Prey (22 page)

Congressman Cliff Madison was discovered just before dark by two young boys out bike riding and rubbernecking at the scene of the ambush. Moments later, Madison was air-lifted to a hospital in Little Rock where his condition was listed as serious, but not life-threatening. He was badly bruised and lacerated, both legs were broken, and he was suffering from second- and third-degree burns over part of his body.

He was interviewed briefly on the way to the hospital, but he could tell the agents nothing about the ambush. He had been knocked unconscious immediately, and all he could recall was an explosion and a flash of fire.

Not very many miles away from his own ambush site, President Hutton knew beyond any reasonable doubt who had been behind his attack. But he felt he would never get to tell his story. He was convinced his captors were going to kill him. He had seen their faces, and they could not afford to let him live. But why didn't they go ahead and do it? Why risk capture keeping him alive? That, he didn't understand.

But it would all soon become clear to the president, very soon.

* * *

As his Other, Barry ran through the gathering twilight of late summer, a gray blur in the fading light. He had stopped twice since leaving John Ravenna's lake house to “talk” with coyote packs and red wolf packs. Upon the appearance of the huge timber wolf, both species had immediately assumed the subordinate positions and were soon delighted to find that he came as a friend.

Oh, they knew where the strangers were hiding, all right, and told Barry all about it. It had long been a mystery to animal behaviorists as to whether certain species of animals really did talk to one another. And it had long been a great source of amusement to Barry why that was so difficult for those so-called learned people to accept.

After much muzzle touching, posturing, tail and ear positioning, pawing and showing of teeth and tongue, Barry resumed his trek toward where he had been told the strangers were holding the female captive... not in exactly those phrases, but Barry got the message.

He almost missed the place. He ran right past it without sensing it was there.

He circled around the area several times, making no sound on silent paws, until he smelled the man-scent of the guard. He bellied down on the ground and searched his surroundings, only his eyes moving. Then he spotted the rise of earth, the mound natural-looking enough, but somehow just not quite fitting in with the lay of the land.

Then it dawned on Barry: bunkers. Underground bunkers. Sure. Back in the 1960s and 1970s, when the mood of discontent was in its infancy, just beginning to sweep across America, and armed groups were forming to protest high taxes, government intervention in the lives of Americans, integration, or what have you, this area was known as a hotbed for those types of groups. Over the past thirty years, those various organizations had built probably dozens of underground bunkers. They had had years to improve the ventilation systems, dig escape tunnels, and stockpile food and water.

But where was the entrance? How deep were the bunkers? How many men and women were in there?

“Anything?” the voice cut into Barry thoughts.

“Nothing,” the second male voice replied. “It's quiet out there.”

“Go on down and get some supper while it's hot. Ed will relieve me in an hour.”

“Ed still want to screw that bitch?”

“Sure. Bea told him maybe later, providing we could all watch. That Bea, she's something. Ed said he didn't want no audience. Said he likes to hump in private.”

“But that Stormy is one fine-lookin' piece of ass. I wouldn't object to an audience.”

“You're as bad as Ed. Both of you got your brains in your dick.”

After a few seconds of quiet laughter, the night fell silent.

As his Other, Barry moved up to the side of the mound of earth. He could hear the sentry faintly humming an old song. So he had found the bunker; but how in the hell would he get into the thing? The small slit that ran all across the front of the mound was less than two inches wide, just wide enough to see out of. It was grass- and weed-covered top and bottom, so it was nearly impossible to detect.

On his belly, Barry circled the mound. There was no outside entrance here. Barry was certain of that. He began moving around the area, sniffing the ground, trying to pick up a scent. Nothing. Then he remembered that old shack he'd passed some few hundred yards back. Had to be. The entrance was back there; a trapdoor hidden in the floor of the tumbledown old shack. Who would think to look there?

Barry quickly made his way back to the shack and began picking up all sorts of human smells. He crawled under the shack, startling a king snake looking for supper and sending it wriggling quickly away.

Go hunt a rat somewhere else, Barry thought. These two-legged rats are mine.

But there was no trapdoor, no hidden entrance in, under, or around the old shack.

That leaves one other possibility, Barry thought: a cave.

He began quickly searching the area. This time his hunch proved out. He found the cave entrance hidden behind a thick stand of brush. The man-smell was strong. He shape-shifted and entered the mouth of the dark cave. Dark only at the entrance. Around a bend, he could see a thin shaft of light. The cave was narrow at the mouth, then opened to a comfortable standing height a few feet inside.

There was also a guard sitting on the ground just around the cave bend. Barry could see his boots. He did not appear to be very attentive. He was much less attentive after Barry suddenly stepped around the rock facing of the cave and kicked him in the head.

Barry quickly tied the man securely, using the guard's belt and bandanna. He stuffed a piece of torn-off shirt material into the man's mouth and fastened it with a piece torn from the guard's shirttail.

Barry inspected the man's weapons. A Mini-14 in. 223 caliber, with several full magazines, and a Beretta 9mm pistol, with a full clip and two full spares. Then he headed deeper into the cave, his way illuminated by lanterns. The floor of the cave sloped gradually, making walking easy.

He heard footsteps coming toward him and pressed against the shadowy wall of the cave. One man walking slowly. The man spotted Barry and opened his mouth to shout a warning but Barry drove the butt of the Mini-14 into the man's stomach, doubling him over and dropping him to the rock floor of the cave. Barry balled one big hand into a fist, carefully calculated his blow, and punched the man unconscious. He tied him snugly. This man was also carrying a Mini-14 and a Beretta 9mm. Barry took the spare magazines for the rifle and tucked the spare pistol behind his belt and the clips into his pocket. He walked on toward a low murmur of voices that grew louder with each step. As quietly as possible, he jacked a round into the chamber of the Mini-14.

He had made up his mind that freeing Stormy could not be carried out with any degree of finesse. The rescue would have to be crude and very sudden. Barry paused just a few feet from the entrance to a long nature-made room, perhaps twenty-five feet square and about ten feet high, to get his bearings. He spotted Stormy, on the floor, tied hands and feet. He counted six men in the room, all of them armed. He did not recognize any of the men, but they all looked very capable. If Barry's plan worked, they would not be capable for very much longer. He could not see any woman who might be named Bea.

Barry took two small pieces of shirt he'd torn from the man he'd just trussed up and stuffed them into his ears. He took a deep breath, then stepped out from the shadows and started shooting.

The attack was so sudden and so unexpected, none of the six men in the huge cavern were able to get off a shot. Barry emptied a thirty-round magazine into the men, expecting any moment to be hit himself by a screaming ricochet as the lead bounced and screamed off the rock walls. At least two of the men who managed to get to their feet were torn by bullet fragments that howled off the rock.

The din was enormous as the sound had nowhere to go except to reverberate from rock wall to rock wall. Just as Barry was dropping the empty magazine and slipping in a fresh full one, a stocky woman came running out of a side corridor, screaming curses as she came. She had a pistol in each hand, and Barry hit the stone floor just in time to avoid getting shot as the woman was wildly pulling the triggers. Barry assumed she was the woman called Bea. Stormy stuck out her tied feet just as Bea reached her prone position.

Bea's boots got all tangled up in Stormy's feet, and the woman went headfirst, flailing her arms and stumbling across the body-littered cave floor. She came to a very abrupt halt as her head impacted against the far wall with a sickening thud. Bea sank to her knees and did not move. Barry assumed she was still alive, though blood was pouring from her face.

Barry jumped to his boots and ran to Stormy, ripping the bonds from her wrists and ankles. “Let's get out of here,” he said, his voice strangely far away due to the ringing in his head from the gunfire. He helped Stormy rub some feeling back into her ankles. “Can you stand?”

She nodded and rose to her feet. Just as they reached the entrance to the huge natural room, Stormy turned her head, glancing behind her, and yelled, “Behind us!”

Barry dropped to one knee and brought up the Mini-14, triggering off three fast rounds at the man who had suddenly appeared amid the blood and the gore and the bodies. The sentry, he supposed. His timing was really lousy. The front of the man's camo shirt blossomed wetly with blood, and he stumbled back against the stone wall and slid down, coming to rest on his behind, his eyes wide open in death. His sentry duties had come to an end . . . permanently.

“Are there any more?” Barry asked, his hearing still somewhat impaired.

“These were all I saw. What the hell group is this?”

“A very dangerous one, I'm thinking. And one that has been hard underground for a long, long time. Come on. Let's get out of here and get some fresh air. This place stinks.”

As they walked away, the underground bunker complex as silent as the death it contained beneath their feet, Barry said, “I'll lead you to a road just ahead about a mile or so. Call the sheriff's office and tell them you escaped. Tell them you wandered in the woods for hours. It was dark, you were lost and stumbled up on a gravel road. We'll be at the road in about half an hour. Show them the rope burns on your wrists and ankles and tell them you're exhausted; you need some rest. Go on out to the house and lock the doors.”

“You know more than you're telling me, Barry.”

“Yes. But I promise that you will have the full story when it's over.”

“And it will be over soon?”

“Tomorrow, I would imagine. I can't envision it lasting much longer.”

They walked through the thick brush and timber in silence for a few moments, Barry skillfully leading the way. “You know who is behind all this, don't you, Barry?”

“I've suspected for a long time.”

“You want to give me a hint?”

“You can have the whole story tomorrow.” Then he told her about the attacks on the president and the Speaker of the House.

She was so stunned she stopped in the darkness and stared at him.

“Do you know where the president is being held?”

“No. But I'm sure it's in some underground complex much like the one where you were held. I'd bet this area is honeycombed with them. Not just this area, Stormy. In areas all over America where the terrain is suitable for such work.”

“Then you believe this group is just a small part of a much larger nationwide organization.”

“Yes. There have been whispers about a group such as this for years. I never knew whether to believe the rumors or not. Now I believe them.”

“Why did they kidnap me?”

“I'm not sure. I don't know if they're responsible for the attacks on Hutton and Madison. I would think not.”

“Then . . . who?”

“It goes much higher up, Stormy. All the way back to Washington.”

“I have to ask again: why did they grab me?”

“My guess is for publicity. At first I don't believe they meant to harm you in any way. But extremists within the group went too far and it all got out of hand. Maybe they jumped the gun. Maybe they acted on their own without orders. Maybe this is a breakaway from the original group. We'll know by this time tomorrow.” He paused and put out a hand to stop Stormy. “See those lights up there, to the north?” He smiled in the darkness. “Your left, Stormy. To your left.”

“Oh. Yes, I see them.”

“That's a roadblock. The government has this area sealed off tight. The gravel road is about a quarter of a mile straight ahead. You can't miss it. You'll run right into it. When you get to the road, turn left . . .” He smiled and ignored the dirty look that got him. “As soon as you get on the gravel, start yelling and waving your arms. I'll see you tomorrow.” He put his arms around her and pulled her close, touching his lips to hers for a few seconds. Then he pushed her away. “Now, go. You haven't seen me.”

Before she could reply, he was gone, leaving her with only a slight breeze whispering through the leaves of the trees. She stood for a moment, staring into the darkness. Just as she turned to go, a long, wavering primitive call of the wild cut the night.

Stormy smiled and began walking toward the road.

Victor Radford took that last step over the edge early that evening. After the Bureau had finally released him, he drove straight home and poured a stiff drink, then another, then another. Then he loaded up his guns and called the motel where the federal agents were maintaining phone banks. He proceeded to give them a good cussing, tracing their ancestry back to the caves and beyond. He ended with admitting he was a white supremacist, he hated every Jew and black man who ever lived and ever would live, swore his life's work from that moment forward was overthrowing the government of the United States, swore his only true leader was Adolf Hitler, the greatest man who ever lived, and swore on the word of Jesus Christ to kill any federal agent who set foot on his property.

He tried to close with, “Come and get me you goddamn no-good federal assholes! And come shootin'!”

“You don't know what you're saying, Radford,” an FBI agent tried to reason with the man. “You're drunk.”

“Fuck you!” Vic screamed. “I know exactly what I'm sayin'. I got automatic weapons buried all over this county. I got one in my hands right now. And I want to kill me some federal pukes. Come on and get me, you assholes! I'm waiting on you bastards!” He hung up.

“Make damn sure nothing happens to that interrogation tape,” the senior agent said to the others. Van Brocklen was out in the field. “I want to be able to show we didn't lean on this nut.”

“What happens now?”

“Hopefully, he'll go to bed and sleep it off.”

The phone rang again. Vic Radford. “I'm callin' the press, you assholes!” he shouted. “I'm tellin' them what a bunch of cowardly pricks you are. You hear me?”

“Go to bed, Mr. Radford,” the agent said wearily. “Sleep it off. Please?”

Then Vic said the magic words. “I know who kidnapped the president, you nitwits! And I know where he is!” He hung up.

The motel room was quiet, all the agents staring at the now silent speaker.

“Now we have no choice in the matter,” a Secret Service man said.

“None whatsoever,” the senior FBI man agreed. “Let's go.”

“He doesn't know anything,” Van Brocklen said, arriving at the scene and taking command. “This is a publicity stunt. Nothing more.”

“Well, if that's true, it's a hell of a stunt!” the director flared. The director was wearing body armor from his ankles to his neck and a Kevlar helmet and throat protector. Some agents at the scene thought he looked like an idiot. Others just thought he
was
an idiot and let it go at that. The director was not well liked. “The man is putting his life on the line.”

“Radford is not stable,” Van Brocklen argued.

“Of course he isn't!” the director snapped. “The man worships Hitler, doesn't he? Get him out of there so we can find the president.”

Van Brocklen sighed. He knew beyond any reasonable doubt that Radford had no knowledge of the president's whereabouts. He'd already received word from several reliable informants that the attacks on the Speaker and the president had originally been plotted from outside this area, and was fairly certain the orders for at least one of the attacks had come from Washington, D.C.

“Did you hear me, Inspector?” the director pressed.

“I hear you,” Van Brocklen replied. Then took a chance of blowing his whole career. “But you're making a mistake, sir.”

“I take full responsibility for this. Do it!”

“In writing,” Van Brocklen said.

“What!” the director's reply was almost a shout.

“I want this order in writing.”

“By God, Van Brocklen! You're relieved. Go on back to the search parties. I'm taking over here.”

“Yes, sir. With pleasure.” Van Brocklen muttered the last two words.

The director whirled on the inspector. “What was that last bit?”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”

“I'll see you when this is over, Inspector.”

“Yes, sir.”

Van Brocklen walked quickly to his car and drove away. Just as he was driving off, he heard over his radio that Stormy Knight, of the Coyote Network, had just been found. He headed for the location.

“Sir.” An agent hesitantly approached the director. “We just got word that there are at least seven people in that house with Radford, including two women.”

“All members of Radford's group?”

“As far as we know, sir.”

“Flush them out. Use tear gas.”

“They have gas masks, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do it!”

“Yes, sir.” Oh, Lord, the agent thought, walking away. Not another Waco. Please, not that.

The agent looked toward the blacktop road. The press had gathered and were filming. The agent sighed. “Here we go again,” he muttered.

* * *

“Miss Knight,” Van Brocklen said. They were sitting in Will's store, having a soft drink. “May I speak bluntly and off the record? One adult to another?”

“Go right ahead, Inspector,” Stormy said, meeting his direct gaze.

“You manna cut the bullshit and tell us what really happened?”

Stormy smiled. “Why, I just did, Inspector.”

“You just slipped away without being seen?”

“Well ... something like that.”

“And you didn't have any help in getting away?”

“Now, Inspector, I didn't say that.”

“Cantrell,” Van Brocklen said. “Or whatever his name is. Has to be. All right, Miss Knight. Let's go. You lead us to where you were held.”

“Well, I'll try. But I'm awfully tired.”

Van Brocklen smiled. “Of course you are. And I've taken that into consideration. We'll use four-wheelers.”

“You can use one of my four-wheelers, Ki,” Will said to the camera-person. “And since you don't know the country, I'll ride along on another so's you won't get lost. I think I know the spot.”

Van Brocklen lost his smile. “You're just a real nice fellow, aren't you, Mr. Will?”

“I do try,” the man replied.

* * *

The agents surrounding the Radford compound had no choice but to return the fire coming from the house. And under newly rewritten federal guidelines, they were perfectly justified in doing so; no one in their right mind would argue that. Tear gas had done nothing to drive the occupants out, and the agents were fighting for their lives. The firefight was brief but very intense. In a matter of only a few minutes, the house was shot to splinters and bits, and those inside were dead, dying, or badly wounded.

Tillman Morris, who had been one of the first to join Vic in his last stand, had been shot twice in the chest and was not long for this earth. “Vic was just a-shittin' ya'll ... 'bout knowin' where ... the president is,” he gasped, as a medic worked frantically to keep him alive. “But I betcha I know who did. It was ... it was ...” If Tillman did know, he took that knowledge with him. Tillman closed his eyes and went goose-stepping off into that Great Aryan Nation he had long envisioned.

The director had never seen a man die violently before. He was a lawyer, not a cop. He trotted off into the darkness to barf. He did not hear an experienced field agent mutter, “Our fearless leader. I hope he pukes on his shoes.”

The house went up in flames, and no trace was found of Victor Radford. But the sounds of exploding ammo went on all night long, punctuated occasionally by a grenade going off, blowing sparks in all directions and causing little fires to flare up out of the ashes.

“Vic ain't dead,” Tom Devers proclaimed from his hospital bed. “He'll pop up again. You'll see. Heil Hitler!”

“Oh, screw you!” one tired FBI man muttered.

* * *

Leroy Jim Bob “Bubba” Bordelon maintained a low profile after the attacks on President Hutton and Congressman Madison, and told his group to do the same. “I don't want them damn feds all over me,” Bubba said. “ 'Sides, I got my hands full keepin' them damn scientists off my place. They're camped right at my fence line. Damn crazy people.”

* * *

“We must not think of giving up,” Dr. Dekerlegand told the tired and discouraged group as they sat around the dying embers of the camp fire. After pooping out chasing Jacques Cornet earlier in the day, the group had twice gotten lost in the hills and ravines, and several were suffering from cuts and bruises after taking tumbles. They still knew nothing about the attacks on the president and the Speaker or the massive manhunt going on all around them.

But all that was about to change. Abruptly.

One National Guard unit leader from South Arkansas, who was about as much at home in the mountains as a polar bear in the Gobi Desert, had seen the dying camp fire of the scientists. He and his men were slowly circling the camp, weapons at the ready, though they were totally, completely, and utterly lost.

Two of the young assistants had slipped away from the main body and were engaged in a bit of slap and tickle before retiring for the evening. They were trying to be as quiet as possible, but they were young and the gettin' was really gettin' good. Their moans and groans weren't carrying far, just far enough.

“Sarge, I hear sounds of torture,” a young guardsman radioed. “It's really bad, too.”

“All right,” the young squad leader whispered into his walkie-talkie. “On my signal we go in. Don't fire unless you're sure of your target. That might be the president of the United States in there.” He felt very hot breath on his neck and frowned. “Goddammit, Jenkins,” he hissed. “You're too close to me. Back off, man.”

About fifteen feet away, PFC Jenkins cut his eyes. “You talkin' to me, Bob?” he whispered.

The squad leader froze against the ground. If Bob was way over there to his left, who the hell was that breathin' down his neck?

Or ... what was it?

Bob slowly turned his head and looked into the glowing eyes of what had to be the biggest damned leopard in the world. Actually, it was a long-extinct species of jaguar, but to Bob's mind, now was not the time to be making distinctions.

The jaguar slowly opened his mouth and yawned. Bob had never seen so many teeth in all his life. Then the jaguar screamed. A split second later Bob screamed, and a half second later he was up and running. He suddenly remembered he had an M16 with a full magazine of live ammunition. Bob stopped, turned, and split the night with gunfire. He didn't hit anything except warm night air, for the jaguar had jumped to one side and trotted off into cover as soon as Bob screamed.

The scientists all jumped to their feet at the sound of the animal's scream—they knew exactly what had screamed—but they didn't stay on their feet long. The national guardsmen all thought those around the dying camp fire had opened fire on them, since the gunfire was coming from very close to the camp, and they began firing. The young assistant on top of the other young assistant plumbed depths he had never before achieved, and his partner let out a satisfied wail that only added to the confusion.

By this time, Jacques Cornet was loping along a half a mile away, smiling an animal smile at the fun he'd just had.

Not too far away, Bubba Bordelon jumped to his feet at the sound of gunfire and grabbed his shotgun. He'd been camped out near his fence line so he could keep an eye on the nutty scientists. He thought the feds were attacking him, and he was going to make a last stand. He stopped at his fence and uncorked a full tube of twelve-gauge shotgun rounds, just as fast as he could pump.

The guardsmen returned the fire, and the night was ripped apart by wild gunfire that seemed to go on forever, but really lasted only a few seconds.

“Come out with your hands up!” an eighteen-year-old private yelled toward the camp, his voice very shaky.

“My God!” Dr. Biegelsack shouted. “What have we done?”

“And bring the president with you!” Bob shouted, trying to jam home a full magazine with trembling fingers.

“Oh, shit!” Bubba muttered, and decided to get the hell gone from this area. He beat it back to his house just as fast as he could travel through the night.

Acting without orders from his squad leader, the radio operator frantically called for a helicopter, telling communications on the other end they had found the president of the United States and were all engaged in a very heavy firefight with an unknown adversary.

Within ten minutes, a SWAT team from the Arkansas State Police had rappeled in, an assault team from the FBI had done the same, a team of heavily armed and very menacing-looking Navy SEALs was on the ground. A hysterical Dr. Gladys Dortch had gone blundering around in the very dark and moonless night, looking for the recently dug latrine, tripped, and plunged headfirst into the grassy ditch with the two young and very sweaty and naked assistants, who could not find their clothes, gotten all tangled up with the freshly sated flesh, and was screaming in a voice that would crack brass that she had fallen into the clutches of what she assumed to be two of the missing links in the chain of humanity. Meanwhile, the young squad leader was trying to explain what had happened to an unbelieving and totally unsympathetic commanding officer.

“It is my belief,” the captain of this contingent of National Guard said to Bob, “that your career in the Arkansas National Guard is over.”

“So who gives a big rat's ass?” Bob told the CO, who fifty weeks out of the year was the manager of a men's clothing store. “I'm tellin' you that I seen a goddamn tiger! And if you don't believe that, then you can just kiss my ass, you son of a bitch, right up to the cherry red where it ain't never been sunburned or blistered!”