Hunted (3 page)

“I hated to see those damn nuts come back in again this spring,” a rancher said. “I thought maybe we were rid of them.”

“Maybe we're the ones who are nuts,” a man in a business suit countered. “At least they're getting ready to cope with what we all know is bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Oh, come on, Ned!” a woman said. “Sam Parish and those with him are a bunch of dangerous kooks. Sheriff Paige told me they probably have a million rounds of ammunition buried in bunkers up there. They've got emergency food and radios and God only knows what else cached in the wilderness.”

“That's their right,” another man spoke up. “And the goddamn government has no business interfering with them. What happened to Randy Weaver should have been a lesson to us all.”

“I'll damn sure go along with that,” a man said. “This is one sorry-assed government we have ruling us. And I mean, they rule us. This is no longer a democracy. We're borderlining on a dictatorship.”

Darry knew all about the Randy Weaver incident, which had occurred up in North Idaho back in 1991, and personally felt it was a total travesty of justice. Because he had lived under tyrants and harsh government rules and regulations, Darry could read all the signs, and he felt that America was moving very quickly toward socialism and eventual total government control over the lives of its citizens.

And he knew, from personal experience, that the first step was the disarming of a country's citizens. All gun bans did was prevent heretofore law-abiding citizens from protecting themselves with guns. And in many cases, the laws turned decent people into criminals, because law-abiding citizens wanted to be able to protect themselves and would illegally purchase weapons to do so.

America, once the most powerful and free country on the face of the earth, was rapidly turning into a socialistic state, whose citizens were now facing the very real threat of having to live in fear of the police and federal agents... who were supposed to be in place to protect citizens, not harass them.

What it boiled down to, in Darry's opinion, was that government had no obligation to defend the individual citizen, and with gun-control laws becoming more firmly entrenched and harshly enforced, the individual had no means by which to defend himself.

Sad, Darry thought, listening to the men and women in the cafe talk. It's all so sad.

Darry paid for his coffee and pie and left, thinking that Big Brother was everywhere ... even in the pristine wilderness of Idaho.

Stormy and Ki landed at Boise and picked up their four-wheel drive Bronco. Ki studied the map while Stormy asked directions to the nearest sporting goods store. At the sporting goods store, the two women made the clerk's eyes shine as they picked out the items they were familiar with, and then asked his advice on other camping equipment.

He didn't load them up with unnecessary gear, but he did outfit them well.

“Now show me your shotguns,” Ki said.

Stormy looked at her in surprise. “What do you know about guns?”

“I was raised on a farm in Missouri, Stormy. I've been around guns all my life. We're going into country that has attracted some pretty strange people over the years. I want some protection.”

The clerk's eyes widened as he put a name to the face. “Say now, you're Stormy—”

“That's right,” she cut him off. “Pleased to meet you.” She turned back to Ki. “I don't like guns, Ki.”

“I know. But I'm still taking a couple of guns with us.”

“A couple?” Stormy questioned.

“Yes. Watch.”

Ki picked out a twelve gauge pump shotgun that was chambered for three-inch magnum rounds—with a shortened but just legal barrel—and several boxes of shells. She looked at Stormy. “I'm ready. Let's get on the road.”

“I thought you were buying two?”

“I brought my pistol with me,” Ki said with a smile. “In my luggage. It's all legal and declared. I have a permit for it.” She paused, then turned back to the clerk. “And give me two boxes of .38 rounds, hollow-nose.”

Stormy rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath.

The two women packed the rear of the Bronco and were getting ready to pull out when the clerk walked up to the vehicle. “Exactly where are you two going?” he inquired.

Stormy told him their destination, but not why they were going.

The clerk shook his head. “That's survivalist country, ladies. More importantly, that's where Sam Parish's group is headquartered.”

That name nudged Stormy's memory. “The Citizen's Defense League.”

“That's the one. They're dangerous, ladies. And they don't like the press.”

“We'll try to keep a low profile,” Stormy assured the man.

“You go into that country, ladies, and they'll know you're there. Bet on that.”

* * *

Darry sat on his front porch, Pete and Repeat on either side of his chair. He enjoyed this time of day, just as the sun was sinking into the western horizon and the land was, for a short time, hued with purple shadows. He would have enjoyed it more if the faint sounds of gunfire, coming from the survivalists' camp, were not punctuating the quiet. What disturbed him most was the knowledge that they were now using fully automatic weapons . . . and he doubted that group was using legal and registered arms.

Darry suddenly experienced a sensation of dark and lurking danger. It made him very uneasy, and the hybrids quickly picked up on his feelings and stirred restlessly. Over the long and often danger-filled and bloody years that stretched out endlessly behind him, Darry had honed his senses to a razor-sharp edge. He had taken part in so many conflicts around the world, he had difficulty recalling them all. And Darry was certain, from listening to the news on his portable radio, and by reading the newspapers and the few news magazines he bought every couple of months or so, that his adopted country, America, was in deep trouble . . . heading straight for armed conflict. Not against some foreign power, but against its own citizens. It never failed to happen when a government got too big, too powerful, too arrogant, and attempted to interfere in the lives of all its citizens . . . and especially in the lives of those citizens who voiced a strong opposition to the political party currently in power.

And Darry felt certain he was going to be caught up smack in the middle of it.

“Damn!” he said.

* * *

“We don't even know where this person is, Stormy,” Ki said. “Do we?”

“It was a free-lancer who did that story for the
Loudmouth.
I called around and found out she lives just outside a town called Grangeville. She's quite an outdoors person. Really into camping and hiking and so forth . . .”

“Just like us,” Ki said drily.

Stormy laughed. “Yeah. Right.”

“That still doesn't tell us where this guy is.”

“Somewhere along the River Of No Return.”

“That has a real ominous sound to it, Stormy.”

Stormy smiled at that. “We'll spend the night in Grangeville and start looking first thing in the morning.”

Ki consulted a map. “It's about thirty-six hundred population. I'm sure the accommodations will be luxurious.”

Stormy laughed and said, “Nobody said life would be easy.”

“Wherever we stay will beat the hell out of Somalia,” Ki replied.

* * *

“You want me to do
what?”
Johnny McBroon asked the voice on the other end of the line.

The statement was repeated.

“That is the nuttiest goddamn thing I ever heard of,” Johnny said. “That is even dumber than trying to set Castro's beard on fire.”

“This might be a way for you to redeem yourself, Johnny.”

“And come back in? Screw coming back in. Who needs it? In case you don't know, and you probably don't, I'm now making a respectable living doing wildlife articles. I shoot things with a camera and then put words on paper. If you'd ever learn to read, you'd know that.”

“May we dispense with the personal insults, Johnny? Thank you. We think you're just the man for this job, Johnny. I really mean that. You have a fine record with us, and—”

“You can cut the bullshit,” Johnny interrupted. “Officially, I don't exist with you people, and all my records have been destroyed. So if I took this job and screwed up, you people don't know me and are standing in the clear. That's the bottom line.”

“You must have stopped drinking, Johnny. You're actually lucid and making sense.”

“I've always made sense, and I have never been an alcoholic. I just don't like to kiss ass. Especially your ass. A thousand dollars a day and all expenses.”

“Done.”

“You're kidding! I was sure you'd say no.”

“I never kid, Johnny.”

“Yeah, that's right. I should have remembered you have about as much sense of humor as a warthog.”

“When can you leave?”

“In the morning.”

“You know who to report to. Good luck.” The connection was broken.

“Asshole!” Johnny said, looking at the buzzing receiver.

Some two thousand miles away to the east, the vocal sentiment was exactly the same.

* * *

“He is somewhere in this area,” the men were told, their eyes on the map, on the spot touched with a pointer.

“He really exists, then?”

“Yes. For years I've thought it was nothing more than rumor and myth. I couldn't get people into Romania to dig around until the Ceausescu regime was overthrown and the country opened up. But he is real. He is alive and well and has been so for nearly seven centuries. He was christened Vlad Dumitru Radu, but he hasn't used that name in a dozen or more decades. He's about five-ten, well built, muscular, with dark brown hair and very pale gray eyes. He speaks a dozen or more languages, and he is a very dangerous man. The ultimate, consummate, eternal warrior—always bear that in mind. The man has fought in every major war since the thirteenth century. He's been a teacher, a priest, a writer, a singer, an actor. He was a gunfighter in the Wild West here in America. He's worked as a mechanic, a bookkeeper, a salesman. He can do practically anything. I've recently discovered that while working in Colorado during the gold rush, he found a very nice vein, staked it out, dug it up and, with the help of a San Francisco law firm, invested the money. That investment has grown over the years. He does not have to work. He's changed his name, again, and got a new social security number. Then he dropped out of sight. Questions?”

“He has to be taken alive?”

The man who was paying the bounty hunters' salaries gave the questioner a pitying look. “I just told you, he
can't
die. He
cannot
be killed. At least not by any method that I am aware of. If Vlad has an Achilles heel, it has never been found. I want him for study. The man holds the key to eternal life. I want to be the one who unlocks that secret.”

Robert Roche looked at each of the twelve men standing around him. “You gentlemen come highly recommended. You are supposed to be the finest mercenaries in all the world. You're being paid well, certainly more than you have ever received for any job. Now prove your worth.”

A dark-complexioned man with hard obsidian eyes spoke up. “What have you not told us about this man?”

“What do you mean?” Roche questioned.

“There is more that you do not tell us. Why?”

Roche hesitated for a second, then said, “Because it is unsubstantiated rumor, that's why.”

“What is the rumor?” the hard-eyed man pressed.

Roche sighed. “The man you are searching for is rumored to have the ability to change into animal form. Of course, that is pure bunk.”

“Shape-shifter,” the questioner whispered. He had been raised in the white world until he was ten, when his Indian mother divorced the man she'd married and took him to the reservation. Now the Indian in him surfaced. “He is doubly dangerous. What animal is he akin to?”

Again, Roche hesitated. With a sigh, he said, “Vlad is rumored to have the ability to change into a wolf.”

The Indian's eyes narrowed. “You will never have this man. He is a brother to the wolf. The most intelligent, dangerous and cunning predator to walk the face of the earth. I tell you now, you are wasting your money.”

“Then you refuse to take the job?” Roche snapped out the question.

George Eagle Dancer smiled. “I did not say that. I will take your money, and I will do the best I can. And I alone will survive the hunt . . . along with the shape-shifter. The rest will fail.”

“George, you're a bleedin' harbinger of doom,” the Englishman standing next to him said.

The Indian merely grunted a noncommittal reply.

“If there are no more questions? You know your assignment. Find Vlad Radu and bring him to me,” Robert Roche said. “Everything you asked for in the way of equipment has been purchased and is at your disposal. I don't expect to see you again until this is over. Good day.”

* * *

“What the hell is the Pickle Factory up to now?” the director of the FBI asked, using their nickname for the CIA. The CIA referred to the FBI as the Cabbage Patch Kids.

“Leaks out of the White House say the President ordered them to find this man.” He laid a copy of the
National Loudmouth
on the director's desk.

The director quickly scanned the article about the man who could not die. He looked up. “You have got to be kidding!”

“No, sir. I've contacted our office in that area and have two agents standing by.”

“To do
what?”

“Ah . . . go look for this man, maybe?”

“Are you serious?”

His secretary buzzed him. “Justice on the horn,” she said.

“What line?”

“The one that's blinking,” she said matter-of-factly.

The director gritted his teeth and offered no retort. That might bring some sort of lawsuit down on him. He sighed and stuck the phone to his ear and listened for a moment. He finally said, with a very weary note to his voice, “Yes, ma'am,” and hung up. He looked at his assistant. “She wants an investigation into the man who could not die. Who do we have out in that area?”

“Jack Speed and Kathy Owens.”

“Recent graduates?”

“Right.”

“Have they done anything major yet?”

“Not really.”

“They can get their feet wet—probably literally, and their asses, too—on this . . . assignment.” He said the latter mockingly. “Better tell them to get some camping gear together.”

“Yes, sir. You all packed and ready to go on your trip, sir?”

“Yes. Hopefully, when I return, this—” he tapped the article—“nonsense will be concluded.”

“I'm sure it will be.”

The director sat for a time after his assistant had left, staring at the story in the
National Loudmouth.
“Shit!” he finally said.