Jack Slade, page 11
A cold bead of sweat traced the vertebrae of his spine.
Clamping the knife between his teeth, he dropped down onto his stomach and wriggled forward. Fortunately, grass grew between the trees, which helped conceal his passage as he slithered like a snake through the patches of light. Each time he entered the shadows thrown by a tree, he stopped and peered cautiously around the trunk to make sure he hadn’t been observed. His respect for the guards dropped considerably as they placidly walked their rounds, unaware that death was stalking them. He reached the last tree at the edge of the compound and stood up, rested his back against the trunk, and took deep breaths as he waited for his heart to stop pounding against his ribs.
He wasn’t certain what he had accomplished when he gazed across the fifty feet of open space between him and the warehouse. The ground was so well lit that he could make out individual grains of sand. Floodlights illumined the back wall of the structure. To make matters worse, a guard walked directly toward him along the back wall, his rifle on his shoulder, his black eyes idly scanning the trees. The only reason he missed Slade was because he didn’t expect to see him. Flattening himself against the trunk, Slade slid around and out of sight. He watched as the man turned the corner and approached the other two sentries. They clustered in the open space in the center of the compound, lit cigarettes, talked, and laughed.
Their momentary distraction gave Slade his opportunity.
In his black leather jacket and dark trousers, he was an elusive streak of darkness as he sprinted across the open space toward the warehouse, his shoes gliding soundlessly over the sand. Any moment, he expected to hear the roar of gunfire and feel the sickening impact of hot lead. Miraculously, however, he made it to the corner of the warehouse without mishap and flattened his back against the wall. Inching to the corner, he eased his head around the edge and looked at the guards. They still stood in the blazing light, joking and laughing.
Slade’s eyes narrowed, and his wide mouth thinned with contempt.
Still, their continued distraction gave him time. Turning away, he scanned the wall, looking for a back entrance. There was a shadow about midway down the wall, and he glided toward it. He was in luck. It was, in fact, a door. Clamping the knife in his teeth, he inserted his pick into the lock, felt around for a few seconds, and was gratified when the lock clicked, and the door popped open. He slid silently into the darkness within, closed, and re-locked the door behind him.
He pressed his back against the door and tuned into the environment. Instead of the usual musty odors of a warehouse, the smell of oil, metal, and rubber assailed his nostrils. Sheathing the knife, he snapped on the pencil flash and began exploring. His flesh crawled as he passed stack after stack of wooden crates containing guns and ammunition. There were machine guns on tripods, flamethrowers, and crates of bazookas. Six armored troop carriers sat in double rows in the center of the cement floor.
Whoever this shaman is, he thought somberly, he’s clearly serious. There were enough guns and ammo in the warehouse to mount a full-scale rebellion. The Crawford Police Department was woefully ill-equipped to face this kind of armament. How the killer was able to get this military grade equipment here in the first place was a question Slade couldn’t answer. He pictured moving vans passing stealthily over back country roads in the dead of night.
A noise behind him brought him out of his meditations.
Dousing the light, he turned to watch a Native American, a rifle slung over his shoulder and a revolver in a holster at his hip, pass through the door of a second story office complex, and start down the stairs. Shuttered windows blocked the light, but he had left the door slightly ajar. A blade of light cut the darkness, giving Slade sufficient illumination to track his movements. He reached the bottom of the stairs, turned, went to a door Slade assumed led into the restrooms, entered, and closed the door behind him.
Slade sprinted across the cement floor and pressed his back against the wall beside the door. He pulled the knife from its sheath, held it against his thigh, thumb along the flat of the blade, and waited. He listened to the sound of a toilet flushing, a pause then footsteps approached the door. It opened, the man walked out and collided with the blade Slade thrust under his chin and drove up into his brain. He died on his feet without a sound, never knowing what killed him.
Slade eased the body to the floor, then dragged it back into the restroom. After taking the rifle and slinging it over his own shoulder, pulling the handgun from its holster and thrusting it into his belt, he tossed the body into a stall and closed the door. Then he went to the sink and washed the blood from his hand and the blade.
He walked back out, closed the door quietly behind him, and glanced up at the office. The blade of light still lanced the darkness. No sound came from within. He paused to consider.
He chose the warehouse as his initial target because he believed it was the most logical place for Helen to be. It was possible the shaman was keeping her in the main building, which would be Slade’s next destination. But keeping her in the warehouse would give greater freedom of movement if he was still concerned with concealing his identity. Slade glanced again at the open door. He doubted if the Sioux he’d killed was the only guard watching Helen, if in fact she was up there.
Taking a fresh grip on the knife, he crept to the stairs and carefully began his ascent. They were of cast iron and quite solid, but he still kept close to the wall to prevent them from creaking. When his head reached the level of the light, he paused, raised onto his toes, and peered into the office. A man with long black hair streaming down his back was sitting at a table against the far wall, his rifle leaning against the table beside him, playing solitaire. Slade’s eyes widened at sight of a hooded figure, dressed in a nightgown, sitting on a chair against the other wall with her hands bound behind her. Her head was bowed on her breast. He doubted she was asleep, however, because her chest rose and fell in quick shallow jerks, as if she were sobbing.
Slade’s gaze returned to the guard, and his harsh features hardened into a death mask.
With no attempt to be quiet, he climbed the rest of the stairs and stepped boldly into the office. The guard swung around, clearly expecting his partner, then grunted with surprise at sight of Slade. A wheel of light flashed through the air; the sound died on his lips as he stared in horror at the knife protruding from his chest and the pool of blood staining the shirt around it. Then his eyes clouded, and he slid from the chair and sprawled grotesquely on the floor.
Slade retrieved his knife, wiped the blade on the guard’s shirt, then went to the door and stared out over the warehouse. All was silence. Apparently, the deadly drama had gone undetected. Only then did he move to Helen and remove the hood from her head. She blinked at the sudden light. As her vision cleared, she saw Slade standing beside her. Her eyes widened then filmed with tears of relief. The tape across her mouth prevented her from speaking.
“This might hurt a little.” Slade gripped a corner of the tape between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll pull it real slow.”
She simply stared at him while he removed the tape, apparently still in disbelief that he’d found her, her huge dark eyes taking in every line of his face. When it was off, and he moved to her wrists, she spoke breathlessly, her voice harsh from unused vocal chords.
“My god, Slade! Where am I? How did you find me? What’s this all about?”
“You were kidnapped to force me to abandon the case and leave town,” he replied, tossing the ball of tape into a corner and helping her to her feet. “The kidnapper threatened to ultimately kill you if I didn’t leave within three days. So I set out to find you,” he concluded simply.
Impulsively, she threw her arms around him and rubbed her cheek against his chest. “I’ve been so frightened! I didn’t know what was going on. No one would talk to me. I thought I was going to go insane.” She pulled back and gazed up at him, tears streaking her cheeks. “Why would anyone want to kill me?”
“Move around to get the circulation going,” Slade said patiently. “We still have some hurdles to get over before we can get you out of here.” While she moved about the office and waved her arms, he addressed her question. “I don’t think the kidnapper wanted to kill you, although I’m sure he would have if we forced it on him. But my presence here made him desperate. Kidnapping you was an act of desperation.”
He watched her as she moved around, long black hair shimmering in the light. Even after a night and a day in captivity, her beauty was still breathtaking. Depth and fire were returning to her dark eyes, and the smooth olive skin stretched over the delicate structure of her face glowed in the light like polished bronze. As she limbered up, her natural grace was returning.
Then he glanced at her feet.
“Those bare feet are going to be a problem,” he grunted.
He examined the dead guard’s boots, but discarded the idea. They were so big that if she tried to wear them, her feet would be even more hindered than if she went barefoot.
She looked down at her feet, wiggled her toes, then glared at Slade, large eyes flashing. “I’d run over broken glass to get out here.”
Slade grinned. “Okay then. Let’s go.”
11
They descended the stairs quickly, Slade in the lead, automatic in his fist, Helen moving closely behind. Slade hoped he’d be able to get Helen out as quietly as he came in. But years of experience whispered to him that that was probably a vain hope. His grey eyes narrowed at the thought that they’d have to fight their way past the guards. There was no way to do that quietly, and the whole compound would be aroused. Cold sweat beaded his brow as he turned at the bottom of the stairs and sprinted toward the back door.
Had he come this far just to get himself and Helen killed?
He stopped at the door, gripped the knob, and turned it slowly. “Stay behind me at all times,” he hissed over his shoulder.
Opening the door a crack, he stuck his head out and peered in both directions. The harsh glare of the floodlights stung his eyes, and it took him a moment to see the guard coming up on them from the left.
“Hey!” he shouted, reaching for the gun on his hip. “What’s going on?”
Slade’s bullet caught him in the throat and flipped him back off his feet. He landed on his back on the sand, gagging and retching, spraying the air with blood. Slade paid no more attention to him as he leaped through the door and turned right, Helen close behind, and sprinted for the trees. He had only gone three strides when a second guard ran around the corner of the warehouse, his rifle up and ready. Slade didn’t break stride as he pulled the trigger and pumped three slugs in a tight pattern into his chest. He halted so suddenly it was as if he’d run into a wall. His broad face took on a stupid expression, then he simply dropped to the ground in a pool of his own blood and lay still.
Slade leaped over the body, slid to a stop at the corner of the warehouse, and peered around the edge. The third guard stood in the open area, his gun in his hand, staring inward where pandemonium had broken out around the barracks.
Slade gnashed his teeth. He knew it! The compound was full of Sioux, and the gunfire had just aroused them. He glanced behind him at Helen. Her dark eyes were wide as saucers, and her teeth were chattering.
“We’ve got to run for it,” he grunted.
Without further comment, he lifted her up, threw her over his left shoulder, broke from cover, and sprinted across the open space toward the trees. As he ran, he kept an eye on the guard. He noticed them, shouted something unintelligible, and lifted his gun. Slade’s automatic roared, bucked, and spit flame. The bullet took the guard in the guts. His gun fell from nerveless fingers. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward onto his face. By then Slade had reached the cover of the trees. Behind them, angry shouts and the deep roar of engines shattered the night as vehicles fired up. Slade continued on through the oaks, gasping for breath from Helen’s weight, when suddenly a thunder of flapping wings erupted above their heads as birds roosting in the trees, frightened by the noise, rose as one, and winged away into the night.
They reached the road, and Slade heaved Helen off his shoulder and put her bare feet down on the ground. He risked a glance back and saw men swarming over the compound, shouting, gesturing, evidently still uncertain what was going on, and therefore not yet united in one direction. Then a Native American who seemed strangely familiar burst out of the warehouse and shouted to the group. They all looked to where Slade and Helen stood limned against the lighter background of the dirt road. Gun-thunder rolled through the night, and hot lead sizzled the air around their heads.
Slade grabbed Helen’s hand. “Come on. We have to run.”
While men piled into pickup trucks and engines roared, Slade and Helen raced down the road toward the Jaguar. When they came abreast of the tree that concealed it, Slade lifted Helen off her feet with one hand and carried her over the rough terrain to the car. He dropped her on the ground, opened the door, and pressed the keys into her hand.
“Get in,” he rasped. “Drive down the road to the gate. It’s unlocked, so you don’t have to stop. Use the Jaguar to nudge it open. Nudge it,” he repeated. “Don’t ram it. I don’t want any dents on my bumper. Turn left at the road. Go down a couple of miles. You’ll hit a major highway heading south. It’ll take you back to Crawford.”
“What do you mean?” she cried as Slade pushed her down onto the seat behind the wheel. “Come with me. You can’t stay here. You’ll be killed.”
“If I go with you, we’ll have a running gun battle all the way back to Crawford, and I don’t think we’d survive. I’ll stay here to make sure they don’t follow you.”
She started the engine; revved it, then shouted over the deep roar, “You’re committing suicide!”
“We don’t have time to argue. When you reach Crawford, go straight to the police station. Tell Jeff Connolly that I need back-up, and I need it now.” He slammed the door. “Now go!”
He winced as she ground the gear into first. She stared at him for a moment, lights flickering in her dark eyes. Then she popped the clutch, and the car shot forward. He shook his head as she turned it in a wide circle, engine roaring, spinning tires throwing up leaves and twigs. She made it to the road, turned right, and raced away. Slade watched until the Jaguar disappeared around the knoll.
He snapped out the spent clip from the automatic, rammed in a fresh one, then holstered it. Then he un-slung the rifle and moved through the trees toward the road.
The army was organized now, and a stream of pickup trucks bristling with armed men poured down the road in a tidal wave of thundering engines and glaring headlights. Slade took cover behind a tree, braced the rifle against the trunk, and drew a bead on the lead truck. It was almost abreast of his position when he pulled the trigger. The windshield on the driver’s side shattered. The vehicle suddenly decelerated, swerved, ran off the road, and smashed into a tree. The bed still extended into the road, and the truck coming from behind swerved to avoid it. Slade’s second bullet smashed its windshield, hit the driver, and prevented him from completely missing the first truck. It slammed into the rear, knocking it off the road and hurling the men in the bed through the air to crash with bone-breaking impact into tree branches. The impact swung the second truck sideways, blocking the road for the vehicles coming from behind. Unable to pull up, each truck slammed into the vehicle in front, causing general chaos.
Slade added terror to the chaos by levering bullet after bullet into the milling mob until the hammer slammed down on empty. Tossing the rifle aside, he pulled the revolver he’d taken from the dead guard from his belt and kept firing. Shouting with panic, the men jumped from the trucks and fled in all directions through the trees, running blindly to escape the sizzling death pouring down on them from a gunman they couldn’t see.
Slade moved through the oaks, constantly changing position to prevent the men from sighting on his muzzle flashes. Many of the Sioux ran straight toward him. With each stride his gun roared and spit flame, and another went down in a spray of blood. He paused to strip the bodies of their weapons, then used them to continue the carnage. Rapt in battle ecstasy, he stalked his prey with the unswerving purpose of a demon of death. His eyes were red flames blazing remorselessly in the darkness, the skin stretched taut over his high cheekbones, giving him the ghastly appearance of a skull, his teeth bared in the snarl of a beast of prey. He stalked through a dark, horrific world of rolling thunder where screams of pain and terror split the night, and blood spattered the darkness. Where gun smoke dripped in grisly streamers from the trees, and the acrid stench of cordite scorched the nostrils.
Although his dark clothing rendered him almost invisible in the night, he was careful to use trees and shadows for concealment and to mask his advance as he moved inexorably in the direction of the compound. His immediate goal was to kill as many of the army as he could. But his ultimate goal was to reach the main building, where he hoped to find the shaman at the black heart of the rebellion and the killings.
He reached a point where the trees thinned out, and he could see into the compound. Having no idea how many men he had killed, he was gratified to note that only about twenty men milled around in the open area outside the barracks. A few more men straggled into the light, but that seemed to be all of them. They stared at a figure, obscured in shadow, standing on the porch of the main house. His deep voice carried on the night breeze, but it was too faint for Slade to understand what he was saying. Slade held a rifle in his hands, and it occurred to him to try to shoot the leader; but he decided against it. The distance was too great, and he wasn’t that good of a rifle shot. If he missed, all he’d accomplish would be to expose his position. His decision made, he drifted like a ghost back into the darkness, cut east, crossed the road beyond the light, and re-entered the copse of oaks that led to the warehouse.
