The White Mountain (11 page)

And now that Lakeland was
gone, a hole remained in Randall’s heart like he’d been pierced by an enemy’s
bullet.

This is for you, brother. 
One through the forehead, just like you always said.

Five minutes had passed since
the interloper ducked behind the hay bale, and Randall grew impatient, trying
to figure out what the guy was doing back there, what he was waiting on.  If it
was
The Devil Himself, it’d been a fairly stupid decision.  The roll was
off by itself, sitting thirty yards from the closest, additional cover.  Dempsey
Lawson, the owner of the neighboring farm, had left it behind last week when
the lightning had grown too intense to remain safely outside.

Why would The Devil Himself risk
the exposure when it came time to make a move?

Randall saw more advancement
along the tree line, across the field.

He inched the scope upward
and counted one, two, three more figures slinking out from the woods in the
crouch position.  Small, tactical weapons held against their shoulders at the
ready.  Helmets, masks, and goggles.

Damn
, Randall thought. 
Are all four of
those shits coming for me at the same time?  They wouldn’t work together like
that, would they? 

Huh-uh.  Not a chance. 
Too much pride to let somebody else take the credit for the kill.

Then who is it?  Chuck
didn’t send some people, he did?

Randall focused on the left
flank, the middle, and then as the scope’s crosshairs centered on the heart of
the right-flanking invader, he recognized the large
S
emblazoned on the
chest of a Smythville letterman’s jacket.

He exhaled a forceful breath
and spat out a series of curse words that would’ve made a drill sergeant
blush. 

Dempsey Jr. and his buddies,
out for a late evening game of paintball.  Randall had given him permission to
use his land in daylight so they wouldn’t be confused with any of the
real
dangers out there.  But not at night.  Never at night.  Too risky, and
obviously, too easily confused with someone that meant genuine harm.

“Damn it, Dempsey.  You
almost got dead, son.”  He sat back in his chair and fished his cell out of his
pocket, intending to call the senior Lawson and ask if he’d kindly ask his kid
to move along for the evening. 

As he worked up a reasonable
excuse, thumb hovering over the call button, the radio signal from the homemade
seismograph beeped quietly.

Someone was inside the house,
climbing the stairs to the second floor.

***

For a man Randall’s size, it
wasn’t easy to tiptoe in silence across a wooden, attic floor, but in
preparation, he’d taken the time to walk over every possible inch, inspecting
it for creaks and groans.  He’d marked every spot that emitted even the tiniest
of squeaks, and managed to avoid making a sound as he reached the attic stairs.

Whoever was down below would
be on the second floor by now, moving in stealth from room to room, looking for
him, hoping to catch him asleep or unaware and then pounce for the easy kill.

But not tonight.  The game
was over for the man roaming the second floor halls, and he didn’t even know
it.

Randall moved around to the
right side of the stairwell, got down on all fours, and then stretched onto his
stomach.  He inched closer so that only the crown of his head and his eyes were
visible over the lip, then covered the exposed area with a dusty, oil-stained
rag.  With a visible sight line down to the door, the makeshift camouflage
would provide the half-second advantage he’d need.  He moved his Heckler and
Koch Mark 23 .45 up next to his chin, pushed the safety lever to the Off
position, and waited.

He used an old trick he’d
taught himself in the field, a way to keep his mind focused and forward rather
than slipping off into a daydream. 

Counting.

Out in the bush, it had kept
him alert for hours at a time.  The highest he could remember reaching was
somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand before Lakeland had tapped him
on the shoulder and told him that he was ready to take over their watch.

In his mind, Randall counted
to a hundred, then two hundred, and finally reached three hundred and ninety
seven before he heard the first mistake down below.

A floorboard popped under the
weight of a human footstep, shattering the silence like the
pop
of a .22
rifle.

It came from the left side of
the open doorway.

Randall held his breath,
waiting.  Waiting.

A boot tip betrayed the
advancing stalker.

Two inches’ worth of target. 
Randall trusted his marksmanship—he could shoot, disable, and approach in a
matter of seconds—but thought better of it.

To the men he was up against,
pain was nothing more than an inconvenience, a nuisance.  Taking a bullet to
the foot wouldn’t hinder their ability to reciprocate.  After all, you don’t
pull triggers with your toes.  You didn’t snap necks with your feet.  Usually,
anyway.

A shoulder appeared next. 
Then the tip of a nose.

Make your move.  I’m
here.  Try to come and get me, because I sure as hell got you.

The man retreated,
disappearing from the door’s edge, and then in a blur of movement, he pivoted
across the open entrance before Randall could fire, stopping on the other side.

The speed, the agility, it
had to be The Devil Himself.

Down the hall, beyond the
entrance to the attic, was a single spare bedroom that had been empty for
years.  Randall heard no further movements and assumed that The Devil Himself
was slipping away to inspect it before returning.

Don’t break cover.  Don’t
you do it.  Wait him out.  He’ll be back.  Empty room.  Quick peek.  Thirty
seconds, tops, then he’ll come.

Since he’d lost the advantage
of sight, and wouldn’t be able to see him coming from that position, Randall
closed his eyes and listened.  His heartbeat pounded in his ears and drowned
out most of the ambient noise; the breeze through the barrel cutouts, the
settling of the house, the whisper of his t-shirt against scratchy plywood as
he took tempered breaths.

He heard nothing until the
bottom stair groaned, and could almost imagine The Devil Himself grinding his
teeth and shaking his head, damning such a rickety old house for betraying his
position with so much noise.

Wait for it.  Wait for
him.  You’re in no rush.  Holding position.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Easy now.

One shot, one kill.

Lakeland.  Lakeland? 
Status check.  Which one is he?  Which one, damn it?  Blue shirt...blue
shirt...guide me, brother.  I don’t see him.  No, hold up.  Target...acquired. 
Distance locked.  Wind?  The wind, Lakeland, which way is the goddamn wind
blowing?  Okay.  Southeast, ten knots.  Got it.  Adjusting...ready.  I said
ready.  Am I shooting today or not?  What?  Stand down?  Why?  What girl? 
Never mind, I got her.  Get out of the way, sweetie.  Move now.  Go on.  Go. 
That’s it, hug Daddy and get out of my shot. 
One...two...three...four...five...  We’re good to go, Lakeland?  Roger. 
Trigger ready.  Another notch in the belt in three...two...

Randall heard nothing, but
his sixth sense felt upward movement on the stairs.

He anchored the sole of his
boot against the plywood and shoved himself forward, feeling the sharp
splinters digging into his side and down his left arm.  He slung his handgun
over the lip and was surprised to see how close The Devil Himself had gotten. 

With his back against the
stairway wall, creeping sideways up the steps, they were almost face-to-face,
inches away from each other, by the time Randall aimed and fired.  The subtle
chuff
of air escaping the silencer sounded like a sledgehammer striking a pillow as
The Devil Himself recoiled and fell backwards and down the steps, striking his
head against the windowsill.

Positive that he was
unconscious, or dead, Randall swung his legs around, rolled, and dropped into
the opening.  He barreled down the steps and kicked the firearm out of his
attacker’s limp hand, checked for a pulse, an entry wound, found them both, and
then pulled a zip tie from his back pocket and secured him at the wrists.  He
did the same with the ankles.

Knocked out, bound, and with
blood pooling underneath his shoulder, Randall thought the guy almost looked pitiable
as he knelt, placing the barrel tip against a pulsating vein stretched across
the temple of The Devil Himself.

Randall applied pressure to
the trigger, but didn’t squeeze.

Rain check, Devil.  We
mess up my wife’s clean floors, we’re both in a heap of trouble
.

Instead of immediately
eliminating an enemy combatant and ensuring that he wouldn’t be the rabbit in
the next round, he decided to probe him for some information, supposing The
Devil Himself would give it.  No harm in trying.

“Hey,” he said, tapping the
barrel hard against the man’s skull.  “Wake up.  I said wake up, dickweed.”

The Devil Himself stirred,
snorted, and opened his eyes.  Instinct took over as he tried to react to
Randall’s presence.  He shifted his weight, trying to roll, move, get away,
then realized he wasn’t going anywhere with his hands and feet locked together.

“You win,” he said.  “Get it
over with.”

“Hang on,” Randall said. 
“Not just yet.  I think you and me might have a one-on-one, maybe a little
debrief before you meet up with your namesake.  How’s that sound?”

“Pull the trigger, hillbilly. 
I’m not telling you shit.”

Randall started with a jovial
attitude, testing the waters.  “Look here, man.  You wanna die a quick,
honorable death, or wind up worm food with poop in your drawers and piss
running down your leg?  I got no problem with either, but I reckon you won’t
have too much fun with option two unless you tell me what I want to know.  I
got all night.  Hell, I might even hang out here and let them other sons of
bitches come and try to get me, too.  I can shove a stick up all your asses and
plant you out there in the field, start up your new careers as scarecrows. 
How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like a party to me.”

“Does it now?  You sure about
that?  I mean, suit yourself, brainiac.  Up to you.”  Randall waved the .45
around.  “If I was in your shoes, and if I had my druthers, I’d rather the
gentleman with the upper hand pull the plug on me.  I’m not suffering if I
don’t have to, but that’s me.  Here’s the way I look at it.  You?  You’re a
goner either way.  You screwed the pooch and you lost.  Come sneaking around in
here on foreign territory, trying to track down somebody that knows how to
ambush better than he knows how to breathe.  Good God almighty, what were you
thinking?  You probably had a better chance of lollygagging your way into the
White House and sticking your finger up Hamm Walters’ butt than you did taking
me out on my own property.  I know you’re not in the mind to talk just yet, but
here’s your deal.  I got two questions.  You give me honest answers and I
promise I’ll make it quick.  Your other option is this, you can go on keeping
your mouth shut like an old stubborn mule, but you’ll earn the right to find
out what a flaying knife feels like.  Inch by inch.  I may even have some lemon
juice downstairs, come to think of it.  So, what’ll it be?” 

Randall had no intention of
actually torturing him, figuring the threat would be enough.

He was right.

The Devil Himself dropped his
head back against the floor, defeated.  “Ask.”

“Smart move.  If there’s any
sort of afterlife, I’m sure you’ll be thanking—”

“I said
ask
.”

“Hold your horses.  I was
getting there.  What was Enigma doing here with you?”

“He found me in Atlanta. 
Said he’d been getting some heat from the organizers and for whatever reason, they
were postponing.  Phones and email were too risky so he was passing along the
news personally.  I was first on his list, and he was on his way here next, so
I kidnapped him, made him lead me to you.  Figured on the off chance that
they’d start it up again, the rest of us could be minus one player.”

“No kidding.  Figured you’d
get a head start, huh?  Well, I reckon you over-thought that one by a country
mile.  I’ve been here the whole time.  All you had to do was look me up in the
phone book.”

“Next question.”

“Damn, you’re in a big hurry
to die, huh?  Okay, next question.  I figure you sneaky bastards are better at
recon than I am, and being the type of scum you are, I doubt you two didn’t
ride here in silence the whole way.  So, how much do you know about Ares?”

The answer was unexpected,
and sent Randall to the floor with wide eyes and a hand over his mouth.

CHAPTER 11

Mary had been so pissed at
Randall, after learning about his lies, that she’d sent his calls straight to
voicemail when he’d tried to call a number of times the night before.  She
hadn’t bothered listening to his messages either.  They were probably full of
excuses about how she wouldn’t have gone if he’d told her the truth.  At the
moment, she had no desire to listen to anything he had to say.