"Load light and tight, boys," Grisham told his men.
He looked down on them from the vantage point of his office in the loft of the "barn." Yes, he actually boarded four horses there, at the rear of the building; and, yes, there was actually a pair of tractors and various wagons lodged safely in the overhanging shed that was attached to the big structure. But most of this barn was an armory and an array of intelligence gathering offices, with a recording studio added on for good measure. This was where Grisham spent most of his days, where he taped his thrice weekly radio shows, where he plotted his war games, where he preached to his men, where he prepared to do his part in the coming civil war.
Grisham was standing on a wooden deck, almost an elevated porch. Behind him was a plate glass window that showed his own well-kept office. A wooden staircase led down to the floor of the barn, maps tacked to the walls all around the gathered fire team. The commander looked down from a height of roughly twelve feet, which made him appear as superior as he currently felt. He was better than the lot of them rolled into one, and they all knew it.
"I've explained to you fellows why I chose you. We're not only going to have to hit human targets today, but we're also going to be doing some big game hunting. I'd say we'd do the big game first, but the truth is that I know where the people are going to be, but I only have a rough idea of where to look for the game."
He felt the heft of the bundle of neat, manila folders under his left arm. There was one for each man, and as soon as he'd seen that each of them had read every syllable of each report and had consumed every square centimeter of each photograph, he'd see to it that all of the intelligence was properly disposed of. Slowly, he began to descend the staircase, continuing to address his soldiers.
"You fellows know how fortunate you are. There are thirty men outside this building stewing in their disappointment right now. Any of them would have been equal to the task, I'm sure. But each of you is more than that. Each of you is the best I have, right now. I'd say that each and every one of you are the equal of anything the United States Armed Forces could throw at us these days."
Some of the hard-faced men nodded solemnly at Grisham's words.
"But you also all have extensive experience hunting big game. Dangerous game. As our other team eliminates the people on our list, we're going to be doing something truly great. Something you'll be able to think about for the rest of your lives." He then stared out at the group of six, and although he was not actually smiling, it was as close to a psychic grin as anything any of them would ever see.
"We're going to cause the extinction of an entire race of creatures Mankind isn't even aware of. An animal that exists right here in our midst, and which will be snuffed out within the next few days. We're going to destroy a creature that has no right to be." He was at the bottom of the stairway, standing on the wooden floor, hard planks under his military boots. Slowly, deliberately, he began to dole out the folders. Stenciled in stark, black letters on each folder was the term: Operation Terror Bird.
"Open them up, men." In unison, the half dozen bent back the covers and saw the face of the animal they were going to drive to extinction. A couple of them could not suppress a short exclamation.
"Goddamn, indeed, gentlemen. This animal has no right to be seen by God or man. So we're going to do something about it. We're going to kill each and every one of them. We're going to shoot every one of the beasts we can find, until the forests are bare of them and none remain."
He pointed quickly at the man nearest to him, a blond, almost gracefully built soldier with clear green eyes and reddish complexion. "You. Jim Gant. You've shot Bengal tigers. Two of them that I know of. Faced the damned beasts from a few paces and put bullets into their hearts." The man nodded, barely.
He pointed to another, a man standing far to the left. "Wallace Joyner. You once killed an Alaskan brown bear with a.22 rifle. Dropped him with a single shot at twenty yards. Fine shooting."
"And you, Redmond." Grisham indicated a very tall man standing directly in front of him. "You sly bastard. You killed a damned Komodo dragon with a crossbow. How you got away with that particular deed, I don't even want to know." The retired colonel cracked a smile. "The point is that each of you knows how to not only kill a man with a single good shot, but you also know how to track the kind of creature we're going to be hunting. Make no mistake about it. These animals are predators, and efficient ones. I'm sure they're agile, and I can tell just from looking at a single photograph of one that they are fast."
He turned and walked over to the map wall at his right. It was hung with a number of topographic quadrangle maps showing the lay of the land for over two hundred square miles. "We've only got a short time to act," he told them. "We have to disappear our human targets and then get right down to business. While we're out in the bush, we have other members of our group doing the wetwork elsewhere. There may be problems. We have to plan for such contingencies. I doubt any of our law enforcement officers will be poking about in the wilderness outside of Salutations. But just in case, I want to track these damned things down and be done," he roared the word, "with them in short order."
Once more he faced his men. "And, in case we encounter any of the stray human targets in the bush, you must be able to sanction them, too. Keep that in mind and don't hesitate to act while we're out there.
"Now. Before I let you sit down here to consume these intelligence reports, I'll field a few questions." He stepped back, as if ready to take a shot in his hard gut.
"Sir." It was Gant, the red-faced one. "How many of these things are there?"
"I don't know," he said. "My sources say maybe a dozen. But I don't know."
Redmond cleared his throat and spoke. "What are they?"
"What do they look like?" Grisham returned.
There were a few seconds of hesitation from tall Redmond. "Well…I hate to sound foolish…but this looks like a dinosaur. Some kind of dinosaur."
"Then that's what it is," Grisham said. His expression grew very hard, his brow knitting into a fleshy shelf. "Any other questions?" he yelled.
"What about human targets? Do you foresee any problems there? There's a lot of bush to whack out there."
"Ah. We have an ace in the hole," he told them. "Someone on the inside has made it much easier for us to find our main target, if he's out there. He has a transmitter he doesn't even know about, and I have the frequency. Piece of cake.
"Anything else?"
There was silence.
"Then get busy reading. After that, give the folders back to me. Then prepare to go in-country."
"Where am I?" His head hurt. Someone was slowly pounding a hole in the base of his skull. And it was dark. The lights were out.
"You're with me," she said.
Ron immediately recognized Kate's husky voice. "Kate. Oh." So that's whose lap his head rested in. He was slowly getting his bearings. He was pretty sure where up was and that down was against his back.
"Are you going to be all right?" she asked.
"I think so. Yeah." It was very dark in the room. He couldn't see Kate's face, and although he knew his eyes were searching the room, he couldn't see any sign of a flaw beneath door and floor. Or any place that looked like there might even be a door. "I'm going to try and sit up," he told her. He groaned and fell back.
"Just lie still."
"No. No. I'll be okay. It was just that first try. I can do it." He made another attempt and succeeded this time, propping himself up with one arm while he twisted his torso until he was sitting with his back against the wall. His legs splayed out in front, he could feel his shoulder touching Kate's arm. "How about you? Are you okay? That was a nasty bruise you had, too."
"I'll be fine," she said.
"How long have I been out?"
"I couldn't say. I came to just when you and Niccols were brought here. But I was too woozy to do more than just lie here. I think I passed out again when the door was shut, but if I did I don't know for how long."
"Where's Mary? What did they do to Mary?"
"I don't know. They didn't leave her here. I wouldn't worry about her anyway; your pal looks like she could maybe just pound a door down if she was of a mind to do so."
"She might at that," Ron told her. "What the hell's going on? What're Levin and those others up to?" He shifted and pushed a bit closer to Kate. Not completely involuntarily.
"He thinks he's going to save the birds," she said. "I think he believes that when Vance comes back, all of his troubles will be over. Vance will have all of the answers and will save the day."
"He wouldn't have shot us, then." Ron reached back and gingerly touched at the bruised and swollen knot on the back of his head.
"I don't think so. But that guy's an Earth First-er if ever I met one. I think he'd exterminate all of Mankind if he had the chance."
"For real?"
"For real." She arched her back, and brought herself a little closer to Ron. At least it seemed to him that she was closer. More of her was making contact with more of him, at any rate. "He used to be into all kinds of terrorist dogma. Spiking trees, poisoning livestock, setting mantraps in old growth forests. Pleasant stuff like that."
"Jesus."
"He's not a bad sort, really. He's just sick of seeing Mankind eating away at the natural world."
Ron said nothing. He didn't quite know what to say.
"Ron?" He could feel Kate turn toward him. One of her long arms reached over and she grasped his right hand in hers.
"What is it?" He swallowed hard. Ron was nervous. Grade school nervous. He was being stupid.
"Since we've got nothing better to do, why don't we have that talk we were going to have?"
He could feel her breath against the side of his face. "Sure. I'd like that, I guess. It'll help pass the time until Holcomb gets back and they let us out of here."
"Yes," she agreed.
"You were going to tell me about some things I needed to know about you," he said. "I can't imagine what it might be, but if you think it's important, go ahead and tell me. If you're Jewish, I can always convert."
She laughed. "I will tell you," she said. "But first I want to ask you something."
"Fire away."
"The other night, when I took you back to your truck. You wanted to kiss me, didn't you?"
"Well. Sure I did. Fact is, I've wanted to kiss you just about since you came across that field and found me sitting under the pines."
"Well. Kiss me then."
"You don't mind?"
"Kiss me, dammit."
In the darkness, Ron reached out and found her. His hand closed gently on her long neck, and he turned and lifted himself to a kneeling position, leaned toward her, and found her lips. Their mouths met warmly, softly. It was as he had hoped. The smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her was good. His breath came quicker; his heart beat a little faster. They remained that way for a few seconds, soft lips caressing and tasting one another there in the darkness. Finally, their mouths parted. Ron edged back a bit, feeling an erection.
"That was nice," Ron told her.
"Yes," Kate said. And then, "You enjoyed it?"
"Very much," he admitted.
"You trust me?" she asked.
"What do you mean? Trust you concerning what?"
"Let me put it to you another way," she said. "We've both been zapped in the noggin and tossed here in what serves as the lockup, right?"
"Yes."
"So we're both pretty much in the same boat."
Ron nodded, remembered that there was no way for Kate to see the movement, then said, "Yes. We're both stuck here. We were both sapped on the skull. As far as your former friends are concerned, I guess I trust you as well as I would anyone. What are you getting at?"
"Well." She paused. "I know you're not going to want to hear this."
"Hear what?"
"I think Mary is in with the studio. I think she had something to do with Dodd getting aced."
Ron's breath caught in his chest. And although he wanted to, he found he couldn't so much as swallow.
William Tatum looked up from the papers on his desk to see a true horror enter his office. The building was quiet, and not a sound filtered into the room from the hallway outside: not so much as a whisper. Of course the figure standing in the doorway had shocked everyone and everything into complete silence. His presence was not unlike God's, Tatum often thought. Michael Irons closed the door behind him and looked down on the seated figure of a suddenly very small and very insignificant Bill Tatum.
Tatum wondered what Irons had said to keep his secretary from announcing his visitation. He wondered if he'd said nothing at all. He could see, in his mind's eye, the perfectly manicured index finger coming up to those rosy, almost cherubic lips, just the suggestion of a mischievous smile painted on. Hush, little Miss. I'm here to suuuuuuuuurPRISE your boss. And she had remained obediently still, like a good little scared rabbit.
The chairman stood easily inside the doorway, saying nothing. Calmly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a silver tube from which he produced a cigar. He lit it with a gold lighter produced from another pocket, tilting his head as he did so, peering down at Tatum. He puffed, obviously enjoying each inhalation. A strong and pleasant odor was soon wafting throughout the room, despite the fact that a truly superlative circulation system drew out and replaced the air in the building every few minutes. Cigar smoke seemed to make a nearly straight line toward the ceiling, where it vanished invisibly. With the cigar champed firmly in those shark-like teeth, Irons replaced the gleaming lighter.
"You look a bit stunned to see me. Surely you can't say my visit is completely unexpected." Irons was not smiling, was not frowning; he seemed neither pleased nor angry.
Tatum shuddered, visibly. "I thought that you would call me in," he said.
Irons removed the cigar and waved it with a great, exaggerated flourish worthy of any stage. His bio, which every employee was required to read, said that he'd been an actor as a youth, and had abandoned that career by his twenty-fourth year, when he'd worked his way into surer, more lucrative work in the film industry. "You thought that I'd call you in." He blew out a puff of smoke. "That's really amusing, Tatum. Truly it is."
The security chief sat motionlessly, afraid to move, afraid to stand, afraid to comment. He merely sat and breathed, and waited.
"I thought you were a professional. I thought that you knew how to get the job done, my friend." His face remained a stony, unreadable mask.
"The men I chose for the job were a poor choice. I admit it. I won't even try to lay the blame elsewhere. It was my fault," he admitted. And, really, it was his fault.
"Well, I'm happy to hear you claim that." Irons moved toward the desk, toward the frozen William Tatum, chief of security. As soon as he was at the desk, his thighs just touching the oaken platform, he brought his perfectly manicured fist down on the top of it with a great deal of force. "I like it when a man admits he has completely fucked up!"
Even though he had known something like that was coming, Tatum flinched. He knew deep down that the somewhat voluntary reaction was at least partially for Irons' benefit. It was best not to make him any angrier than he already was. This was, in fact, the only time Tatum had seen anything like a true, human emotion coming out of the man.
"Fortunately for you, no one has been able to trace the idiots you hired back to this company. God," he breathed out hoarsely. "I'd hate to think of the money I'd have to outlay to shut it all up."
His voice cracking, Tatum tried to squeak a further apology. "I'm sorry, Mr. Irons. These men have worked for me in the past. Had done some exemplary work. Up until…until the moment they were discovered with…with," Tatum was struggling with a way to say it without stating the obvious. He could see himself trying to explain away his words in a court of law.
"With Dodd's body, you mean?"
Tatum stared at the boss, the ultimate chief.
"They got away, though," Tatum said. "The police didn't capture them, even though they recovered the…the…his…"
"Dodd's body. Yes." Irons continued to stand and to silently puff away, examining Tatum as if he were some interesting but bothersome pest. "Did you know that they even fouled up their little visit to that fellow from Fish and Wildlife? The one who had talked to Dodd?" He waited for Tatum to answer, but got no reply.
"You won't have to worry about the police questioning them. They weren't around to be questioned. They did that much, at least. And even if they left a fingerprint, it won't matter. Neither has a criminal record."
Michael Irons used the cigar to jot a decimal point in the air. "Oh, we'll never have to worry about those particularly inept assholes. I won't. You won't. The company won't. Their families won't. No one will. No one will ever again have to waste a moment's grief on either of them."
"What?" Tatum croaked.
"Well. To put it in plain terms, my fine, stupid friend: I had them both aced. They're dead." He removed the cigar from his lips, unclenching his jaws in what appeared to be an almost painful manner. There was something akin to a grimace upon his smooth, unblemished, too-young-for-a-chairman face.
"And as for you, Mr. Head of Security…" He paused, drew in a breath and released it almost silently. "You will sit here for a while and do nothing beyond see to it that nobody picks any pockets in the malls, or steals some tourist's rental car, or takes advantage of some dumb broad visiting one of our fine hotels. I've passed along the responsibility of taking care of our…eh, our problems. You will not interfere in any way with the Colonel or any of his actions. Do I make myself clear? Hmm?"
"Yes, sir. Very clear, sir." Tatum remained sitting rigidly in place, but risked a swallow.
"You know…it's not right for a man of my position to raise more than an eyebrow in a situation like this. A man such as myself needs to not have to worry about such trivialities. It's not right for me to pick up a phone and deal with such unpleasantness and be forced to make outrageous offers or spend ridiculous sums of money. It isn't right, damn it."
"I understand, sir. You should never have felt the need t…"
"Shut up, Tatum."
Tatum stopped. Did not finish the syllable. Looked up at his fate.
"You will stay here. Right here in Salutations and act like you're nothing more than small town police chief. You'll stick your nose in nothing more serious than a fender bender, because that is the absolute limit of unpleasantness that I want anyone to experience in the confines of my town for the next little while. Do I make myself clear?"
Tatum nodded.
"Good. I'm glad that you are aware of my position." He put the cigar back in his mouth and clamped down on it. Tatum could hear his teeth mashing the rolled leaves of tobacco. "And Tatum? Stay here. Go nowhere." He held his arms out to indicate Salutations. "This township will be the extent of your little world until I say otherwise."
With that, he turned and walked back to the door. Quietly, he opened it and stepped out into the hall, which remained just as silent as when he had entered Tatum's office. No face peered their way from down the hall, no head popped out of any adjoining room to see what had happened. Everyone in the building was currently doing his job at peak performance. The Shark was about, cruising, and it was best to lie low during such times.
Irons went out into the hallway, closing the door to Tatum's office as he left. Inside, Tatum put his head in his hands and actually contemplated suicide.