that had been installed over the door.
A sour look flitted across her face.

Overton heaved in a deep breath. “Yes, we’re
wired in, and someone is going to be watching you.”

“From where,” she wanted to know. “I am not
in the mood for Peeping Feds dropping in at all hours of the day.
We do have a life here, you know.”

Overton obviously got upset at the rebuff.
Harry watched, as his notion of getting upset consisted of shifting
his butt on the couch and folding his arms across his chest,
accompanied by a rather childish whiny note in his voice.

“I’ll have you know the order came directly
from Farrell. He may be sick, but he’s still nominally in charge,
and he’s concerned. I am as well, so that’s why things are as they
are. The surveillance team is renting a cabin around half a mile
from here. We’ll have men patrolling here for the next two weeks at
least, just to make sure no unwanted presence is detected.”

The speech, so solemnly presented, made Harry
snort in disbelief. “Hate to burst your bubble, but they’re already
here. The two bodies your men took away are proof. So how are extra
men going to deter a nutcase like Allenby?”

“It’s a show of strength.”

The childish whine disappeared, replaced by
something raw and tired sounding. It couldn’t have been easy to
implement all these precautions, not to mention coordinate with
foreign governments, and in spite of the agent’s earlier faux pas
concerning transgenics, Harry gained a measure of respect for the
way he’d handled things so far.

“I’m sorry this happened, but there was no
way we could have foreseen this,” Overton continued.

Well, there was the fact that Allenby’s body
had never been recovered. There was the fact that ASR probably
still had research labs operating, and there was also the fact a
number of transgenics were loyal to Allenby. However, Harry didn’t
mention it. It would have been like rubbing salt into an open
wound.

He did, however, pose the obvious question.
“So what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

Overton excused himself to check on the
set-up. While he walked around shouting orders, Anastasia shook her
head. “Nothing ever changes, does it?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, simply walked
inside. Harry watched the sway of her hips as she disappeared
behind the bedroom door and reminded himself of how lucky he had
been to find her. Still, the fact that others out there were in the
mood for blood took away some of his feelings of romance.

Over the next three days, Harry and Anastasia
met with the various representatives from the Social Service
agency, the head of a large garment factory, and two education
professionals from a local high school and a university. The
meetings were not fruitful, to say the least.

“Explain to me again why you can’t fund any
programs,” Anastasia said.

They were sitting in a café in downtown
Manhattan, with Overton’s men on guard outside. A waitress had
served their coffee, giggling as she put the cups down, and asked
for autographs from both of them. “It’s for me.”

It seemed somewhat incongruous for her to act
so coy and girlish, considering she was in her late fifties and was
well past the girlish stage. However, protocol had to be
observed.

“I’m a rock star,” Anastasia muttered as she
scribbled out her name. The waitress thanked her repeatedly, and
flounced off to take care of the other customers.

“At least you’re the more photogenic one,”
Harry quipped as a few members of the populace decided to do the
snappy-snappy thing.

It was bothersome, to say the least, and as
the flashes continued to go off, a few reporters drove up to ask
questions and take still more pictures. Harry got the sudden urge
to rip the cameras and selfie sticks from the hands of the total
jerks that just had to thrust said sticks over their table in order
to take a picture. People being intrusive—it was so not his style,
and he stood up in order to deliver an ultimatum.

“Let it go,” Anastasia whispered.

Her voice had a calming effect. He relaxed,
the gawkers eventually dissipated, and she repeated the question to
the person who’d come to meet them. Her name was Carla Withers, a
youngish black woman, calm and professionally dressed.

“It’s not that we can’t fund any programs,”
Ms. Withers said. “But the economy still isn’t at full capacity,
and we have to think of our own first.”

From her usage of the term our own she meant
the human population. “I know that sounds bad,” she continued, “but
you’ve given us very little to work with. We don’t know how many
people like, er, how many transgenics are out there. We don’t know
what their level of education is or what their mindset is. If you
had some concrete numbers, we could make arrangements, but as it
stands...”

Her voice trailed away, but it wasn’t
necessary for her to say anything else. Harry knew what the score
was. He’d heard the same thing from the other professionals he’d
consulted. Throw us some numbers, give us a breakdown, and please,
for the love of God, tell us who we’re working with and that
they’re not dangerous...

Admittedly, they had a point. So far, in
spite of setting up a couple of websites specifically for
transgenics to respond to, and despite sending out dozens of
e-mails through private as well as three volunteer NGO’s, not one
transgenic person had responded. So either they didn’t exist in
North America—which he found hard to believe—or else they were in
hiding, which, sadly, he found all too believable.