The Flock (24 page)

“We'd better not stay here,” Ron said. “They'll be coming this way soon, I'd think.”

Mary stood up. “How many do you think there are?”

“I don't know.” Ron stood, too, ready to be off. “You saw, what, three of them?”

“Yes. And Levin encountered two. So let's go on the supposition that at least five men are going to be tracking us. I saw the van they came in on, and I doubt it could carry more than six without being conspicuously overcrowded. Let's say five.”

“Okay. Five.”

“And all of them are probably heavily armed. I think they were carrying rifles. Can't say what kind. Some kind of assault rifles, though. That last volley sounded like it, to me.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Ron told her. He wasn't particularly fond of guns.

“So. Here we are. Two of us. One gun. Four shots.”

“Only four?”

“Yeah. I checked. Four shots. That's all.”

“Damn.”

“You got it.”

Ron shook his head, rubbed the sweaty locks of hair out of his eyes. “So. Best we could do, optimum, is take out four of the five.”

“Fat chance,” Mary admitted. “I ain't that good with a pistol, tell you the truth. How 'bout you?”

“Don't even mention it. I probably couldn't even figure out how to throw the safety off unless you showed me.”

“Christ. What kind of wildlife officers is the government training, any—” Mary went silent, put her hand out to warn Ron. Both froze. Mary put her head in close to Ron's ear and whispered, so lowly that Ron could barely hear her. “Think I heard something. To our right, behind a little.”

Ron turned in that direction to look, but could see nothing save black lying thickly upon black.

“I'm going to move,” Mary said. “Same direction we were going. Haul ass. On three. One. Two. Three,” she said.

They both exploded out of the patch of saplings, moving as quickly as they dared, doing their best to avoid the larger oaks into which they had wandered. The bigger trees were revealed to them as merely slightly lighter shadows that seemed to reach for the sky. It was a clumsy way to move, but they had no alternative. They were running as fast as they could under the circumstances when something dropped down from the limbs above, blocking their way.

“Jesus,” Ron yelled, panic gripping his heart in a vise.

Mary was bringing the .357 up to fire a quick shot in the direction of the shadow. But before she could discharge the weapon, the figure spoke.

“Took you dumbasses long enough to catch up,” Billy Crane said.

 

A volley of shots slammed into the Kevlar mesh fabric that formed Holcomb's low dome. Inside it, he heard the staccato firing and felt the impacts of the slugs, not unlike drops of a particularly nasty rain. Although the material had stopped the bullets cold, he still fell to the floor, hugging it and bringing himself as close to it as he possibly could. It had been his first thought, but he was still a little ashamed of his reaction. Holcomb could smell his own fear in the close air of the room, and it bothered him. He'd come face to face with wild tigers, had stood unprotected when a bull elephant had charged him, all without losing his cool. But this was different. These were men, with guns, and he knew that standing his ground wasn't going to bluff them off as it had the wild animals he had known.

There was another tightly spaced volley. They were acting in unison, he realized as the slugs once more pattered across the Kevlar walls, the metal seeking his flesh. Carefully, he reached up and flicked the switch to the monitors and they went dead, dropping the room back into almost complete darkness. He supposed it had been the light from those monitors that they had seen, probably leaking out through the air vents. Even clever air baffles couldn't shield out all light in the night. He'd made a mistake, most likely, even if they had already seen the building. Now they knew for certain that he was inside.

Still, the men were coming in from the west-southwest. That was also where all of the shots were coming from. And that was where the tunnel entrance he had used was located. They'd find it within minutes, if they had not already located it. But he had another way out, a secondary entrance.

One more volley of shots sounded, and this time there was the unmistakable sound of fabric giving way. The stuff was tough, but not invulnerable. A few more such rounds and the bullets would start to come in. He had to act fast.

Grabbing only a small fanny pack that was attached by Velcro holds to his main pack, he crouched and edged toward a low bench in front of him, a bank of receivers positioned on it. The smaller pack contained the only weapon he had ever carried into the site, a single shot dart pistol and a half dozen darts, each loaded with enough tranquilizer to stop a large bear. He doubted it would do him any good against the assassins, but it was all he had. Ducking, he crawled beneath the bench and pushed hard, releasing the very small doorway there. It led into a tunnel similar to the one through which he had entered. Creeping on elbows and knees, he went in.

Even as he squirmed down the tight space, there was a new explosion of gunfire and some equipment shattered as this time bullets entered the dome. He was pushing his luck. He had to get out of the tunnel soon, before they surrounded the dome and saw him emerge to the northeast. He scrambled faster, pulling the little pack with him, abrading his knees and elbows.

The tunnel was semi-buried in the earth, and completely hidden by the sedges and brush that had grown to cover it. If any of the men who were firing at him stepped directly on it, they would realize what it was. But if he were quick, they wouldn't locate it until he was out and on his way. The length of the shaft was precisely sixty feet. The bulk of the dome, and the longleaf pine trees around the exit point would offer him at least some cover, he hoped. He was almost at the end, and was surprised when he passed through a series of spider webs. The little buggers had found a way through the far seal, which surprised him since he'd been assured nothing could. The spiders had obviously not read the manuals.

As he pushed on the flap of artificial material at the end of the tunnel, he listened as the rifles continued to open up on his former shelter, and there was the sound of metal being sheared by metal. His equipment was all ruined, now, he knew. It was a very good thing that he'd crawled out when he had. He pushed hard and felt the flap give.

With a soft
pop,
the Kevlar/nylon mesh let go and he felt night air on his face. Holcomb did not pause at all, for it no longer mattered if they were watching for him, or not. This was the only way for him. He burst out of the tunnel like some obscenely huge afterbirth, went to his feet and began to run. This was the open savanna, and while it was not without its pitfalls and its varied barriers, it was relatively open country and he would chance an all out dash for salvation. On the other side of the shelter the bullets flew again, bringing sound of material catching some of them and allowing others through. None seemed to be aimed directly at him. He flew.

Grisham sent Watkins in. He was the smallest of the team, and the quickest, also. The tunnel was probably the most dangerous way in, if Holcomb had survived the fusillade, but it was also the quickest entrance. A soldier had to take chances. The four remaining members stood outside, positioned around the dome in a semi-circle and waited for word from Watkins. It came quickly.

“He's not here,” Grisham was told.

“Where did he go?”

“There's another tunnel entrance. North by northeast. Looks like he went that way. I'll follow it.”

“We'll meet you,” Grisham told him, motioning his men forward. They trotted around the clever dome the billionaire had erected out here. It was almost invisible, the way it seemed to grow up like a low blister from amidst the grass and pines. From a distance anyone might have missed it if they hadn't been looking for it. But Grisham
had
been looking for it. The need-to-know pages informing him of the possibility of some kind of permanent structure had been fed to them via the studio had come from that six-foot frail who'd sold Holcomb out. The old colonel shook his head in disgust. His people were made of better stuff than that.

In a few seconds all five team members were together, Watkins crawling up and out of the tunnel exit. As a unit, they brought their scopes up and aimed them out and away, dragging them across the landscape and looking for any sign of movement.

“There.” It was Gant. He had a damned good eye, that boy.

“Where?” Grisham asked.

“One o'clock.”

Grisham sighted down the barrel. Sure enough. There was Holcomb, vanishing into a line of trees on the far side of the open savanna. The boy had been smart and had headed for the nearest trees, disdaining the open landscape that would have meant easier running but would have offered Grisham and his men a clear shot. “Good going,” he told Gant.

Starting off at an easy trot, Grisham went after his prey. His men fell in behind and began to slowly spread out, forming a skirmish line. Holcomb wouldn't last long.

 

“Where are we going?” Ron asked. He was behind Billy Crane, keeping an eye on the man's back and trying to pace him so that he didn't run into the dark form leading them to what he hoped was safety.

“Shut up,” Crane replied. “Save your breath.”

Ron frowned. He wanted not to like the Seminole, but he knew the guy had saved them when he'd alerted them and shot out the window so that they could escape. If not for Kate's deception, they probably would all have escaped. For the first time he considered Levin's fate, recalled the man's face after the shot had plowed through his torso, killing him. Ron knew the man had realized what had happened to him, if not actually who had fired the shot. And maybe even that, considering he had given up the gun to her without a struggle. Riggs shook his head to clear it of the image, choked back a sob.

Mary was right behind him. He could hear her labored breathing and had been surprised at it, since he'd thought that Niccols was in far better physical condition than he was. It was Mary who was always out in the bush, tracking wild animals, hunting and hiking and fishing for her hobbies, and wrestling gators for a living. But so far Ron had been able to outrun her. It was surprising. He hoped it didn't mean that he'd end up having to leave Mary behind if they had to sprint for safety. Ron wondered if he could do such a thing. Flying bullets could make a coward as quickly as they could make a hero, he supposed. He didn't want to know.

No sooner had that thought passed through his mind than he realized that Mary's footsteps had grown a bit fainter, and realized that she was falling behind. Crane had apparently noticed it, too, and came to a halt, turning to look back.

“You're sick, aren't you?” Billy asked Mary.

“Yuh-yeah,” Mary gasped.

“What? What's wrong with you? I didn't know you were
sick,
” Ron said.

“Nothing serious. Bronchitis until a week ago. I thought I was over it, but I'm having a hard time ru-running.” She was a halved shadow in the night, bent double with her hands on legs bent slightly at the knees. It was obvious to the other two that Mary was all but out of it.

“What are we going to do, now?” Ron was looking to Crane, his head a very black spot.

The black spot didn't move for a moment. “They're right behind us,” it finally muttered. “Maybe a couple hundred yards. That's all.”

“But what are we going to do?” Ron insisted.

“I think they've got night scopes,” Crane said matter-of-factly. “We'll be sitting ducks when they catch up to us.”

“What do you
suggest?
” Ron hissed. He was losing what remained of his cool.

“There's a shallow ravine about a hundred feet ahead of us. I was hoping we'd just go through it and head toward the river. But now I don't think we can make it. We'll have to try to hide there, ambush them from cover.” And then Crane turned and strode off at the same pace as before.

“Wait up,” Ron started to say, but Mary suddenly straightened and trotted past him. After all, they only had a short way to go. “Damn.” He followed them.

As Crane had said, they came to a low, narrow furrow in the otherwise flat landscape. Pines and pin oaks grew out of it, leaning at crazy angles and making a strange maze-like apparition in the night. At a point where the wall of the ravine fell sharply off, Crane eased into it and then lay against the slope, snaking down until his head was just beneath the lip.

“Do the same,” he said to Mary. “You just squat down behind us,” he told the unarmed Riggs.

The three prepared themselves. “When I hear them coming, I'll hiss,” Crane said. “Don't shoot until I do. The chances of you hitting anyone from more than a few feet away with that .357 are slim so don't bother until you hear someone coming right up. My twelve gauge will have to do until then.”