Archangel Crusader (24 page)

"Broken skull? You asshole! I'll make you pay for that."

"Riding accidents do happen, my dear Tanner... Now, what about our deal? Are you giving up?"

"Never!" Michael's definite tone made the ensuing silence frightening.

"Then, I may dispose of these two pretty girls for my personal pleasure, right?"

"Not so fast... I have something better for you, something a little more challenging, something you want very much."

"Do you presume to know me that well?" A hint of curiosity crept into the casual tone.

"You and I are alike in more ways than I care to admit." Michael found it to be the truth.

"What a disgusting thought... So, what is it?" Krastinios sounded almost interested. Was he taking the bait?

"The chance to kill me yourself! A personal challenge, a duel... Just you and me." Michael held his breath.

"You do know me a little after all." That curious tone again. “Interesting... Weapons?"

"Anything goes." The dice were cast.

"How crude! Place? Time? Conditions?"

"In two days, at noon, Yucca dry lake in Nevada, bring Jennifer and Tori with you." As he spoke, Michael prayed it would work.

"Tempting... Very tempting." There was a short pause on the line then, "Yes... I like it. You have a deal! But why not right now?"

Just as impatient as Krastinios, Michael knew that he needed to rest. After using up so much energy he couldn’t teleport to Nevada and still have strength to fight. “I want to test your patience,” he said instead, trying to sound confident. "In two days, then, with the girls?"

"In two days." The smug disembodied voice made Michael wonder if he had made the right choice. But as in chess, once the move was made, he couldn’t turn back.

When Michael switched off the phone, a swift, cool breeze caressed his skin. He heard a steady downpour battering the flimsy roof as heavy drops pelted the window. A fresh, humid scent pervaded the room. All the tension fled from his body. For a little while, at least, Michael could relax. Jennifer would be safe until he saw her in two days.

A soft knock on the door brought Michael back to the present. Dave poked his head through the crack. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay... Thanks for asking... Come in, I'm going to need your help.”

Chapter Seventeen

"Did you ever jump from an airplane?"

Dave's voice drowned among Michael's thoughts as he stared at the slick road through the metronome of the windshield wipers. The blue Ford pickup purred under the hammering of raindrops on the metal roof. The radio played a country song. On the floor of the truck lay the black leather bag in which Michael had packed some camping gear, a blanket, a knife, an Uzi and ammunition, although it seemed useless.

"Are you going to get Jennifer?" Clara had asked him before he left.

"I hope so," Michael had answered while Becky wished him good luck. Michael had jumped in the passenger seat, long hair curling from the chilly morning rain and tumbling over the sheepskin vest.

Now, Michael scanned the newspaper articles Debbie had mailed. They highlighted an international foundation for accelerated research and distribution of new treatments for AIDS. The organization received approval and financial support from several private and government agencies. Another article estimated that with all the new dispositions taken to limit air pollution, the ozone layer would repair itself within three years. A third article outlined a new trend in advertising strategies for chemical companies: the new campaigns focused on how well they disposed of dangerous waste products.

Dave's voice took Michael out of his preoccupation.

"You said something, Dave? Sorry, I wasn't listening."

"I said, did you ever jump from an airplane before?"

"No... Why? Shouldn't be that hard, is it?" Michael hoped his apprehension did not show. He wouldn't want Dave to think he was nervous about something so trivial.

"I don't understand. Why don't you just transport there, since you have the ability?"

"It’d take too much energy from me. I’ll need all my strength to fight the bastard."

They veered onto Interstate 440 loop, in the direction of Adams Field Municipal Airport.

"How well do you know this guy?" Michael’s mind returned to the immediate situation. "What do you call him? The Weasel? Are you sure he's not going to chicken out at the last minute?"

"No way," Dave protested. "The Weasel can handle it all right. He's pulled that kind of stunt many times. He used to smuggle drugs over the Mexican border."

Michael whistled appreciatively. "I didn't know you had such colorful friends, brother."

"Well, he straightened up, but he owes me a big favor from way back when... He'll try to find out what you're up to. Don't tell him anything. He may be a snitch in his spare time. I'm sure he's more than happy to settle his debt."

Just as the rain stopped, the first hangars appeared, gaping wide open. Soon, a timid ray of sun put a sparkle on the bright logos of the few small planes lined up in front.

Dave parked the pickup along the fence. They jumped over it and walked across the field toward a row of small aircraft. The vibration of a bigger plane taking off drowned out all other sounds. Light fuel fumes polluted the air, mixing with the smells of wet dirt and tar. Puddles on the concrete slabs glistened with purple and green oil stains, and wild dandelions sprouted through cracks in the loose cement joints.

Michael looked toward the eastern sun. As he reached for the dark glasses in the pocket of his sheepskin vest, he smiled at the segment of rainbow spreading across the morning sky.

The Weasel did deserve his nickname, short and skinny with sparse, light-brown hair. The nose looked too long for the face while beady eyes constantly moved, as if searching for a clue or a minute detail that would give him an edge. The man's smile, however, only touched the lips. The gaze remained worried and scheming while the Weasel talked to Dave with exaggerated deference. Michael decided that the little man could not be trusted.

Dave negotiated efficiently. Everything worked as he said it would. On such short notice, he had pulled the right strings and obtained results. Michael felt paternal pride for his younger brother, mainly when he excelled in areas where Michael himself did not feel very comfortable, like diplomacy.

While the four-seater Beechcraft Bonanza finished refueling, Michael thanked Dave in a bear hug.

"You sure you don't want me to go with you?"

Michael shook his head. "You did all you could, Brother. The rest is up to me. I’ll see you soon." Michael's voice carried more confidence than he felt, his throat constricting at the thought that he may never see Dave again."

Half an hour later, Michael rode the blue skies on his way to Nevada in the company of the Weasel. With sixty-knot head winds, they flew steadily over lush forests and great, wide rivers. The map unfolding underneath did not bear names, but Michael thought he could tell the Red River by its slightly rusty color. They crossed Oklahoma, a vast expanse of dry Texas lands, and the Indian reservations of New Mexico.

Glad for his aborted flight training, Michael knew how to read instruments and maps and, therefore, understood their position. The plane ride took longer than it would have on a jet. It would take nine hours to reach the destination. Plenty of time for Michael to think about Jennifer... He couldn’t wait to see her safe and didn’t want to think about what would become of her if he lost the fight.

The odd pair landed to refuel twice, once in Lubbock and once in Albuquerque. Michael welcomed the chance to exercise his long legs and eat a quick meal. Conversations with the Weasel, easier on the ground, away from the ever-present vibration, remained strained since Michael did not volunteer any information about the object of the trip. The distrust seemed reciprocated.

Gradually, the scenery turned from the green hills of northern Arizona to ocher valleys and deep canyons. In late afternoon, they reached the Nevada desert. As soon as they approached the Nevada test site area from the east, the Beechcraft dropped altitude. The Weasel flew as close to the ground as possible to avoid radar detection. It would not do to be chased by a squadron from Indian Springs Air Force Base. Since a parachute would not have enough altitude to deploy, the plan was to come as close to the ground as possible without landing, allowing Michael to free fall at his own risk.

The little man had received half the price before takeoff. The rest of the agreed-upon money made a slight bulge in the breast pocket of Michael's shirt. He took the money out and handed it to the Weasel who flashed a smile of pure delight.

Down below, the rocky desert unfolded its dun-colored ravines. According to the coordinates, they were now inside the restricted zone, although no sign in the landscape differentiated it from the surrounding wilderness.

"Here is Yucca Lake, straight ahead!" the Weasel yelled above the roar of the engine. He sounded relieved to see the end of their partnership.

"I see it." Michael looked at the misshapen shadows lengthening on the ground below. The white sands of the dry lake basin contrasted with the rocky slopes of the nearby mountains.

"I can't land on this terrain," the Weasel said bluntly.

"Just get as low as you can, okay?" Now was the time to jump. Michael hoped his levitating skill would not fail him. He would need all his assets to get out of this situation unscathed. Before anything else, he secured his equipment bag to the thick leather belt at his waist.

The plane slowed down and dropped to twenty feet. Michael opened the small side door and stepped onto the wing, holding fast to the doorframe. He had to concentrate on breathing. The ground below sped by at sixty miles an hour, but he had to do it. Still hanging to the bottom of the doorframe, Michael crouched to the edge of the wing, then hung down from it, held his breath and let go, closing the distance to the ground.

In a short burst of power, he slowed his fall a little, landing hard on his toes, knees bent, rolling forward with all the grace of a martial artist. As he rose, Michael waved a hand in the direction of the retreating Beechcraft, which gained altitude and disappeared in a purring sound over the Sierra Nevada.

The sun dipped fast behind the high peaks to the west. Michael scanned the area through enhanced vision for any terrain particularity that could give him an advantage in tomorrow's duel. Some unusual pull attracted his attention in the rocky incline, in a Northwestern direction. Michael smiled, unfastened his black leather bag, checked the contents for damage, then headed northwest on foot.

What he, at first, thought might be a cave came into focus now and revealed itself as an abandoned mine. The last of the daylight showed the entrance, a small hole in the rock. The main beam, supported by wooden shafts on each side, looked at least a century old, preserved by the dry, hot winds.

Michael felt the temperature dropping and shivered at the sight of a white, desiccated bovine carcass staring at him from empty sockets. The call of a coyote in the distance reminded him that the desert supported life. He also noticed sagebrush and tumbleweeds.

The mine must have brought riches once, silver, or gold maybe. Michael wondered where the people of yesterday had found wood for the supports. It was a long way on horseback from the nearest big trees.

Michael ventured inside, lowering his head to get in. Immediately darkness enveloped him. Taking a flashlight out of the bag, he started exploring. If not for the fact that the old tunnels had remained intact for at least a hundred years, Michael would have hesitated. Dirt fell at unexpected times and places. Some corridors ran short and stopped. Others had collapsed, obstructed by rock and sand. In this maze, strange loud noises echoed through the empty shafts. Once, Michael thought he heard water running deep underground.

Around a bend, he came upon old sticks of dynamite, left against the rock wall in a small recess at an intersection. Quite volatile after so many years, he thought. Soon, Michael reached a well too deep for the flashlight to show him the bottom. Throwing a rock inside, he counted the seconds to impact. Surprised as no sound came back, Michael then closed his eyes to scan the depth using his paranormal training.

What he saw through the mind's eye surprised him. A huge deep-seated cave permeated with moisture. An underground lake lay deep under the desert. Further down, however, something else lurked... A soft humming that almost reminded him of... Could it be what Amrah suggested? It would be so perfect. Michael had to make absolutely sure. Pushing the mental probing, he explored further. Yes, victory could favor him tomorrow.

Michael let his disembodied mind float down inside a cylindrical chamber of smooth stone. As he had done many times before, he willed his body into the mind picture and found himself standing at the bottom of an underground silo, in front of a black capsule...a fully operative nuclear bomb, the weapon Amrah hinted at.

It seemed perfect, but at what price... Mentally reviewing scientific data, Michael tried to weigh the goal against the means. The explosion would not release any radioactivity in the atmosphere. The silo was too deep, and under a body of water. It would create a tremor that would be felt a hundred miles away. It could melt the deeper crust and possibly create a weak spot in a tectonic plate. It could also pollute deep underground streams.