Shadow Dragon (33 page)
Authors: Lance Horton
Kyle stepped from the noisy, brightly lit corridor into the quiet solitude of the hospital’s small chapel. The room was bathed in lambent red and yellow light, filtered through the backlit stained-glass windows lining each side. Three short rows of pews were evenly spaced on each side of the room, each one capable of holding only three or four people, although at the moment, they were unoccupied.
Still stunned by the news of Lewis’s death, he slumped onto the bench to his left, leaning forward until his head rested on the back of the one in front of him. Even now, SAC Geddes and Joan Thompson were probably on their way to the house to give Rochelle the news.
Of course, the minute the car pulled up out front she would know.
I should be there
, Kyle thought,
I should be the
one to tell her
.
If only I hadn’t let that son of a bitch get away
.
If I had just managed to grab his leg and bring him down or at least trip him up—
But he hadn’t, and now Lewis was dead because of it.
This isn’t the way things were supposed to happen
. He could feel himself beginning to slip back into his old pattern of despair and self-doubt. He struggled against it, trying to focus on what needed to be done.
You’re a counselor
for God’s sake
.
You know how to deal with this
. But it was as if everything he had ever learned had suddenly left him the minute he was told of Lewis’s death. He couldn’t remember a thing. Now that it was happening to him, he didn’t know how to deal with it. He just sat there, thinking,
this can’t be happening,
over and over again.
He sat up and looked to the front of the room. On the wall behind the altar hung an image of Jesus nailed to the cross, a bloody crown of thorns upon his head. As he looked at the crucifix, the only thing that kept running through his head over and over was the question
why.
All he had wanted to do was help, and now Lewis was dead because of him.
And for what?
He hadn’t even managed to save the computer. What little evidence they might have salvaged was now gone, his career along with it.
At least Janet will be happy
, he thought bitterly, resigned to the fact that there was nothing preventing him from returning to Dallas now. He could hear her now, speaking in that condescending tone of hers, appearing to be concerned about him when all she had ever really cared about was herself. “I knew that job wasn’t right for you. Such a waste of time,” she would cluck. “If only you had followed my advice, you could have already been well on your way to being a doctor or a lawyer. Then maybe Angela wouldn’t have left you.”
An agonized gasp escaped him, and he ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to come.
After several long moments, he slowly lifted his head. He stared at the crucifix, desperately seeking some sign of divine inspiration, if not absolution. But there was none to be found.
The dark green Xterra sat in the far corner of the parking lot, carefully positioned to give its occupant a clear view of the hospital entrance without drawing anyone’s attention. A fine layer of snow covered the vehicle. Delicate crystals were beginning to form on the inside of the windows, but the truck and its heater remained off. Nathan’s gloved hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles cracking as two more police officers wearing thick blue coats and carrying steaming cups of Starbucks made their way into the building. The place was crawling with them.
Nathan knew Colquitt wouldn’t be happy with the latest developments. His shooting of the FBI agent had definitely complicated matters. Things were getting messy, and the potential for discovery was rising dramatically; however, they weren’t out of control yet. He needed to find out what had happened since the encounter at the motel before he made his next move. He knew the girl was almost certainly still alive. She would have to be silenced—and soon—but he wasn’t ready to give up on his plans just yet. It would be disappointing if he wasn’t able to take his time with her. Unfortunately, if the FBI hadn’t believed her story before, they were more likely to now that she had been attacked.
At least he had managed to retrieve the laptop after the idiot had taken off and left the room unattended. Nathan had wiped the hard drive clean again for good measure and then taken a little trip about twenty miles south of town to dispose of the computer, which now lay at the bottom of Flathead Lake.
Having finally decided he would have to risk it if he was going to learn anything more about the situation, Nathan tucked his gun under the seat before he headed inside.
The emergency entrance had been crawling with police, so he had parked on the other side of the hospital. The main lobby was deserted at this time of night with the exception of a man from housekeeping swinging the buffer back and forth across the marble floor. Nathan walked down the corridor, limping slightly as he favored his right knee, which had stiffened up in the cold. He passed the entrance to the chapel and then turned right, following the overhead signs that pointed the way to the emergency room. Next was the cafeteria, which had already closed for the night. The only sound was the low hum emanating from the row of vending machines just outside the cafeteria.
As he neared the end of the hall, he heard the crackle of a police radio coming toward him from around the corner. He had planned to go to the ER to see what information he could ascertain without drawing too much attention to himself, but another idea suddenly came to him. He hurried back down the hall and stopped in front of the vending machines.
As the cop rounded the corner, Nathan began to dig in his pockets for change. He nodded politely and fed change into the machine as the officer stepped up beside him. The officer was an older man who was almost completely bald with glasses and a large paunch. It was ridiculous that a fat slob like that could keep his job when he had been turned down for duty simply because of his bad knee. He could still outrun half the men on any police force in the country and then kick the other half’s asses.
“So what’s all the commotion about?” Nathan asked as he punched the button for a Diet Coke.
“Some FBI agent was killed,” the cop growled as he bent over and picked up his package of powdered donuts.
Nathan’s pulse quickened. The agent had died. That was both good and bad. It was good in that it would slow down the investigation into the Hungry Horse situation, but bad in that it would only serve to bring more agents in. The place was sure to be crawling with them by morning. He needed to finish off the girl and get the hell out. But the image of her that kept playing through his mind caused him to consider other options.
Nathan pulled the Diet Coke out of the slot. “Sorry to hear that.”
The officer’s response was drowned out by the crackle of his radio. “Hey, Weatherby, can one of you guys come up here to 312 and relieve me for a while? I need to take a leak, and the sheriff wants two men on watch at all—” The chatter was cut off as the officer turned down the volume on his radio.
Damn
, Nathan thought. They had placed guards outside her room. Of course, it only made sense. It appeared the sheriff had more sense than the agent he had tangled with earlier.
“Well, good luck finding the guy,” he said to the officer as he turned and started back toward the lobby. With the girl under guard, it would be more prudent to wait and see if a better opportunity presented itself. Now that he knew her room number, he could take care of her at any time with nothing more than the little canister he carried in his pocket, even with the guards. Of course, that would also serve to confirm any suspicions they might have had regarding the validity of her story, which would make an already messy situation worse, and General Colquitt hated messes. He would wait. For now.
Nathan had just turned the corner when a man stepped from the chapel at the far end of the corridor and began walking in his direction. He walked slowly, more of a shuffle, head down and slump-shouldered as if—Nathan stopped. Something about the man seemed familiar—the size, the build, the clothes. It had been dark, and things had happened so fast he hadn’t gotten a good look, but Nathan was almost
certain
this was the man he had grappled with at the motel.
He glanced down the hallway behind him to make sure no one was following. As they neared each other, Nathan reached in his pocket for the silver canister he carried. Unlike the one he had used on the kid in Denver, this one was a powerful neurotoxin that would kill immediately upon inhalation. Nathan had been inoculated prior to leaving Baltimore, so it would have no effect on him.
They were no more than ten feet apart when the man suddenly looked up. Their eyes locked. It was him. There was no question about it. This was the man who had prevented him from taking the girl.
Was that recognition in his eyes?
Still concealed within his pocket, Nathan flipped open the canister’s lid. He would never have a better chance to get rid of him than he had right now.
The sound of whistling came to him from down the corridor as the janitor rounded the corner, pushing the buffer.
Nathan hesitated. If he took out the agent, he would have to take out the janitor as well, and that would increase the possibility that he might get caught.
Then he was beside him. His finger on the nozzle, he was ready to use it at the first sign of trouble, but the man just walked on by as if he had never seen him.
Nathan flipped the lid shut and relaxed his grip on the canister. He would wait. He was used to waiting. It was something he did often. Despite his knee, sitting in the cold didn’t bother him either. He had spent months in far more inhospitable conditions in the desert during Operation Iraqi Freedom.
Back in the truck, Nathan opened the Diet Coke. Because he had handled it without gloves, he made a mental note to dispose of it once he was done. Had he known he was going to be waiting some more, he would have gotten himself something to eat as well.
As he drank the soda, he took out the photo of the girl, his pulse quickening in response. At first, he tried to push down his thoughts of her and remain focused on his mission, but his urges grew until he was no longer able to control them. He closed his eyes as he leaned back against the seat.
A lascivious grin slowly spread across his face as he surrendered to the deviant images playing within his head.
The wind railed against the cabin, tugging and prying at every joint and seam and rattling across the roof like a thousand ghosts seeking entry. Inside, Myles Bennett huddled in front of the FTU, trembling.
The alarms had gone silent. Dietrich’s and Ainsworth’s vitals readout was flatlined, and although their helmets were still communicating, the video displays showed nothing discernable. Ramirez’s and Johnson’s displays had blacked out completely. He had tried to radio each of them countless times with no response.
He had tried to radio out for help as well, but the satellite communication system was encrypted, and only Ainsworth had the codes necessary to radio the outside world. There was no way to contact anyone. His conscience told him that he should go out and try to find the others. Some of them might still be alive and in need of his help. But if the dragons had gotten them, what chance did he have of finding any of them and making it back to the cabin alive?
Not knowing what else to do, he just sat there, staring blankly at the FTU and waiting for the dragons to come.
There was a loud
thump
as something slammed against the door. Startled, Myles jerked backward and fell from his chair. They were here.
But there was no alarm. There should have been an alarm. Maybe it was just the wind.
On hands and knees, he scrambled across the floor to the bunk in the far corner. He grabbed his pack and yanked it open, desperately searching for something he could use as a weapon, but it was all emergency medical equipment—bandages, inflatable splints, an oxygen canister and mask, blood pressure cuff, several meal rations, flashlight and batteries, and a small plastic case with tranquilizer syringes.
Thump. Thu-thump
. The pounding came again, rattling the door in its frame. It wasn’t the wind. There was definitely something trying to get inside.
On the verge of panic, Myles grabbed the syringes and crawled beneath the lowest bunk. He reached out, grabbed one of the chairs by a leg, and tipped it over. He then pulled it against the bottom of the bed. It was pitifully inadequate protection against the creature, but it was all he had.
Another blow and the door flew open, slamming into the wall. Snow and frigid wind swirled in. A shadowy form fell into the room. Myles wedged himself farther back into the corner, a high, thin whimper escaping him.
The door slammed shut and bounced open again, swinging back and forth in the howling wind. Without his helmet’s night-vision visor, he couldn’t see a thing, but he knew it was there—a deadly, hulking presence across the room. And then he heard it—a low, rumbling growl that was quickly carried away by the storm.
He was about to die, alone and forgotten in this godforsaken cabin in the middle of nowhere. It was ironic but perhaps fitting that he was going to be killed by the very creature he had helped to create. Few, if any, would notice his disappearance, and even fewer would mourn his passing. His remains—if there were any—would probably never be found. No one would ever know what had happened to him.
As he held the syringes tightly in his hand, Myles considered simply stabbing them all into his leg before the dragon could get to him. At least it would be quick and painless—
As preoccupied as he was with the contemplation of his own death, it was several moments before he realized the creature wasn’t moving.
Could it have been hit by one of the darts?
Dietrich had said it had taken three to down one. Maybe it was just slower acting than they had anticipated, or maybe one of the men had hit it with regular weapons fire. If so, was it dead or just wounded? He certainly didn’t want to go anywhere near the thing, especially if it was wounded, but he couldn’t continue to cower under the bunk for the rest of his life either. Sooner or later, he was going to have to do something.
After he gathered what meager amount of courage he still retained, Myles pulled the protective plastic caps from the tranquilizer syringes. He grasped them in his right hand like the hilt of a knife and then, with his left hand, rattled the chair against the bed, hoping the noise would lure the creature to him and give him the opportunity to stab it with the syringes as it tried to get at him.
Expecting it to pounce, he tensed in anticipation, but nothing happened. He rattled the chair again, more blatantly than before, but there was still no movement. Could it be the thing was actually dead? Surely, it wasn’t smart enough to play possum. The dragons possessed rudimentary intelligence, and there was no way to anticipate what they might have learned during their time in the wild; however, it was still hard to imagine it being that clever. The prospect of capturing one of the offspring alive was especially exciting. The knowledge they could gain from such a creature and its value to the program was incalculable.
Cautiously, he slipped from beneath the bed. He picked up the chair and held it before him in a poor imitation of a lion tamer. He crept around the table. The faint illumination from the FTU bathed the upper reaches of the cabin in a ghostly blue light. He could just make out the outline of the dark form lying in the doorway. It was smaller than he had anticipated. There was no spiny ridge along its back, and instead of the large, leathery wings, it had … arms.
Myles’s heart leapt as he realized one of the men had found their way back to the cabin. He quickly stepped over the inert form and closed the door. The latch bolt was bent, and the wood around the catch plate was cracked and splintered. Leaning into it, he managed to force it back into place, but it was a loose fit at best. It would never hold up against an attack. He took the chair and wedged it between the floor and the door’s wooden crossbeam. It was the best he could do.
He knelt over the body. There was a large gash in the helmet. It would have taken an incredible amount of force to cause that much damage to the specially constructed helmets. In spite of its protection, it was likely the wearer had at least suffered a concussion, if not a contusion. Taking every precaution, Myles carefully rolled the body over and removed the helmet. It was Ramirez.
“Javier, can you hear me?”
Ramirez groaned. His eyes fluttered and then opened. Frightened, he began to thrash about. Myles called out his name over and over, struggling to hold him down while reassuring him he was safe. Gradually, he seemed to recognize where he was and that he was no longer in danger. The terrified look on his face slackened, and his arms fell to his sides.
Myles grabbed the medical kit. After he pulled out the flashlight, he lifted each eyelid and checked the pupils. They appeared slightly enlarged but were responsive to the light, which was a good sign. Ramirez even lifted his hand in an effort to shield his eyes.
“Javier, it’s Myles. You’re safe now, okay? Do you understand?”
Ramirez looked at him and nodded slightly. His eyes appeared more focused than earlier.
“Can you stand?”
“I … think so,” he managed to whisper.
Myles helped him to his feet. Ramirez leaned heavily on him, swaying unsteadily with each step like a punch-drunk boxer. It was a long, slow process, but they eventually managed to reach the bunk. Concerned with the amount of blood flow to his head, Myles propped Javier up in the corner instead of letting him lie down. A fine sheen of greasy sweat covered the young man’s face. Because he feared Ramirez might have a subdural hematoma and because the suit’s internal monitoring system was no longer transmitting, Myles checked his pulse and blood pressure manually. His pressure appeared to be elevated but not alarmingly so. He made a mental note of the readings for later comparison.
Not taking any chances, Myles dug through the medical equipment again, pulling out a portable oxygen canister and mask, which he placed over Javier’s nose and mouth. By maintaining cerebral perfusion, he hoped to reduce the effects of shock and to minimize the potential of brain damage. But the fact was that he had no way of knowing just how extensive Javier’s injuries might be or how quickly his condition might deteriorate. The young man needed to be transported to a hospital as soon as possible.
Once Ramirez appeared to be resting comfortably, Myles returned to the FTU, hoping for signs of survival from the others. The display remained black. Without Ainsworth’s passcode, they still had no way to radio for help, but at least there was no activity by any of the creatures at the moment. Hopefully, they had managed to tranquilize or kill them all.
Suddenly, he found he didn’t care about the success or failure of the mission. He was not devoted to his work to the point that he was willing to risk his or Javier’s lives in an attempt to retrieve one of the creatures. Nor did he care about the response of General Colquitt, who at one time had terrified him to the point that he would never have considered crossing him. All of that had changed. He had seen things infinitely more frightening than the general tonight. At this point, all he cared about was making it back home alive and in one piece.
But as he looked over at Ramirez, he feared even that was a long shot.