Always Faithful, page 9
But if no one was willing to talk, he needed to find the answers on his own. Maybe those answers could be found on the inside of that compound on the mountain.
He drove along the winding road, using the moonlight on the deserted pavement as much as he could, and keeping the lights off as he wound higher towards the lookout he’d parked in before. Nobody was on the road at three o’clock in the morning. He parked and made his way back down, cutting in and making his way carefully through the woods the same as he had before. It was slow going. The faint moonlight and white of the snow provided a faint illumination to travel by. The trees and brush cast shadows deep enough to block it all back out.
He didn’t delude himself into thinking the compound wasn’t guarded. There’d be night sentries. As he grew closer, he slowed, taking in the blinking red eyes of the cameras placed high on the fence along the perimeter of every other pole. It was too far away to make out the guarded entrance several hundred yards to his right, but he guessed he was somewhere about halfway down the length of one side. Grim-faced, he pulled what he’d brought especially for the occasion out of his pack, placing a tiny bolt in the handheld bow and cocking it. He picked the red blinking eye closest to his position and took careful aim. The shot hit dead center, passing through the camera with a pop and flying somewhere beyond the fence to the left. He gave a grunt of satisfaction, grabbed his pack, and moved back until the fence was just visible. He settled in to wait, to test a theory.
It took the guards fifteen minutes to send two sentries to check out the faulty camera. He was already moving carefully parallel to where they moved along the fence, back the way they’d come. When the guard house came into view, only one sentry was manning the entrance, facing the way the others had gone.
He needed to hurry. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out that the camera winking out had been no accident. He moved around behind the sentry, coming up behind him as he foolishly took time for a cigarette break while he awaited the others, the glow from the tip casting his dark face in sharp relief for a brief instant when the match flared to life.
At the last minute, as if sensing he wasn’t alone, he turned. It was too late, the butt end of Dylan’s gun smashing against his skull from behind. Soundlessly, he slumped to the ground. Two seconds later, the radio on his belt squawked. Without answering, Dylan listened to the two sentries on the other end reporting in, becoming angry when the downed guard didn’t answer. Grabbing him beneath his arms, he dragged the unconscious guard several yards into the woods and out of sight. It wouldn’t take them long to find him, but maybe it would buy him enough time to get inside the building and out of sight. With any luck, they’d decide he’d fled elsewhere on foot—because only an idiot would enter the lion’s den when the lion was home.
He sprinted through the open gate, holding tight to the trees and two small sheds between where he was and the long, low building in the middle. By the time he reached the side door of the main building, his bum leg was on fire from the unaccustomed abuse. He pursed his lips and held back a moan of pain.
The fast approach of running feet reached his ears, and he reached out and grabbed the doorknob and twisted, praying it wasn’t locked. He was dead if it was. When it turned beneath his hand, he gave a yank, the bottom catching before it swung outward and he slipped inside, pulling it closed behind him as footsteps rounded the corner.
It was dark inside, and for just a moment he stood still, taking stock of his surroundings. He took a deep whiff. Motor oil and solvent. As his vision cleared, a faint light emitted from a nearby exit sign and cast enough light for him to realize he was in what passed for a garage. He made out the shadowed silhouettes of several military grade vehicles, and a long workbench along one wall.
When a door on the opposite wall abruptly opened, he dove behind the nearest vehicle, out of sight. A bank of lights suddenly came on, blinding him. His gun along his side, he worked his way beneath the vehicle as feet pounded his way and then stopped less than six feet from where he hid, his heart about to pound out of his chest.
“Whoever the hell he is, find him,” came an unfamiliar voice he felt he should know.
“He could be anywhere. He’s not here. We’ve already searched.”
“Then use the dogs. Whoever it is thinks they’re clever, but they won’t escape.”
“Shoot on sight?”
“No. I want whoever it is alive. I want to know what he knows first before he joins the others.”
“Roger that. Quicker if I take the Hummer. They’re in the kennel on the other end of the compound.”
“Fine. Do that, then. Don’t screw it up like Gates and Morrow did.”
There was a hesitation. “What about Sawyer?”
“What about him? He paid the consequences of his incompetence, didn’t he?”
Dylan’s breath hitched and held as he put things together. Had the third sentry been eliminated as an example to the others on what happened if they made mistakes?
He looked sideways as a pair of feet went through a door close to where he lay. For a brief second, he caught sight of a long hallway and several doors—the offices and where he wanted to go. But getting himself killed wasn’t going to bring his brother back. If they brought in dogs, he was as good as dead. He needed to get out of there and quick. He watched two other pairs of feet move off in the direction of the bench for the keys, he reasoned, to get the dogs.
And that was when he saw his chance, maybe the only one he was going to get. He shimmied from beneath the vehicle and rolled to a crouch, his eyes never leaving the shadows of the two men on the other end of the garage. Staying low, he sprinted along the wall towards the front and the two large bay doors where vehicles moved in and out. He spotted the Hummer, dark metallic gray, shining like a new dime. His luck held when the back door gave under his hands and he climbed inside, pulling it shut behind him.
He was still slipping down as tightly as possible behind the driver’s seat when he heard voices and the front two doors swung open. His luck held when both men got in without looking behind the seats. Seconds later, the Hummer roared to life and the left bay rose. The Hummer gave a lurch, and they drove into darkness, leaving the compound building behind. They traveled down a gravel road that ran alongside the back edge of the fence.
Dylan didn’t delude himself into thinking he had much time. He guessed he had a couple of minutes before they reached the kennels. He considered trying to overpower them both and then discarded the notion. These weren’t civilians, and he’d been lucky to get the drop on the sentry earlier. He wouldn’t be that lucky a second time.
Best-case scenario, they’d both exit to get the dogs and leave the car running. Seconds later, the driver dashed the notion. “I’m going to stay put while you go get them, listen to dispatch, and have a smoke.”
His passenger snorted in disgust. “Just lazy is what you are. Don’t think I’m not going to say something.”
“You aren’t going to say anything unless you want me to mention that sweet bit you snuck in last week from the bar. Cady would have killed you both if he’d caught you.”
“Cady’s gone chasing his own bit of tail. He isn’t worried about mine. And his brother is an idiot.”
“Just be quick about it and shut up. Think of the bonus if we get this guy.”
The vehicle pulled up and the passenger side door opened, and Dylan held his breath, squeezing the butt of his gun as he waited for that single glance back behind the seat where he was all lit up. “I’m more worried about the consequences if we fail.”
The door closed behind him, and Dylan counted, listening for the telltale sound of an outer door opening. The click came several seconds later, and Dylan sprang into action. He rose like a demon, his arms encircling the man’s neck in the front seat from behind and pulling back furiously, tightening his hold with one brawny arm. With the other, he chopped at the man’s forearm, disabling him from going for the gun holstered at his hip. Hands reached back, clawing at his arm, neck and face, leaving bloody furrows along his cheeks, reaching for his eyes. Wildly, Dylan counted the seconds, tightening his arm with a snarl, choking him out. When he finally went slack, Dylan crawled over the seat, reached over him, and opened the door, kicking him out with both feet and slamming it closed as the door to the kennel opened and the startled face of the other man came into view, leading two excited German Shepherds.
Dylan hit the locks, launched himself into the driver’s seat, and slammed the gear shift into reverse, peeling a wide arc as the other man recovered, dropped the leashes, and reached for his gun.
Shots pinged off the rear corner panel and struck the back glass with dull thuds. The glass spidered but held and Dylan gave a grunt of appreciation for bulletproof glass. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, though. He looked at the twelve-foot-high reinforced chain-link fence. He wasn’t convinced the Hummer, for all its torque, was busting through that. There was one way in, and apparently, a single way out, and he was taking it.
He gunned the engine and sent the pedal to the floor. The big engine roared, and the vehicle jumped forward, mud and gravel churning as he gained speed and traction and headed for the gate.
He reached the other end of the compound while forces were still gathering, forming a growing line at the gate which was closing. He never slowed—he was dead if he did. Instead, he chose the path of least resistance, smiling in grim amusement at the horrified looks on the guards’ faces as they dove out of the way away from the small guard hut before he plowed straight through it, the small building exploding in all directions as he bounced back onto the road. Behind him in the dark, figures were barely visible as they ran for the main building, and what was parked inside to give chase.
They’d be on him in less than a minute. He roared down the service road, pushing the heavy vehicle past fifty, gritting his teeth as he bounded over potholes and deep ruts, praying he didn’t hit a patch of ice. He was forced to use the lights, so he didn’t run into a tree on the narrow trail. No need for subtlety now. Behind him, more lights emerged, dipping and bobbing as they gave chase. They were faster in the smaller vehicles, and he watched as they gained. He spun the wheel a hard left, skidding with a squeal of tires as it bounced onto the pavement of the main road. He ground the gears and hit the gas, bounding forward. He counted to five when the lights swung crazily and pulled around behind him, swerving madly. He slammed his foot to the floor, feeling the leap of the boxy all-terrain vehicle beneath him. Seconds later he entered a long low grade, the road swinging right around a curve at the bottom. Straight ahead, the road ended in a guardrail to warn the foolish to keep out. Beyond that was a body of water, a small pond that was just icing over.
He glanced in his rear-view mirror. They hadn’t caught him yet. He had maybe thirty seconds before they roared over the top of that hill and were on him. What he was thinking was sheer stupidity, but he was fresh out of options. He slowed near the bottom, undoing his seatbelt and opening the driver’s door, the wind whistling through the opening and slamming icy air into his face. When he was down to thirty, he braced himself. Fifteen feet from the guardrail he thrust the door open fully and piled out, hitting the ground with brutal force, feeling his shoulder wrench sideways with a shout as he rolled along the margin of the road seconds before the Hummer plowed through the rail and kept going. Biting back a scream of pain, thankful he was at least conscious, he half ran, half dragged himself to his feet and made a dash towards the woods and the piled brush stacked on the side a few feet in. He dove behind it and crouched in as small as he could make himself as headlights crested the hill and the Hummer hit the surface of the pond and began to sink.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Something was scratching at the back door. Penny lay on his back, his arthritic hip flaring up and giving him fits. He’d already taken several Advil, and they’d barely touched the ache. Lately, he didn’t sleep much anyhow, not like when he was younger. The dreams plagued him—losing his wife, and then his son a few years later to tragedy. Being the last left living was no advantage as far as he could see.
The scrape of something came again, and he sighed. It was going to bother him until he checked it out. He’d have blamed it on a tree branch, but there were no trees back there, just a few bushes he hadn’t trimmed back in years. He tossed the covers back and got up with a groan and a creak of old joints, reaching for his robe.
He glanced at the drawer to his nightstand, just cracked. He should take the gun. Then again, it was more likely they’d just take it and use it on him. Besides, death held no fear for him.
He padded down the hall into the kitchen. Through the back door window, the moon bled through the opaque panes, casting long shadows over whoever stood there.
“Who is it?” he asked, hesitating. Fear rose, and he reasoned maybe he wasn’t as prepared to meet his maker as he imagined.
There was a muffled response he couldn’t make out. Groaning in frustration, he reached out, unlatched the deadbolt, and opened the door.
Dylan Potter stumbled through the doorway. “Shut it,” he hissed, yanking out a stool at the island and pouring himself into the seat. He looked like hell, bloody streaks and dirt running over his face, a rent in the sleeve of one shoulder, the same arm hanging low and at an odd angle. Penny’s late wife had always chastised him to take pride in being polite.
“You look like crap,” he observed.
“Feel worse,” Dylan rasped. Without a word, Penny poured him a glass of tap water and set it in front of him. He picked it up with his good arm and downed it without pausing. “You know anything about putting a socket back in place? I dislocated it.”
Penny looked at him in consternation. “I was a medic in the Army. Plenty of dislocated arms and shoulders we had to deal with. I’ll put it back and then I expect an explanation. I want to know every detail about what happened to you. I’m betting its topnotch in the entertainment department.”
Dylan nodded, gritting his teeth as Penny helped work his coat and shirt off, gnarled old fingers probing the area and giving a grunt as he assessed the damage. “The trick, of course, is to get you to relax the muscles, making for less resistance when the joint moves back into place,” he explained.
Dylan frowned as he prattled on. “Would you just do—”
Before he could finish, Penny wrenched it up and in in one sharp movement. Dylan screamed gruffly, seeing spots. He wanted to knock the old man out with his good arm.
The pain subsided, and his heart slowed. “Hellfire, that hurt! Got any aspirin? I need a boatload of those if you got ’em.”
“Give me a minute. They're in the bathroom. Then I’ll make you a sandwich and you can start talking.”
While the aspirin took the edge off and he worked his way through two sandwiches and as many beers, he told Penny about breaking into the compound, nearly getting caught, and his lucky escape. He figured they were still trying to winch the Hummer out of the water. It would be a while before they realized whoever had broken in had given them the slip. His voice dwindled around an enormous yawn.
“Where’s your truck? I looked. My van is still here.”
Dylan gave a sheepish nod. “Still at the overlook up on the mountain.”
Penny gave a snort and shook his head. “Marine, you said, right? Figures. In the Army, we had a lot more sense.”
Dylan tried to smile and failed, his eyes crossing sideways from exhaustion, his leg feeling like it was going to throb right off his body onto the floor. “Say, don’t suppose we could hold this conversation later...” he mumbled, his words slurring.
“Yeah, come on. I suppose at least with your truck missing I can tell those boys that come looking that you headed on down the road out of town. It ought to throw them off a mite, at least for a while. Won’t last for long, though, before they do a more thorough search, or find your truck and put the pieces together.”
BY THE TIME DYLAN WOKE up, the sun was passing the horizon towards late evening. He’d slept for close to twelve hours. The aroma of pot roast and potatoes made his stomach rumble as he took a quick shower and put on clean clothes, careful not to move his injured arm too much and risk dislocating it all over again.
“That smells amazing,” he admitted, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a cup down for coffee. “Need any help?”
Penny looked up, his expression thoughtful and a million miles away. He shook his head. “All good. Grab plates and a couple of beers for us.”
Penny set the Dutch oven on a folded towel in the middle of the island and added a ladle.
He watched as Dylan loaded his plate, taking a much smaller portion and picking up a fork, tapping the edge to get his attention. “I got to thinking about our Mr. Sackett and his deputies. I’m still convinced they’re all in cahoots with Cady and the boys. But there’s something maybe worth looking into—CeCe has an uncle in Wilder Pines. It’s a little town, but bigger than this one, due northeast of here near where the service road for the Porcupine Mountains State Park ends.”
Dylan looked up, a spoon halfway to his mouth. His brows rose. “How does that help us any?”
“It might. The police chief there—the guy's name is Merv Jorgansen—and from what I know about him, he’s an honest cop. Maybe he’d be the one to pay a visit to.”
Dylan reached for another slice of bread to sop up the last of the gravy, considering. “Gotta figure out how to get my truck back first. And I have to get out of here away from you. I’m just leading them right to your door. They don’t take kindly to interference, and I hate the thought of them taking it out on you. I’m a danger to you, Penny, and that’s a fact.”
Penny stared hard at him, his mouth twisting as he seemed to wrestle with his inner demons. “Maybe, but the fact is, don’t none of it matter none, Dylan. They can’t hurt me.”
