Banshee Hunt (11 page)

The giant fell backwards once again in a heap, screaming like a mad man. But then he was a mad man. James knew that. No sane man would do what he'd done. Still, he was down, flat on his back. And with two ruined arms he wasn't getting back up. He couldn’t go for his gun.

That was James' chance to start breathing again. To let some of the adrenaline go. And then unexpectedly he found himself bending over with his head almost to his knees, gulping in air as fast as he could. It was only the after effects of the fight or flight response he knew. He'd felt it before. But he'd never felt it quite like this before. He'd never come so close to death.

And this had been close. It shouldn't have been. He should have been armed and ready. He should have been alert. But he hadn't been. He'd allowed himself to be distracted by anger and disarmed by pointless rules. And as he practically knelt there all but gasping for breath, he vowed he would never let that happen again,

By the time James had recovered, the first of the police were on the scene. It was less than five minutes he thought, which was a good response time. But it was also a shame in a way. He had wanted to interrogate the man. To find out why he'd attacked him. Though he suspected from the strange, almost inhuman sounds the man was making by then, that he wouldn't have gotten anything useful. Looking at the police he pointed at the downed man and then at the gun lying on the ground.  That done he let the police do their job and collapsed against the side of a car. The police could do the interrogating he decided. The Illuminati would simply get a copy of the report through the back channels in due course.

While they worked James pulled out his phone and called Will. He didn't know what this was, though he was sure it had to do with his work – what else did he do that could cause people to want to kill him? Besides, this was a good time he thought to start practising what he'd promised the German he would do so many times before. To keep his colleagues informed. And an attack on a hunter he figured was something they should know about.

But was it an attack on a hunter? Or was it an attack on him? That was the question that soon occupied James' thoughts. Because the man had known both his name and his schedule. Maybe this was personal? And though he had many enemies – it was inevitable considering his line of work – there would always one who would top his list. One who would try to kill him no matter what. And one who would always use others to do his dirty work.

Was this the return of Francis? Had he escaped the prison? Did he have his magic back?

Half an hour later James was still at the scene, sitting on the boot of a cruiser and giving his statement to the officers when the cowboy arrived. And he looked as completely incongruous as ever. However, no one seemed to pay Will much attention as he wandered around. People answered his questions easily enough, and no one laughed or pointed. Maybe that was his magic at work? Maybe he had a spell of insignificance as well as a summoning ability? James didn't know.

Meanwhile his attacker was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, the worst of his injuries having been treated. Whatever this was it was over.

Or so he thought.

There was a flash of light and a crack of thunder, and without warning something massive hit James and sent him flying. Actually it sent everyone flying, including a number of cars. The flying though was okay.  The rather abrupt stop when he smashed into the ground wasn't.

James hit the ground hard, bounced and took off for another short flight before crashing into it again. The impacts were brutal. Everything short of bone breaking in fact. But even more than that it was shocking, and for the longest time after he'd stopped rolling and sliding he just lay on the ground, wondering what had happened. It was only when he saw others slowly starting to pick themselves up that his brain slid back into gear and he understood what had happened.

It was a bomb.

By the time he got back to his feet he even knew where the blast had come from. He could see the remains of the ambulance. Currently it was still standing in the street, the only vehicle that hadn't moved because it was the epicentre of the blast. It didn't look much like an ambulance though. Trails of black smoke rose from it. Flames were licking at it. And there wasn't a single intact panel left. In fact it was hard to recognise it as an ambulance at all. The force of the blast had burst it asunder from the inside and fairly much everything above the chassis was in pieces. Ribbons of shredded steel stuck out like the torn petals of a flower. All that identified it as having once been an ambulance was the broken white bonnet with its red cross which was still somehow hanging by a thread of metal to the remains.

As for those who had been inside the ambulance, the man who'd tried to kill him and the paramedics, they were simply gone. James doubted that much of any of them would be found. Not much survived a blast like that.

For the longest time James stood there staring at the burning wreckage, unable to take it in. He wondered briefly if the world had gone mad. Because he knew that the only place the bomb could have been was on the man who had attacked him. It was a suicide bomb of some sort. Which meant that people were now not only being sent to kill him, but were blowing themselves up when they failed. Or maybe he'd always planned on blowing himself up regardless?

That was crazy! Terrorists blew themselves up. But the giant was no terrorist. He was some sort of assassin. He had come specifically to kill James. And assassins didn't kill themselves. By and large they weren't even political or religious. Those things didn't go well with their trade.

“You alright?”

Will was unexpectedly standing beside James when he turned around, still looking completely ridiculous in his cowboy outfit. But James didn't care about that. Wheels were turning finally, and the direction they were taking him wasn't good.

“It was a suicide bomber Will,” James said, stating the obvious. “And that makes no sense at all, unless magic is involved. And it's bad. It could just be me – or someone could be going after all the hunters. Maybe even the Illuminati. We need to know who that man was. We need police reports – finger prints would be good if we can find some fingers. And because it might be an attack solely directed at me I need to know who among the people I've put away could be linked to someone outside with the resources to do this. A warning needs to go out. I also need to interview the prime suspect.”

“Prime suspect?” Will sounded surprised.

“Of course. There's always going to be one person out to kill me.” And really, he thought, who could ever imagine that his little brother was ever going to stop hating him? James would have laid odds that this was Francis' doing. He just didn't know how he'd done it – yet. But if he had his gift back, that would explain a lot. If anyone could track down a giant, send him out to kill someone and make him wear a suicide vest, a fascinator could.

With that James left his boss and headed for his car. It was time to begin his hunt. But a few steps later he stopped and turned back.

“And I absolutely don't need a partner. Anyone too close to me might get killed. But I will keep in contact.”

After that he continued on his way. Time was being wasted.

Chapter Six

It was James' first visit to the prison, and as he drove up the dirt road towards it he wasn't sure if he was impressed by it or disappointed. Certainly he wasn't impressed by the sign along the side of the road.
“Woodville Wilderness Retreat”.
It certainly didn't sound like a prison. In fact that only thing about the signs beside it that even suggested security were the phrases “private property” and “no trespassing”. They wouldn't stop a lot of people, he thought.

As for the fence, a twelve foot tall mesh fence didn't strike him as much of a deterrent either to keep the prisoners in or strangers out. Where were the guard towers and the razor wire? Hell, where were the armed guards patrolling the grounds? Of course he knew there were guards, they just weren't armed with guns. They had other weapons. James just hoped they weren't the stupid little toy ray guns like the one he'd been given. And there were wards around the fence line that made it far more secure. Wards that kept strangers away and stopped prisoners escaping. But neither of those things was obvious to someone without magic. On the other hand he knew that if he hadn't been tattooed with the markings of the Illuminati he wouldn't have been able to approach the prison.

To James’ eyes the prison just didn't look much like a prison. It looked like a wilderness camp dotted with small cabins. Wooden huts really. But that was what it was meant to look like he supposed. A remote wilderness camp where those who didn't want any part of life in the wider world could retreat to live the life of a hermit. A sort of commune. No one knew that they were actually prisoners. That they couldn't leave the camp and were held there by magical restraints more secure than steel chains. Or that those denim jumpsuits they wore were in fact their prisoner outfits. And no one knew that most of these people would never return to the civilised world. Most had been judged as unacceptably dangerous and had been sentenced to life imprisonment. Those he caught who had committed more minor infractions of the rules didn't end up here.

It was just another example of the Illuminati hiding in plain sight. The idea was practically a mantra for them. But he guessed it was necessary. Made necessary because most magical gifts were limited. None of the gifted were like the wizards in the movies. They couldn't turn people into frogs or fly broomsticks. Not as far as he knew. What they could do was usually smaller and confined to only one or two areas. That meant they couldn't simply live like kings and queens and let the rest of the world look on in envy. They had to live and work just like everyone else. It also meant that being discovered was a threat to them. Most of them could not fight off an army if one came to their door. So they had to hide.

His own father as he'd discovered after his world had been turned upside down, could reshape things when he touched them. But it was mostly small things and it was slow. It was probably a useful gift for a carver. Unfortunately Ned Henderson was an accountant. As for his mother Bea, she simply had a green thumb. Growing healthy pot plants though didn't pay the rent. Nursing did.

The same was true of most others. The magical had gifts that could help them in life. And that could sometimes destroy those around them. But almost none of them had gifts that made life straight forward. While some of them had gifts that would help them make money, few were millionaires. They had to live and work like everyone else. Many had gifts that would help them with their health. But they could still fall prey to drugs and injury the same as anyone else. Others had gifts that would help them with people. To find lovers or persuade others to their view. But that didn't pay the rent or keep them fed.

In some ways the gifted despite their abilities were even more limited than normal people. They had the rules of the Illuminati to follow. They weren't allowed to use all their gifts – not those that would cause harm to others – and they couldn't expose their magic to the world. If they did, they ended up in places like this. It didn't matter whether the Illuminati had any legal authority or not. Whether anyone, even the gifted, had voted for them. They were in charge. And what they said went. Defying them was not an option. At least not for most. Some did of course, and they paid for it.

That was their problem though. James' problem was that of the hundred or so people now calling this camp home, probably a quarter of them were here thanks to him. He was very good at his job and it had been a busy five years. These people didn't like him. This was the prison for New York State and he was the hunter. But he could deal with that he decided as he drove up to the parking area and then got out and headed for the warden. In the end they were powerless. They were watched. And by now they knew enough not to cause trouble. The guards were not soft. And their gifts worked unlike those of the prisoners.

Binding the powers of the gifted was tricky. But over the centuries the Illuminati had worked out how to do it. They used a regimen of spells and potions, and it was highly effective. None of the prisoners had ever managed to escape. Which was fortunate because he recognised many of the prisoners in the open area, and he knew just how dangerous they were. Many were multiple murderers. Others might have at least avoided that crime but had done other incredibly horrible things.

Adam Lyon who he spotted sitting on a log, was a mentalist. He could read minds. He'd used his gift to dig into the thoughts of the rich and powerful and find out their secrets. He’d then used those secrets to blackmail them. He’d made tens of millions from his victims, and had risked exposing the world of the magical. If he'd been caught by the State authorities and someone had asked him how he'd uncovered all these secrets, James had no doubt he would have told them everything if it would have saved him a single day in prison. He had absolutely no morality. The elders had understood that which was why he was here and would never be released. He might not be violent but he was dangerous.

Then there was Sharynne Destiny. James actually felt some sorrow for the young woman. She had grown up poor and without hope on the mean side of the tracks. Her life had forced her into a life of prostitution at an early age. She was a victim as well as a perp. But at some point, later in life than for most, her gift had bloomed and she had become a fire starter. It wasn't a gift that would bring her any wealth or a better life unfortunately. It wouldn't heal her problems. But it was power. And for a sixteen year old girl with serious anger issues, that was perhaps the worst thing she could have been given.

From the moment she'd discovered what she could do, the lives of those she blamed for what had happened to her had been placed under threat. That group had included not just pimps and Johns and madams, but also her own family. Houses had been burnt to the ground. Cars had exploded. Many of those she hated had spontaneously combusted.  One of them had been her own mother. James accepted that Sharynne had reason to be angry. But that didn't change things. James had no doubt that she would still be continuing her work if she was free. Revenge never satisfied a person. He knew that only too well.

Looking over to his left James could see Anderson Brown staring at him from the side of a hut he was leaning against. He was one of the few here whose gift would have allowed him to make a good life for himself had he chosen to use it wisely. He was an alchemist, born with an ability to understand the magical properties of all sorts of ingredients and combine them into magical potions he could sell. He had done that. But at some point he had decided that he could make more money secretly selling his potions to normal people. Rich normal people. People who would pay to have their hair return, or feel ten years younger. Again, it risked the exposure of magic to the world.

That would have been bad enough and earned him some time in the prison. But after that he'd gone a step further and wanted to start mass production. Making a range of potions that all had magic in them and selling them through clinics. In short he wanted to tell the world he had magic and make a fortune from it. Greed had gone to his head. He had been very unhappy when James had shown up. And as it turned out he could not only mix up health potions but also some rather effective explosives. It had been a somewhat exciting take down which had ended with James shooting him in the thigh. There was a reason that Anderson was leaning quietly against a hut watching him from a discreet distance. He was afraid of him.

Others he noticed were also watching him. They scrutinised him carefully, making sure he wasn't coming for them. It seemed that he had acquired something of a reputation among the prisoners. James paid them no mind, choosing instead to look neither right nor left as he marched towards the guard station and the warden who was waiting for him. Celia Jones did not look any more pleased to see him than the prisoners.

“Warden.” James greeted her as coolly as he always did. The two of them did not get on. Warden Jones was a stern looking black woman who took her duties seriously. That was normally a good thing. But not so much when it included her duty of care to the prisoners. Plus she thought he was a thug. It was a notion he'd never bothered to disabuse her of. If some of the prisoners arrived a little the worse for wear, and many of them spoke of the brutality of their captures he figured that worked in his favour. Maybe it would persuade a few would be offenders to keep to the straight and narrow in case he came for them. Maybe it even gave others second thoughts about trying to resist when he came for them. A reputation could be a useful tool for a hunter. Even a bad one.

“Mr. Henderson.” She was just as cold. “Everything has been set up for you just as you requested. But there are limits.”

She knew the plan, but she wasn't happy about it. That didn't exactly come as a surprise to James. The woman was seldom happy with him. In fact she'd made several complaints. He was sure she was about to make another one shortly.

But it would go nowhere. There had been an attack on a hunter, and while he might not be one of their magical members, an attack on a hunter was considered serious. It was an attack on the Illuminati themselves. And if it went further than that – if other hunters were attacked – the Illuminati would not tolerate that. So the warden had been given her orders, and while she didn't like them, she had to obey.

“Thank you warden.” He nodded politely. Even if they were never going to be friends they could be civil he figured. “As long as the guards know not to interfere.”

“They know. But you should know that your brother's had no visitors in years and his powers are completely bound.”

“Or they aren't but he's persuaded people that they are.” And that was always the danger with someone with a talent as powerful and dangerous as Francis'. “But we'll know soon enough.”

With that he left the warden and headed for the interview area. To the outside world it would have looked like a set of picnic tables, though they might have been curious about the cast iron rings in the centres of the tables. They might have wondered why they had them instead of a hole for an umbrella to slot into.

Once there he took a seat at one of the tables and waited nervously. While he knew what he was there for and what he had to do, and while he told himself that it was no different to many interrogations he'd carried out before save for the violence and degree, this was his little brother who he was interrogating. And the fear and hatred he knew for Francis was beyond reason. Even five years later.

It wasn't long before he saw Francis being led across the grounds in chains towards him by a pair of guards.

Seeing his brother walking across the grounds towards the interview area, James knew a moment of pure rage. Complete all-consuming hatred. Time had not cooled the flames. That fire breathing demon possessed him in a way he didn't like but which he couldn't really control. Not for the longest time. And Francis was lucky. Had he not been disarmed – the warden had insisted that he left his weapons in the car – James might well have simply shot his brother there and then.

James wanted him dead. He had done so many terrible things to their family, and all the psychobabble in the world couldn't change that. But maybe it wasn't only what Francis had done that upset him as the German kept saying. He thought there was some truth in the thought that part of the hate stemmed from the fact that James had failed to stop him. He had even failed to realise what was happening. He had been completely blind to Francis' evil. That, James vowed, would never happen again.

Still, James controlled his reactions, giving nothing away. He had to appear to Francis to be strong and in control. Given his homicidal feelings towards his brother though, he needed to be strong and in control for himself as well. Because while James’ plan required his little brother to truly believe he was going to die, James could not afford to give in to temptation and do something that really would take his life.

For the longest time Francis had only known the adult James as a police officer. A follower of the law. A fool that he had bent and twisted and almost destroyed. He had never therefore had any reason to fear James. Until that one day. That day he had learned to fear James. Today he had to learn to fear him all over again. Actually he had to learn pure terror. And on top of that James had to be able to assess him. To see the truth in his eyes. That meant James had to control his own feelings because he wouldn’t be able to interrogate his brother if he was lost in his own emotional storm. It was one of the first things a detective was taught about interrogations. Master your emotions so that what you saw in your suspect was his truth. Not something coloured by your own.