Authors: Lance Horton
Shadow Dragon (32 page)
“Hello?” It was a child’s voice that answered.
Shit
.
“Hey, Lincoln, it’s Kyle,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “Is your mom there?”
“Yeah,” the boy replied sheepishly. He then turned away from the receiver and yelled, “Mom, phone!”
There was a brief pause. Kyle could hear wacky cartoon music playing in the background.
“I’ve got it, son. Hang up now,” came Rochelle’s voice.
“’Kay, bye, Kyle,” said the boy as he hung up.
“Kyle?” Rochelle asked. The tone of her voice was laced with concern.
“Yeah, it’s me, Rochelle. I—” He had done this hundreds of times before, but now that it involved someone close to him, he found himself struggling to get the words out.
“Oh, God, something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Rochelle asked.
“It’s—” He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, but he couldn’t. “Lewis has been shot.”
“Oh, God, is he all right?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “We’re at the hospital. They’ve taken him into surgery.”
Rochelle’s voice quivered as she asked, “Where was he shot?”
“In the stomach.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, it shouldn’t be life-threatening, right? He’ll be okay, won’t he? Tell me he’ll be okay, Kyle.”
“I … I honestly don’t know, Rochelle.” He felt like shit for saying it, even though it was the truth. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that it was his fault, that if he hadn’t let the bastard get away, then her husband wouldn’t be in surgery with a bullet in his gut. “We got to the hospital real fast. I wish I could tell you more, but I just don’t know.”
Rochelle started crying, and Kyle stayed on the line with her, unsure of how else to support her. “I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “You’d think that after all these years, I’d be ready for this, but I’m not. How can you ever be ready for something like this?”
“You can’t,” Kyle agreed.
“So what do I do?”
“I don’t know all the details yet, but the bureau’s flying out two more agents in the morning. SAC Geddes will get in touch with you about flying in with them, but I thought … I thought I should be the one to call you.”
“Thank you, Kyle. I appreciate that,” Rochelle said as she struggled to regain her composure.
“Do you want me to have someone come over?”
“No, not yet—” She didn’t finish the thought. It just hung there in the silence—the one possibility that neither of them were willing to speak of, as if saying it might make it a reality.
“I’ll call as soon as I find out anything more,” he said.
“Okay,” she said and then hung up quickly as if she might break down again.
In spite of the heater, the temperature in the car had fallen to the point that he could see the silvery mist of his breath. As he grit his teeth to keep them from chattering, he pushed against the steering wheel and drove himself back into the seat until his arms shook. He wanted to scream.
It was cold. So
fucking
cold.
His own panting breath reverberating within his helmet was all that Ramirez heard as he slogged his way down the steep trail. He constantly scanned the forest around him, struggling to differentiate the movement of the windblown evergreens from a possible bogey in the neon-green display. He no longer trusted the alarm system to give him adequate warning—it had already failed them once—and having lost his partner, he no longer had the benefit of an extra lookout. Several times already, his scrutiny of the surroundings had caused him to stumble. On one occasion, he had nearly fallen down a steep ravine just off the trail.
Even with the snowshoes, it was a constant battle to remain upright. In some areas, the snow was deep and soft, causing him to bog down, while in other areas, it was hard and icy. His toes were jamming into the ends of his boots with each step until he was certain he would lose a few of the nails. The throbbing pain in his knee from his earlier collision with the tree continued to worsen, which caused him to hobble like an old lady as he fought his way down the trail.
When his radio went off, he nearly dove for cover.
“Team One,” came Ainsworth’s voice. “We’ve just received a signal from transponder 403. It’s one of Busey’s. I want you down that mountain on the double. Team Two will meet you at the base before proceeding on to the transponder location.”
“Roger,” Ramirez replied. In spite of the pain, he picked up the pace, more than happy to comply with the order. His spirits were lifted with the hope that they might be able to rescue Busey and that he would no longer be facing the menace of the forest alone.
Ramirez was making his way through the lower elevations near the point he would meet up with Team Two when his alarm went off. He ducked immediately and then checked the alarm coordinates. It was within a mile of him and closing. He watched the display as it counted down the distance. It was heading in his direction—and fast. With a sinking feeling, he realized it wasn’t just coming in his direction, but it was coming directly at him. He quickly surveyed the area, looking for a place to take cover. To his left, the mountain dropped off precipitously, to his right, it rose sharply, and the tree cover was sparse. About twenty yards ahead, he spotted a fair-sized boulder lying halfway across the trail. He began running as best as he could manage while the alarm continued to buzz and the counter dropped.
“Team One,” Ainsworth’s voice cut through the alarm. “You’ve got a bogey bearing down on you.”
“I’m on it,” Ramirez replied. The display rolled below twelve hundred yards. He ducked behind the boulder, unshouldered the tranq gun, and turned to face the incoming target.
“Hold your position. Team Two is within a mile and closing.”
“Roger,” Ramirez replied. The counter continued to wind down
One thousand yards. He raised the gun and activated the targeting system in the visor.
Eight hundred yards.
And then, suddenly, it veered off course, turning almost ninety degrees to the east, continuing on for a few hundred yards before stopping.
Ramirez waited for several long moments, his eyes glued to the alarm indicator on his visor, before he finally relaxed. He stepped from behind the boulder and radioed back to camp. “We’ve lost it, sir.”
“I know,” Ainsworth replied. “Continue on down to the rendezvous point with Team Two.”
“Roger,” Javier replied. Instead of reshouldering the tranq gun, he decided to carry it in case the bogey began moving again. He turned and started back down the trail.
Wham!
Something big slammed into him from out of nowhere, knocking him across the trail. There were no buzzing alarms or shouted warnings this time, but fireworks still erupted within his head as his helmet cracked against the trunk of a tree.
He struggled to rise, but his body seemed unwilling or unable to respond. Everything seemed far away, as if he were at the end of a long tunnel or the bottom of a deep pool. He tried to call for help, but the faint lights of the display kept fading in and out of focus as he struggled to maintain consciousness.
The monochromatic green display flickered as there was movement to his right. He turned his head in time to see a clawed foot crunch into the snow next to his head.
No amount of debriefing could have prepared him for such a sight. What stood before him was a vision straight out of hell. The thing was massive, much larger than they had expected, at least seven feet tall with thick, sinewy legs that looked like those of the raptors in the
Jurassic Park
movies, along with the eight-inch claws. Unable to move, he could only watch in horror as the thing spread its large wings and fluttered them. Its long, thin head reared back as it issued a squealing, screeching cry, its razor-sharp teeth glimmering green as they reflected the ambient light.
Knowing his time had come, Javier begged the Virgin Mother for mercy. He began praying the rosary, the litany of words barely a whisper inside his helmet as the demonic presence of El Diablo loomed over him, blocking out the last of the faint green light.
*
From somewhere far away came the sound of voices calling to him, telling him things were all right. And above him in the distance, the merest hint of light—a beautifully twinkling luminescence like stars on a foggy night or perhaps angels come to carry him home.
“Mama?” he whispered as he fell into darkness once more.
The surgery waiting room walls had a pastel, rose-colored wallpaper above a dark-paneled wainscoting. The thick carpet was a lush green inlaid with patterns of pink roses. The harsh overhead fluorescents were recessed into the ceiling with reflective grids that softened and dimmed the light. The entire room was designed to be soothing, but Kyle found no comfort in its appearance. He just sat there, staring at nothing, replaying earlier events over and over in his head, and wondering if there was something he could have done to have prevented it, while each minute dragged interminably on into the next.
Sheriff Greyhawk sat beside him, eyes closed, as still and as silent as a mountain. But he wasn’t asleep. When the sheriff had arrived, he had been accompanied by two of his men, who were now standing guard outside of Carrie’s room. He had told Kyle that Clayton and the forensics team were at the motel searching for evidence and dusting for prints, but it didn’t look good. Even worse was the news that Carrie’s computer was gone, a fact that had only fueled SAC Geddes’s anger when Kyle had called her back.
Marasco came marching into the waiting room and straight at Kyle. “What the fuck did you do?” he shouted, grabbing Kyle by the collar and jerking him from the chair. “You killed him, didn’t you?”
“Fuck you,” Kyle shouted, shoving Marasco back. “You weren’t there.”
Sheriff Greyhawk pulled Marasco off.
Something came to Kyle then. “Or were you? Where the hell have you been all afternoon?”
“Aay, fuck you!” Marasco lunged at Kyle again, but the sheriff held him back. Marasco struggled to escape the sheriff’s grasp, but it was pointless. He finally gave up, jerked free, and stormed off to the counter at the back of the room, where a stack of Styrofoam cups sat beside a glass coffeepot on a hot plate.
Sheriff Greyhawk followed Marasco to the back of the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and one for Marasco. The two spoke in hushed tones for a moment. Marasco raised his voice and glanced in Kyle’s direction several times, but the sheriff continued to talk to him until he finally seemed to settle down.
A television was suspended from the ceiling above the sheriff’s head. The latest reality show was on.
Reality TV
. It was about as far from reality as one could get. The only thing real about it was the shallow and greedy nature of the contestants. Kyle knew about reality. He saw it up close and personal every day. Reality was alcoholic and drug-addicted parents, abused children and battered wives, corrupt CEOs and politicians, violence and terrorism. Reality was sitting in a surgery waiting room while a friend fought for his life.
That
was reality.
Kyle’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of one of the surgeons, a harried-looking older man with silvery hair. He was still in his scrubs, with his blue-green cap and booties. His surgical mask was pulled down around his neck.
The sheriff and Marasco came back up front. Kyle stood and joined them.
“Sheriff, I’m Dr. Bayless,” he said. The sheriff nodded.
“You’re the one who brought him in?” the doctor asked, looking at Kyle.
Kyle nodded.
“I … uh.” The doctor paused to clear his throat, and in that moment, Kyle knew what was coming. He had done it enough himself to know the telltale signs. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but, uh … Agent Edwards died on the operating table. We did everything we could, but it appears the bullet ricocheted off his pelvis and the bottom of his rib cage. There was just too much damage to his internal organs. I am truly sorry for your loss.”
Kyle stood there, too stunned to move. The death notification. It was normally his job to deliver such news to loved ones. He was the one who counseled them on how to deal with their grief. And while he had always felt sympathy for the families of the victims when he informed them of their loss, he had never fully realized just how cold and hollow those words coming from him must have sounded … until now.
Kyle took a step backward and slumped into his seat, suddenly faced with the harshest reality of them all.
“Team Two, come in. Goddamn it,” Ainsworth yelled into the radio.
“Team Two here,” came the reply. It was Dietrich. “Sorry about that, cap,” he said through ragged breaths. “We were a little busy for a moment there.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Don’t know how, but the dragon got to Ramirez without the alarm going off. We got here just in time. The damn thing was right over him when we bagged it.”
A cold lump formed in the pit of Myles’s stomach as Ainsworth glared at him. After he called up the detection system’s software, he began backtracking to try to find out what had happened.
“You got it?” Ainsworth asked.
“That’s affirmative. The damn thing’s a hell of a lot bigger than we were told. Took three darts to drop it, but we got it.”
“What about Ramirez?”
“Not sure. He’s unconscious.”
“His breathing and pulse are slow,” Ainsworth replied as he studied the display on his terminal, “but it doesn’t appear to be critical. Can you move him?”
“I think so. Johnson’s rigging up a travois right now. Once we truss up the dragon, we’ll start back. But it’s going to be a bitch with each of us having to pull one.”
“Fuck,” Ainsworth growled, causing Myles to flinch. The big man rubbed his hand across the stubbly hair of his burr cut. To Myles’s surprise, Ainsworth actually seemed to be torn between the mission and his men.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ainsworth keyed the radio. “Team Two, come in.”
“Team Two here, sir,” Dietrich replied.
“Continue as you were and get back here on the double. If one of you can’t manage the creature alone, shoot it with another tranquilizer to make sure it doesn’t come to—but don’t kill the damn thing, or it’ll be our asses. Then get Ramirez back here on the double. The doc can look after him while you go back for the dragon. I’m going after Busey. We aren’t leaving without him.”
“Roger that,” Dietrich replied emphatically. “We’ll join you ASAP.”
While Ainsworth gathered his gear, Myles replayed the data from Ramirez’s helmet, but it was next to impossible for him to concentrate. He was terrified by the prospect of being left alone in the cabin and in charge of the command center.
He backed it up again, watching the video and the data stream for the fifth time—or was it the sixth? He had lost count. The video feed was a grainy, monochrome green with poor clarity. It appeared that Ramirez had just moved from cover and was starting back down the trail when the feed suddenly went haywire and blacked out. It was reestablished a few seconds later, capturing what appeared to be the dragon’s clawed foot coming into the frame and then disappearing again. There were several more seconds, and then a shot of Johnson and Dietrich rapidly approaching.
Myles was still unable to ascertain anything useful from it.
The wailing of the alarm system suddenly filled the room.
Oh, God, now what?
Myles thought in horror as Ainsworth jumped to the table.
“What the fuck is that?” he shouted.
“I don’t know—” Myles stammered.
There shouldn’t be any alarms!
The dragon was knocked out. The only time it utilized its echolocation was when it was in flight. Unless the tranquilizer was wearing off, but Team Two would have noticed.
Unless— Unless—
Something else suddenly came to mind, but it was impossible. He tried to ignore it, too terrified by the implications to consider it as a viable possibility, but it was the only answer that made sense.
Unless there was another dragon.
Or dragons?
A sudden chorus of grunting and shouting was transmitted over the radio. The static-filled video feeds were erratic as the men ran. It was impossible to tell what was happening. There was the muffled
poof, poof
of the tranq guns firing and more shouting. Myles frantically pulled up the tracking system and turned off the frequency filter, all the while praying that he was wrong.
“Team Two, report,” yelled Ainsworth.
There was a burst of static and shouting, “Under attack … everywhere—” and then a scream blared in his ears as Myles reinitialized the system.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” Ainsworth shouted.
The tracking system came back online, and suddenly, there were four red blips on the screen, all whirling and circling within a hundred yards of Team Two.
“What the fuck is that?” Ainsworth asked as he pointed at the display.
“I … I don’t know how—” Myles stammered. “But somehow, I think it’s managed to reproduce.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how… There were two on the plane. Maybe before it crashed they managed to mate—”
Ainsworth grabbed the microphone. “Team Two, there are multiple bogeys. I repeat—there are multiple bogeys. Take any actions necessary to defend yourselves.”
There was another scream, and the sound of automatic gunfire erupted over the radio. Johnson’s vitals suddenly went black.
Ainsworth grabbed his tranq gun from the table, ripped open the door, and raced out. The door flopped back and forth, snow swirling through the cabin. The fire spluttered and died.
Terrified, Myles crept toward the door. Without night-vision goggles, it was impossible to see anything outside, but as he neared, he thought he saw a shadow sweeping down from the darkness beyond, sailing through the open doorway to pounce upon him. He fell to the floor with a cry of alarm, his arms crossed before him.
*
Myles found himself back in front of the FTU. He didn’t remember doing it, but the door was closed and latched from the inside. Terrified beyond all rational thought, he just sat there alone, twitching and shivering in the darkness. Sweat trickled down his forehead and dripped onto his glasses unnoticed. He stared blankly at the video screen, watching the flurry of little red dots circling and capering as they closed in on their prey. His mouth moved, as if trying to speak, but nothing could be heard over the shrieking of the alarm system.
