Chronic fear

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Scagnelli pulled up behind the car he recognized from the Morgans’ driveway.

He’d made good time, thanks to the two dumbass agents who’d stored the cabin’s address on the stolen laptop. He’d also learned a National Clandestine Service agent named Gundersson was monitoring the couple, but he didn’t have a way to check out whether Gundersson was in the loop. He’d lost reception since entering the mountains, one of the pitfalls of cheap, prepaid cell phones.

So, while he expected the Morgans, he was not expecting the black SUV that was either official government or else trying damned hard to imitate it.

Fucking CIA is making their play.

Both vehicles were empty, and he had no idea how far the hike up the rutted road was. He debated pulling around and driving on to the cabin, but the first gunshot stopped him. He killed the engine and pulled the Heckler amp; Koch from the passenger seat. He’d intended to use the sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun, clearing the cabin with just a few rounds, but if a battle had already started, he couldn’t count on close-range work.

Another shot came from the woods to the south, and he judged it to be from a couple hundred yards away, although the topography was tricky here, with ridges, rocky dells, and gullies pocked with thick undergrowth and high hardwood trees. He scanned the treetops just in case someone had the road under surveillance, and then checked the two vehicles. The front doors to the Morgans’ car were open, but he didn’t see anything of value and he didn’t have time to search.

The black SUV was locked, and its interior was empty except for some rolls of vinyl that could have been tents or body bags.

Someone was planning ahead.

Scagnelli smiled. Maybe the mess would take care of itself, or at least he could let someone do half the dirty work before he moved in to mop up.

But a flurry of shots inspired him to head for cover in the forest. Someone was using automatic weaponry, which meant professionals were taking care of business.

Getting the job done. I like that.

He stuck near the granite ledges that protruded from the ancient soil, choosing safety over speed, and nearly stumbled over the old man, who was sitting huddled in a gray, moss-covered cleft.

“Mr. Forsyth,” Scagnelli said. “Sorry about what happened in Chapel Hill. I guess I’m not the only one who underestimated Mark Morgan.”

Forsyth’s eyes glistened and he looked past Scagnelli to the gaps in the forest canopy. “Babylon has fallen, Mr. Scagnelli, and there’s an angel sitting on the sun. Do you see him?”

The white-haired man’s hands shook, and the tremors radiated throughout his body. One of the hands was clenched into a tight fist.

“Whatcha got there?” Scagnelli asked.

Another shot sounded, this one farther away. The battle was spread out, which meant its scope was larger than he would be able to handle with a submachine gun.

Forsyth didn’t react, so Scagnelli bent down and pried open the man’s fist.

Pills.

The vial was about a third full, but it was impossible to know how many pills it had originally contained. “What is it?” Scagnelli asked. “Doesn’t look like the speed you’ve been giving me.”

“It’s the seventh vial.”

“We’re not in church or in front of the cameras. Talk to me straight.”

The old man’s eyelids twitched spasmodically. “Satan owns the world, Scagnelli, and he won’t be vanquished in this season. Not while Seethe lives.”

“How many of these did you take?”

“It is done,” he rasped.

Forsyth slumped forward and Scagnelli caught him, gently pressing two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. The man’s pulse was weak, firing out of rhythm before galloping toward the next lull of heartbeats.

“So this is Seethe, huh?”

Forsyth didn’t answer, foam appearing around his lips.

“Damn, I’m tempted to try one myself, but you don’t make such a good advertisement for it,” Scagnelli said. He was turning away to head up the slope when the old man’s fingers wrapped talon-like around his wrist, nearly pulling him to the ground.

“Those…are…mine,” Forsyth wheezed. “We have a…purpose.”

Scagnelli didn’t want to waste a round and give away his position. Forsyth’s circulatory system couldn’t handle such a strain for much longer, anyway. This particular job was taking care of itself. Scagnelli bent back one of the wrinkled fingers until it snapped, and the vice-presidential candidate and former Congressman whimpered in pain but didn’t scream.

“Burchfield said to tell you you’re off the team,” Scagnelli said.

The old man’s eyes clarified and burned with such pure hatred that Scagnelli fought a surge of alarm. He had to break two more fingers before Forsyth let go, and then Scagnelli slunk away, expecting the crazed old man to scream or curse or damn his soul to the everlasting fire.

Scagnelli wasn’t worried about the next life, because there would be dirty work waiting on the other side, too. People like him always had a job to do.

And this job was shaping up nicely, because he had Seethe, and it looked like Forsyth had taken himself out of the running.

I could book it with this shit and make my fortune, but, hey, I promised the senator five pelts. One down, four to go.

Another burst of shots sounded, and he headed for the rocky ridge slightly north of them so he could look down on the valley and sort things out.

Sweet. Maybe the CIA will finish the job for me.