Reckoning (35 page)

Gage stared at the old man, his gray eyes glinting.

The air grew tense.

"Yes, probably," Gage said, after a thoughtful silence. "And that means that I helped to build the organization that is attempting to kill all of you. It means that I had a hand in ... everything." He turned away. "I killed for them," he continued, "worked for them. Stole for them. I even ..."

Sarah stood. "Gage, don't—"

"—killed Simon for them, in the end," he added slowly. "I gave them everything they needed to do the job. All the money, the power. Whatever it took."

He nodded, frowning.

"So be it," he added. "I built it. I'll burn it down."

* * *

THIRTY-THREE

Hunched against the cold wind, Kertzman slid a pair of thick woolen socks over his boots. The socks, coarse and heavy for sub-freezing weather, were perfect for the task he had in mind. But, even so, it was a tight fit.

Finally, after struggling for five minutes, Kertzman managed to twist and pull until the wool completely covered the heel and sole of his leather boot. Then he stepped away from the car, moving into the forest.

A soft rain had fallen during the night, leaving the forest floor muddy and wet. Kertzman took a dozen steps through the brush and low grass, turned and looked at his tracks.

Muffled and indistinct, the footprints could hardly be read on the wet ground. The socks wrapped around the boot had muzzled the imprint of the heel and sole in the muck. Instead of a clear imprint, there was only a soft, indistinct space that seemed to vanish even as Kertzman stood watching it.

Perfect.

Kertzman smiled, an unsightly gash in his prizefighter face. He had picked up the trick from one of Gage's Special Forces
training manuals. It amused him to see that it actually worked.

He turned to move further into the brush. It was already past three in the afternoon. He had checked four places so far today; this was the last. The winter day was shortening, the sun already descending.

This location, the ninth on his list of high probables, was an isolated 100-acre mountain estate shredded with ravines and crevices until it ended with a flat, level glade near the top of the ascent.

Kertzman liked the look of it. It was a good place to make a stand. But the forest was exceedingly thick, hard to move through without a lot of noise, so he had risked driving his rented Buick midway up the road before sliding carefully onto a rutted trail near the summit. He had left the car in the brush at the end of a deserted trail, parked on private property but far from view of the estate's
main entrance road. He considered it a relatively safe risk, and it saved him from over a mile of ravines and briars and some of the thickest brush he had encountered on the East Coast.

With his binoculars, a 45x Tasco Spotting Scope, and the Colt strapped tight to his right hip, he started forward. A brown camouflage hunting jacket protected him from the biting cold wind as he began a path towards the estate atop Panther Mountain.

* * *

A brooding silence.

Gage stared at the duffle bag. After a long time he shifted, looking away.

Sarah saw it all alive in him, the darkest nightmares of his life, howling and haunting, shredding him. She shook her head, moved to say something when the radio crackled with static and the distant voice of Chavez.

Gage picked it up.

Sarah heard Chavez talking quietly on the other end. Gage listened, his gray eyes keen and smoldering, suddenly holding an unnatural stillness.

He keyed the mike. "Stay there," he said sternly.

He walked to the wall, removing two lever-action, Western-style rifles. He tossed one to Barto, kept one for himself.

"You know how to use a Marlin .30-30?" he asked. "It's fully loaded with one in the pipe. You've got eight rounds altogether."

Barto pushed a button on the right side of the weapon near the hammer. He nodded, eyes bright, and Sarah guessed that in the past two weeks Sandman and Chavez had taught Barto to use every weapon made in the world.

"Figure I do," he answered.

Gage was already moving for the door. "Stay inside and lock the doors. Shoot anything that doesn't look like one of us. Sarah, stay on the radio. Channel three. I'll raise you in a few minutes. Everybody look sharp."

He was gone.

Sarah snatched up the radio and turned, saw Malachi at the front door, bolting it. She ran to the back, finding a terrible home in how things worked in this world; an environment could be cherished peace and relaxed freedom in one moment, stark terror and bloody, horrible death in the next.

Kertzman had covered only a small distance, and with
agonizing slowness. The ground was soft, easy to move on, easy to stalk upon. But he was haunted by a disturbing, mist-shrouded presence that seemed to creep beside him in the cold woods, a threatening half-seen shadow.

Twice he turned, his hands groping, automatically drawing the Colt as he glared into the surrounding stand. And though he saw nothing, he wasn't encouraged. He knew that his eyes weren't what they used to be.

But he didn't need his eyes to know that something was wrong. For days, now, it had felt like someone was trailing him, though he couldn't see anything. Rather it was an old stalking instinct, a leftover alertness from the days when he was a real hunter, instead of a hunter of men. No, he couldn't put his finger on it, but he could feel it; a vaporous, spectral sensation that clung to him in the mossy silence. He was convinced that something was there, but it remained hidden in the mist-shrouded woods.

Scowling, Kertzman moved forward with the .45 in one hand, not bothering to holster after drawing the second time. He tried to remain even more aware of his surroundings. He still had at least another 200 yards to go before he could see the house.

Slaglike face mean and menacing in the fading afternoon light, he glanced constantly about, haunted, feeling the companionship of ghosts. And, in the oppressive, unreal quiet of the forest, he remembered Stephenson's words.

"...
A superior race of man ... A man born to rule, to conquer, to crush down the weak ... This man and the men around him will become Lords of the Earth ... The Ultimate Beast of Prey
..."

He held the .45 tight in a sweaty hand, his thumb on the safety, ready to throw it down.

* * *

Gage found Chavez squatting in the brush beside the road holding the gray, parkerized fully automatic M-14 at port arms with the casual alertness of a true combat veteran.

With Chavez there was never any excessive movement, no
posturing or quickness. Everything was slow and measured, the movements of a man deeply inured to combat, who had long ago mastered the necessary skills for war and who fought now in a comfortable zone of familiar energy-saving economy of ease.

Gage came through the brush, low, using the wind to half-mask the sound of his movements. He wasn't worried about Chavez mistaking him for an enemy. Chavez was too wary, he would know from the steady rhythm of Gage's strides that it was no hostile approach.

From experience they both understood that someone on a stalk moves only two to six steps at a time, then pauses, waiting, watching, before moving another two to six steps, and never more. It was easy to use the wind to cover the sound of less than six steps. But it was also done that way because animals typically moved in short bursts before stopping.

Developed for hunting either men or animals in heavy brush, the stalking technique was invented to duplicate the manner by which animals moved in the woods, partially in the hope that a sentry or another animal would mistake the steps of human beings for beasts.

Until it was too late.

But for now Gage moved a stride every two seconds, constant, not waiting for the gusting breeze to cover the sound of the
crackling leaves beneath his boots. That was the wilderness telegraph to Chavez of who he was, and Chavez never even turned to look at him as he approached. Rather, the Mexican continued to scan the brush in front of him. Gage crouched beside Chavez in the bush, both of them carefully concealed.

Chavez's single dark eye gleamed with a relaxed, deadly con-centration. He pointed to a mud puddle in the road. No words.

Gage followed the lead, staring at the puddle, and recognized the sign. Rain had fallen during the night, and the puddle was filled with two inches of water. But on the uphill side of the puddle, the side leading toward the cabin, tiny rivulets of water were pooled in some tread marks, much more than on the downhill side.

Gage nodded.

It was clear. A car had driven through the puddle since the rain. The tires had pushed the water ahead of the vehicle as it drove through, and as the tire left the puddle the water had rushed back towards the depression. But as always happened, more of the water had pooled in the tread marks where the tire had left the mud puddle, than in the tread marks where the tire had entered the puddle.

It had been almost a week since any of them had gone into Monticello and returned, so it was not their track. Someone had entered. And not left.

With a glance at Chavez, Gage moved forward and across the road. Quickly but quietly, spending as few seconds as possible in open view, he quickstepped across the mud. Reflexively, Gage flicked off the safety of the Marlin as he moved.

He had chosen the lever-action .30-30 because it was one of the best bush rifles available. It provided a much better round for the forest because the heavy 240-grain bullet wouldn't be deflected by
brush, limbs, or even small trees, but would smash through minor obstructions and hit what it was aimed at.

Gage recalled the Marlin's specs by reflex, running it through his head, according to procedure as he moved forward in a crouch.

The terrain didn't allow a shot at any great distance. That was one of the reasons Gage had purchased this piece of land. It wasn't conducive for sniper fire as it provided no long spaces, only a lot of high terrain. And firing a bullet uphill or downhill was a lot more difficult than even most professionals realized.

Shooting downhill, the bullet always drops far more than expected, and rises a lot more than expected when fired uphill. It was a nebulous, strange enigma of sniping, and could throw off even the best shooters.

Moving carefully along the tire track, Gage found the car, a light brown Buick parked discreetly on the old logging road. Gage walked down the passenger side. Chavez took the driver's side.

It was empty.

Bending close to the ground, Gage looked for tracks. Saw none. Chavez was also bent, using the car engine for cover, watching the surrounding trees.

They each understood their jobs. Gage was the best tracker, and because he had already begun to search for signs, Chavez would automatically assume responsibility for rear guard.

So, Chavez would guard while Gage hunted. Later, when Gage grew tired, Chavez would take point and Gage would guard. But for now it was Gage's and he bent low, studying the ground.

Nothing.

He frowned. Got to be here. Ground's wet, good for tracks.

He peered closer, studying the grass. Saw some slight bending, not enough for a sign. So he moved out from the vehicle, studying the rocks, forgetting the grass. Forty feet out from the car he saw it.

A small rock, less than the size of his thumb, held a thin dark smear of mud on top of it.

Jungle instincts moving in him, Gage sniffed, feeling the wind, the forest, sensing the air for change, any lingering presence. But the wind was gusting. He could discern nothing.

Scowling, he looked uphill toward the summit. His mind was on automatic...

...
Pick the path that you would prefer ... Imagine that you want to move towards the cabin ... You want the path of least resistance ... Something quiet ... As few briars and bushes as possible ...

Scanning, he saw a break in the bushes, moved towards it, bent and saw nothing. Crouching, reaching out with one hand to steady himself, holding the Marlin low and parallel with the ground in the
other hand, he crept forward. Chavez followed directly behind him at the standard cover position, 15 feet of separation between them. Neither of them made a sound as they moved, except that of the unavoidable crushing of wet grass beneath their boots.

Gage was frustrated, finding nothing, but he continued to move, not knowing what else to do. He stayed low, studying the terrain, the rocks.

Then he saw the pebble. Almost so small as to be unnoticeable, it was pushed into the soft mud. Gage looked up, eyes open and absorbing, reading the forest. Slowly, silently, he held up his free hand in a fist, slightly and to the side. He turned his head minutely to make sure that Chavez saw it.

Chavez was gazing at the hand.

Gage held up one finger.

Chavez nodded once. Then he began scanning the forest again.

Gage moved forward, tracking, finding the almost indiscernible; a crushed blade of grass, a pebble pushed into the mud, or mud picked up by something soft and scrapped further up the trail on a piece of wood or rock. It was difficult, time-consuming work. The sun dropped lower as they moved, Gage leading, eyes on fire with a blood-cold wind in his face.

* * *

Kertzman lay prone on the hill, gazing down at the cabin. No movement. He had watched the lodge, a surprisingly modest and rustic structure for so expensive a piece of property, for over ten minutes. But despite his uneasiness he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

And that's what disturbed him, even more than the feeling that something was clinging to him in the forest. This was obviously the home of someone who didn't care about luxuries, the home of a soldier, a survivor. And a lack of movement always worried him.