The Alpha Enigma, page 25
And if he lifted it?
Karla took a deep breath, settled the front sight post on his chest, and mentally willed him to keep the scanner pointed at the ground where any sloppy assailant would be expected to lurk.
Step-by-step he proceeded, only to have two of his black-clad associates emerge from the trees behind him. One held a scoped rifle, the other a military-grade M16. They cautiously advanced across the needle-and-duff–covered slope, the ultimate hunting team.
Somewhere in the distance a helicopter was approaching. Karla could tell from the heavy beat of the rotors that it was something big, not Winny Swink’s flight-for-life chopper.
Grazier’s people? Rushing in with an extraction team aboard a Chinook? Wishful thinking. Sound was wrong for a Chinook.
Then, to Karla’s dismay, the guy with the scanner raised it, and started running it over the trees to her left.
That’s when her phone began to buzz in her vest pocket.
Hell of a time.
She shifted, feeling the cramp build in her left leg as she braced herself in the fork of the branches. The scanner lifted his sensor toward her. A moment before he pointed it at her, she triggered the HK. In one graceful swing she targeted the guy with the hunting rifle. Her burst caught him in the upper chest and unprotected neck. By the time she swung to the third man and triggered her weapon, it was to see her 9mm slugs chew into the tree trunk he ducked behind.
The phone continued to buzz in her pocket.
Heart pounding, she shifted, trying to catch a glimpse of the survivor.
“You’re surrounded,” he called. “We’ve got you triangulated now.”
Karla chewed her lips, knowing he was probably right.
Bracing the HK on the branch to cover his position, she slipped the phone from her pocket and jammed it to her ear, whispering, “Falcon?”
“Naw, it’s Winny. Can’t hardly hear you. I figure that’s ’cause you can’t talk. Got a way of showing me where you’re at?”
At that moment the guy behind the tree stepped out and jerked the pin from a grenade. She swiveled the HK and shot. One-handed, the gun jerked and bucked. At least two rounds hit him as he threw.
Karla hunched herself as the black orb rose, fouled on a branch, and deflected into the open. The bang, accompanied by the hiss of shrapnel and falling needles, left Karla’s ears ringing.
Then, to her amazement, the guy below stepped out from his tree, the M16 shouldered to follow up.
Karla used both hands this time, centering the HK, and shot him through the head.
In the ringing silence, all she could hear was the thunder of the helicopter and the Pitkin County sheriff’s nearly inaudible voice threatening arrest and conviction.
Karla wondered where her phone had gone to, couldn’t even remember letting go of it. Instead, she ejected her magazine, slipped the last one she’d looted from the dead into the well, and slammed it in place.
Through a gap in the trees she could see two more black-clad figures scrambling along the slope toward her, weapons in hand. They both stopped, staring up in disbelief as the helicopter’s downdraft caught them.
One threw up an arm, as if to protect himself. The other raised an M16, firing into the air on full auto.
Karla couldn’t see the helicopter through the screen of trees, but her own perch was swaying, the branches lashing from the downwash. What she did see was the two men—at the very last instant—hunching down before a column of falling water literally blasted them down the mountain.
Karla screamed her rage and tried to cling to her thrashing tree as a gale blew down from above. More gunfire could be heard, close enough to penetrate the chopper’s roar. Across from her, branches snapped and cracked.
It was all she could do to hold on. Shooting back had become an impossibility.
“Give me a fucking break!” she bellowed into the gale.
Something was smashing its way toward her through the trees.
58
From the hotel roof, Savage and I watched the Forest Service helicopter drop its load; it hovered for a moment, then flew off down the valley. Obviously, the pilot hadn’t expected to be shot at. He’d totally missed the fire in his fluster. But in its wake the shooting stopped. A terrible silence followed, broken only by the sound of local traffic below the hotel and the wind through the trees around the ski slope.
“Movement,” Savage told me where he peered through his binoculars.
I lifted the Swarovskis and watched as whatever passed for the Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office SWAT used a fire truck to pull the gate down. The ringing clang came many seconds later. Then the vehicles went flooding in.
For what seemed an eternity, we waited. A half hour later, I lowered my glasses and took a deep breath. “If they arrest her, can Grazier get the charges dropped?”
“Something this big? Hell, I don’t know.” Savage thoughtfully lowered his binoculars. “Either she’s eluded them and made her way out, or they captured her.”
Karla Raven wasn’t the sort to be captured unless she was completely disabled. Which meant . . .
“Let’s get back to the others. Any news is going to come on the local radio, maybe television.”
My heart had lodged in my throat as we made our way to the staircase and down into the hotel. At the suite door, I knocked the predetermined two and two. Edwin opened, worry etched into his young face.
“Anything?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “We been calling the chief’s phone. No answer.”
“That’s not necessarily bad,” I told him as I entered the suite. Falcon sat in a defensive position on the bed, a pillow clutched to his chest. His expression was vacant, eyes empty. Not good.
Cat was poking at the room’s coffee machine, desperate enough that she was using the last packet of decaf. Her movements reeked of weariness; her normally lustrous eyes reflected the dullness of fatigue and exhaustion.
The anthropologists remained seated on the suite’s small couch where Savage had placed them. Kilgore France still clutched her pack as if it contained gold. Farmer, his face in a pensive frown, had the satchel on his lap. I didn’t need a degree in psychiatry to know that they were emotionally overwhelmed.
“The sheriff’s office is in the compound now,” Savage told everyone as he followed me in and shut the door. “From here on it’s just a matter of waiting.”
Edwin asked, “Anyone think to call Winny? Tell her to stand down?”
“No.” Savage walked into the center of the room. “Would you mind?”
“Bet she gonna be pissy as hell ’cause she didn’t get no action. Be our luck she run into some woman wearing pink and beat the holy crap out of her.”
I settled on the couch arm, extending a hand. “Dr. France, I’m Doctor Timothy Ryan. We haven’t really been introduced.”
“My pleasure. Call me Kilgore.” Her shake was firm, but I could see confusion and worry in her eyes.
“Reid Farmer,” the bearded man introduced as he offered his hand. “Unlike Kilgore, I’m no celebrity. Just a contract archaeologist in way over his head.”
I liked the resilience they both seemed to display. It wasn’t just anyone who could be yanked out of a kidnapping in the midst of a gunfight and still remain poised. “Sounds like you’ve had quite the time. I can’t wait to hear your impressions of the tomb.”
“You’re a medical doctor?” Kilgore asked.
“Psychiatry, actually . . . with a PhD in psychology.”
Farmer’s expression tightened. “You’re here to debrief us? Counseling? Heal our trauma?”
In spite of my gnawing worry about Karla, I smiled. “No. I’m part of General Grazier’s team. But you’ve been through a tough time. It wouldn’t be unusual if you had issues, flashbacks, nightmares. For the record, I’m not a sit-on-the-couch-and-tell-me-about-your-childhood kind of psychologist. I’m more of the ‘Let’s-have-a-cup-of-coffee-and-figure-out-how-you-can-cope,’ kind.”
“Grazier? Who’s he?” Kilgore asked uncertainly.
“Savage’s boss.” I pointed where the major bent over Edwin’s shoulder. “Right now we’ve got a missing warrior.”
“Chief Raven,” Kilgore said with a nod. “To hear Edwin and Cat tell it, she walks on water.”
Oh, do I hope!
“Actually, she’s just an extraordinary . . .”
The suite door burst open and Karla Raven stormed in. I leaped to my feet, surprised to see that her midnight hair was slicked back to her skull and hanging down her back. Her black clothing appeared soaked, and her boots squished with each step. Not only that, but I could see the slow fuse burning behind her gray eyes. Her normally calm face had flushed to the point I could see the scar on her cheek.
“You’re alive!”
“Far from dead, sir.”
“By fucking damn!” Winny Swink bellowed as she swaggered into the room on Karla’s heels. As full of herself as a buccaneer, she used her foot to slam the door behind her. A bottle of Herradura tequila, the cap missing, was clutched in her right hand. “Whooow!” She shook her fiery red hair back and forth. “Now that’s what I call riding the wings of angels!”
“You want another to match the first?” Karla asked, eyes narrowed as she pointed at Swink’s right cheek. I could see the bruise forming under the major’s fair skin.
“Might be worth it, bitch.” She tossed Karla the tequila bottle, saying “Drink or fight. Your choice.”
Karla caught the bottle, a curling splash of amber liquor squirting from the open top. Then she tipped it back and chugged.
I could only gape. In the futile hope I could control the situation, I stepped forward and grabbed the bottle away, saying, “My turn.”
“How come you’re not dead?” Edwin asked, rising from his computer.
Karla, like a pirouetting dancer, feinted and easily wrenched the bottle from my fingers. “You heard Winny. Wings of angels, man.” She took another swig.
“We heard gunfire,” I said as Winny and I both grabbed for the tequila bottle. Fortunately, I’m much taller than Swink.
Karla grinned as she wiped at the tequila dribbling down her chin. “Haven’t had that much fun since Qal’ah-ye Sabir!” She reached into a pocket and tossed me a radio wrapped with a black wire that led to an earpiece. Water leaked from the case.
“You should have heard those guys!” Karla leaped like a tigress and snatched the bottle out of my hand. She danced away from my pursuit, gulped a drink, and in falsetto, mimicked, “It’s just a woman! Run her down! Run her down!”
Savage, his expression somewhere between amused disbelief and relief, asked, “What kind of a body count am I looking at, Chief?”
Karla took another swig of tequila, then tossed him the bottle. He caught it, heedless of the liquor that splashed on his arm. Got to hand it to Savage, he was smart enough to fake taking a drink.
“About eight, sir.” A pause. “Of mine. Not counting the ones in the two vehicles. Don’t know how many were in the crash.” She waggled a cautionary finger. “Reckless driving on mountain roads can be deadly. And I don’t know what happened in the house.”
Cat gasped. “You mean my gas killed people?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Cat. Looked to me like they were just out. And yeah, your stuff took out that whole house. I saw guys in masks trying to clear it.”
“Hey, I got two!” Winny declared triumphantly.
“You were there?” I asked, whirling just in time to see her rip the tequila bottle away from the unwary Savage.
“A-fucking-mazing!” Winny gloated before she tilted the bottle and chugged the añejo. They’d bought—or stolen—good stuff. “Loved that big son of a bitch!”
“What big son of a bitch?” Savage demanded.
“Never would have thought you for a truck driver,” Karla chided as she grabbed the bottle back and tilted it to her lips.
“It was the big Sikorsky CH-54,” I supplied, figuring it out. “You stole it from the Forest Service?”
“Never flown one,” Winny said as she grabbed for the bottle. “It was just sitting there on Sardy Field. Looked like a hell of a lot more fun than some damn hospital ship.”
“The heavy lift?” Savage asked.
“Should have seen her,” Karla chimed as she held the bottle out of Winny’s reach. “Her and that bucket full of water.”
“Biggest problem was finding Karla.” Winny started climbing Karla’s body, levering the tequila into reach. “’Specially since she dropped her damn phone. But then the top of this tree blows up. And I look down and half the compound is rushing toward that same tree.”
Karla surrendered the bottle, saying, “Yeah, and you should have seen the two guys closing in. They look up just as the downwash hits them.”
Swink held the bottle up to the light. Most of the tequila was gone. “Silly son’s o’ bitches started shooting at me. So I just lined up that big ol’ fucking bucket . . .” She demonstrated with the tequila bottle, holding it high over her head, and pouring. Her aim was good; it splashed into her mouth.
“That’s Winny’s kill,” Karla told Savage. “She dropped a couple of tons of water on those two assholes. The weight of it blew them right off the mountain.”
Winny chortled as she lowered the bottle. “Well, it was just downright rude of them to start shooting holes in my bird.”
“We didn’t see the chopper land,” Savage chimed in. “How’d you evac Raven?”
Karla skipped close and grabbed the tequila bottle. “Damned bitch almost smacked me out of the tree I was hiding in. She just swung that bucket into it. So I grabbed hold and crawled inside. If she’d had a bit more velocity, she’d have punted me into next week.”
“But she’d emptied the bucket. Why are you all wet?” I asked as I snatched the bottle away from her. “And why does Winny have that bruise on her cheek?”
“’Cause I decked the bitch!” Karla pawed at me for the bottle.
Winny Swink started crowing like a rooster. “Hell, Skipper, she was in a damn hot fight up there. Thought I’d cool her off. On the way back, I dipped her sorry butt in the lake.”
Karla turned blazing gray eyes my way. “When she finally set us down, she was laughing so hard I thought her ass was going to fall off. So I clocked her one, just to bring her back to her senses.”
“I am not forgetting that.” Swink’s green eyes narrowed as she pointed a hard finger. “You and I are going to go around for that, bitch.”
“I gave you a hand up afterward, didn’t I? Said I owed you one for saving my ass. That—you sorry APD-addled bitch—is called a thank you, by the way. And I promised, and delivered, a bottle of hooch.” Karla’s crooked grin expanded. “Major, that was a hell of a snatch you made up there. I pay my debts.”
“Damn straight! So hand me that bottle.” Winny gulped tequila and grinned stupidly, her anger forgotten. “Haven’t had that much fun since I stole that Raptor! Hell, maybe this was even better.”
Karla feinted and ripped the tequila bottle away, amber liquid spraying the wide-eyed anthropologists in the process. Karla tilted it up, drank, and shoved it at Swink, declaring, “Drink up, Major. Last swallow is yours.”
Winny upended the bottle, and I watched her delicate throat work as she drained the dregs.
“Oh, dear,” I murmured, pondering the effects of tequila on Karla’s Prazosin, and the “do not consume alcohol in excess” warning. I dropped wearily to the couch arm.
“Who are these people?” Dr. France asked cautiously.
“My patients,” I replied flatly.
“Your patients? As in mental patients?” Dr. Farmer asked. “And they’re just running around?”
“Actually, they’re escaped mental patients.” I winced at the expressions on their faces.
Karla dropped, lunged, and tackled Winny Swink. Their bodies slammed onto the floor, the tequila bottle rolling away. Karla pinned her immediately. I cocked my head as both women burst into maniacal laughter.
Reid Farmer—gaping at Winny and Karla—said, “About that counseling you offered, Dr. Ryan. Just wanted you to know, I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
On the bed, Falcon looked catatonic.
“Yeah, I do good work, don’t I?”
59
The Gulfstream jolted, and the “fasten seatbelt” sign came on. I ignored it as I walked down the narrow aisle, bracing myself on the seatbacks. With the exception of Savage and me, everyone was sound asleep—including the anthropologists. I felt a deep-seated relief. My people were alive and healthy. It could have ended so much worse.
Falcon slept peacefully, his head bent to the side. For that I felt grateful. He’d been twitching, mumbling to himself from the stress. I’d added five more milligrams of Mirtazapine to his cocktail, figuring he could use the additional dosage. He worried me the most, being the most fragile.
Cat and Edwin sat side by side, her head on his shoulder, long black hair spilling down around her delicate face. Edwin’s head was propped on hers, his mouth open, eyes flickering in REM sleep.
Winny lay curled like a red fox in a den; she slept in one of the window seats. I’d threatened to sedate her when she’d insisted on flying the Gulfstream. It had taken Savage, me, and Reid Farmer to manhandle her into the seat.
Note to self: Winny and tequila? Bad idea.
Across from her, the anthropologists, having folded the seat arm up, were snuggled against the cabin wall, the window shade pulled down. Not that there was much to see in the darkness beyond. The precious pack and satchel were safely stowed under the seats in front of them.
I paused at Karla’s seat. Her dark tactical gear had, for the most part, dried out. A black HK submachine gun lay on the seat beside her. Woozy from tequila, she’d nevertheless insisted on cleaning it subsequent to Winny dunking her and the gun in the lake.
