Black Mountain

TWENTY-TWO

Hammerson watched the SUV burn up Highway 20 towards Atlanta, doing 120 miles per hour. The screen faded to a snowy white as the satellite went over the horizon, and he sat back, running one hand across his cropped hair.

‘So somehow he’s heard about whatever’s happened to Kathleen Hunter,’ Sam Reid said. ‘Or perhaps he sensed it — Arcadian was able to do some pretty weird things.’

‘When he had his demons under control,’ Hammerson added.

Sam nodded. ‘He’s heading for Asheville.’ He wheeled himself around the desk. ‘Head, heart and hands — I’ve still got ’em all, boss. Let me go — he’ll trust me. I just need to get close to him.’

Hammerson shook his head. ‘Sorry, Sam, not this time. I’m going to need you looking over my shoulder.’

He headed for the door but Sam cut in front of him. ‘Boss, I can do this.’

Jack Hammerson leaned forward to grip the armrests of Sam’s chair and look into his broad and battle-scarred face. ‘I know you can, soldier — but not this time. If things go bad for me, I’ve already recommended you take over the HAWC command. Your field skills, strategic thinking and HAWC experience are assets we need — and they’re exactly what I’ll need in my ear when I’m standing in front of the Arcadian trying to bring him in.’

Sam exhaled and started to look away, then quickly turned back to his colonel. ‘What about Senesh? If she sees you first, you’ll end up in a shit storm.’

Hammerson paused and thought for a second. He nodded. ‘You’re right. Get me Casey Franks. Tell her she’s got thirty minutes to meet me on the chopper pad. Fight fire with fire — one bad-ass woman against another.’ He smiled grimly as he went out the door. ‘Who said this job can’t be fun?’

On his way to the chopper pad, Hammerson took a call from the field. Only two bodies had been pulled from the Rio Grande and there was a problem — they weren’t Laredo PD. In fact, they showed no DNA, facial, dental or fingerprint matches to anyone in North America. A sense of foreboding grew inside Hammerson as he listened.

‘What else?’ he asked.

‘Analysis of the corpses showed numerous old scars from gunshot and stabbing trauma. In addition, both guys were built like tanks. My bet — Special Forces, just not ours.’

Hammerson groaned. ‘Global search?’

‘Yes, got something, but not a formal ID. A hit from a Tel Aviv dental laboratory for a crown in a second rear molar.’

‘Shit!’

Hammerson crushed the phone hard to his ear and thought through the implications. Tel Aviv could only mean one thing — Mossad. They wanted Alex or Senesh back, and they were prepared to take control of them on US soil. Or at least fucking try. No wonder they gave Arcadian some trouble, he thought.

Hammerson ground his teeth. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing else, sir. Orders?’

‘Burn them.’ He hung up and immediately called Sam. ‘Lieutenant, we got a complication. Mossad are here and tracking Hunter and Senesh. Monitor the Tel Aviv communications traffic, and keep the bird watching for anyone following that SUV.’

‘On it. Good luck, boss.’

Reckon I’ll need it now, Hammerson thought, as he signed off.

The helicopter came in low and hovered over a clearing in the Pisgah National Forest, about five miles north-east of Asheville. The machine was small, painted in a black non-reflective coating and surprisingly silent, making more of a whooshing sound than the usual rotational whine. When it was within six feet of the ground, a door slid back and two figures jumped lightly from its rear. They jogged away to allow it to lift off, and watched it disappear quietly over the treetops.

Second Lieutenant Casey Franks jogged a few paces into the dense forest circling them, examined the ground for a moment, then removed a small shovel from her pack and started digging. After ten minutes she had excavated a hole roughly three feet deep and the same wide. She and Hammerson dropped their packs and locator beacon into it, and then she covered it over. Once she’d scattered leaves, twigs and other debris over the area, all signs of the surface disturbance had been erased.

Dressed in lumber jackets, jeans and boots, with hunting knives on their belts, she and Hammerson looked like any other weekend campers. The only light arms they allowed themselves were a single Heckler & Koch USP .45 CT pistol each, strapped in a holster at their back.

Jack Hammerson was checking the tracker when Franks joined him, his face illuminated by its screen’s soft glow. He motioned towards the west with one flat hand. ‘Kathleen Hunter’s place is a few miles out of town, at the foot of the mountains. But satellite surveillance confirms the Arcadian is still en route for the town centre. So that’s where we’ll go to wait for him… them.’

‘And if Captain Senesh interferes — what’s the engagement level authorisation?’

Hammerson slid the tracker back into his pocket. ‘Authorisation to make life fucking difficult for her… only. Bottom line is, until we know more about the characteristics of her relationship with the Arcadian, we can’t afford to do anything that may force him into taking sides. Especially as we’re not certain yet which side he’s gonna take.’

Franks nodded slowly, but Hammerson knew she’d heard of Adira Senesh and could tell she was excited about the prospect of going head to head with her. Franks was good, probably the best female operative they now had in the HAWCs, but Hammerson knew that might not be enough against an Israel’s top Metsada operative. Unfortunately, Senesh had also been trained in HAWC attack and defensive techniques — he’d overseen the training himself. There was probably only one HAWC Hammerson would have confidently bet against the Senesh woman — and unfortunately that HAWC was now running with her.

‘Double time,’ he ordered, and they began a jog towards the town centre, five miles away. Hammerson wanted to be there and ready when the Arcadian arrived.

Several hundred miles to the north, a dark, nondescript Infiniti G35 with slightly tinted windows sped down Highway 81 in Virginia. It had just entered the outskirts of Marion but it wouldn’t stop there… nor at Abingdon, Bristol or even Johnston City.

The driver could have been part of the machinery of the vehicle. Like his two passengers, he sat mute. All three wore their hats pulled down low, and wraparound sunglasses of the kind favoured by seniors, which covered most of the nose and forehead as well as the eyes. The lenses were almost as dark as welding goggles.

The accessories weren’t so much for concealment as for protection against direct sunlight. To Captain Graham’s frustration, the subjects’ superheated metabolisms were weakened by UV radiation. Yet another puzzling flaw to be solved, and even more reason to find the original Arcadian.

One of the men in the backseat lifted his hand to scratch a sore that had opened up on his cheek. The movement of his finger lifted more skin away from his face, but he ignored the fluid that ran down from the open wound. The men had one order, one objective, and they wouldn’t stop, sleep or eat until they reached Asheville… until they found the Arcadian.

Hammerson slowed them to a trot as they reached the outskirts of Asheville, and they entered the town centre at a brisk walk. It was late, cold and a weeknight, so the streets were empty. They needed a quiet place to wait. Hammerson knew they stood out, even though they’d dressed like regular hikers or hunters. They were too big, too wide and too battle-scarred to blend in with civilians.

‘This’ll do,’ Hammerson said, nodding towards the sign for Old Ron’s Bar and Grill.

They pushed the door open and Hammerson inhaled the atmosphere: stale beer, body odour, old grease and bleach — the latter probably used to clean blood from the floor, given the look of some of the patrons lounging at the bar and playing pool further back in the gloom.

A weary-looking woman behind the bar, with a low-cut top that showed her pendulous breasts, raised her eyebrows at Hammerson. Two men who’d obviously been trying their luck with her turned to see what had caught her eye. Hammerson nodded to the woman, then headed to a booth, keeping his cap on to hide his iron-grey buzz cut. Franks slid in next to him.

Hammerson waited a while, until the locals had tired of staring at the newcomers, then pulled the tracker from his pocket and used his finger to scroll down the screen to the information feed he wanted.

‘He’s about fifty miles out, still headed into town. Should be here within the hour.’

‘What do you think?’ Franks asked, leaning forward, her angular powerful body made even more solid by the padded lumber jacket.

Hammerson pushed the box back into his pocket. ‘Hunter’s got to be leading them here. Too much of a coincidence, this being his mother’s home town and her just disappearing… or dead. But how would he know about it?’

He frowned, pulled the box from his pocket again and searched for the Asheville coroner’s report on Kathleen Hunter’s disappearance. Nothing. He tapped the box on the table top for a second or two. ‘Coroner’s office hasn’t released the information about his mother’s death, which smells like an ongoing police investigation.’ He tapped some more. ‘What if Kathleen Hunter was murdered?’ He stopped tapping. ‘There’d be a shitload of retribution about to ride into town.’

Franks laughed softly. ‘Escorted by a Mossad clean-up crew. Oh yeah, this is getting real interesting.’ She slid out of the booth. ‘Drink?’

Hammerson replied without looking at her. ‘Coffee.’

‘Got it.’

Franks took off her heavy jacket, threw it on the seat and headed to the bar.

‘Two coffees and a Bud,’ Franks told the woman behind the bar, pulling off one of her gloves and sliding her sleeves up on her brawny forearms. She could feel the two men nearby staring at her white buzz-cut, ice blue eyes and snub nose. In her teens, Casey Franks had been called attractive once or twice, but the compliments stopped after she got in a fight and picked up a deep facial wound that was never properly repaired. There was no spare cash in her Midwest family for cosmetic surgery. The cleft scar ran from just below her left eye down to her chin and pulled her left cheek up slightly, giving her a permanent sneer. She had multiple tattoos on her forearms — daggers, dragons, names of high-power motorbikes, and one solitary feminine adornment: a rose with the name Linda in delicate, curling calligraphy underneath it.

The man closest to her, wearing a greasy-looking cap, nudged his companion and motioned with his head at the rose tattoo. He leaned in close to Franks. ‘Hey, this ain’t a gay bar… mister.’

He sniggered, and his companion guffawed and leaned around him to have his own say. ‘Maybe the young fella’s had one of them sex change thingies.’

They both laughed again at their own wit.

The weary barmaid set down the coffees and beer. ‘Ignore them, sweetheart, they’re drunk. They’ll be shown the door soon enough if they don’t start behaving.’ She scowled at them before walking away.

Franks removed her other glove, exposing raised and callused knuckles. She made no move to take the drinks, instead sending a quick glance to the booth to see if Hammerson was watching. He wasn’t, so she smiled and leaned on the bar, turning slightly towards the men towering over her stocky form.

‘You know what? Damn shame this ain’t a gay bar ’cause I was feelin’ a real attraction for both of you ladies.’

Greasy Cap snorted. ‘Oh, we’re men all right, Butch, but you might not recognise us. Tell me, sweetheart, you ever been with a man before?’

‘I bet not as many times as you have.’ She thrust her chin out and looked him up and down. ‘Hey, I reckon you’re about six feet two — I’m impressed. I didn’t know they could stack shit that high.’ She leaned around him to his friend. ‘And you there — where I come from, you need a licence to be as dumb as you are.’

She leaned back, put both elbows on the bar and waited.

Greasy Cap had stopped smiling. ‘You should run back to your grandpa now, before you get hurt, you weird little fucker.’

He lifted his jacket front and pulled a twelve-inch bowie knife from a worn leather scabbard attached to his belt. He placed it on the bar, his hand close to it, then turned red, drunk-angry eyes on Franks and leaned in close.

Franks smiled and said calmly, ‘That’s it? That’s all you got? You more used to picking fights down at the local senior citizens’ home?’ She shook her head, still smiling. ‘Listen up, asshole. If I turn around and that blade’s still on the bar, I’m going to take it and castrate you, stick your balls down your boyfriend’s throat and make him swallow them. I’m not here to make friends tonight… fucker.’

The silence stretched for many seconds, then Greasy Cap made a movement. Whether he was going for the knife or to retreat didn’t matter. Franks turned, grabbed the knife, spun expertly and buried the blade an inch into the wooden bar top, between two of Greasy Cap’s fingers.

She leaned back on the bar again, still smiling. ‘Now, fuck off and play some pool or something.’

Greasy Cap pulled his hand away and looked at it; there was a small split in the skin between his fingers. The seconds stretched as the booze-oiled gears worked in his head. He shot his hand out, grabbed the knife and wrenched it from the bar top. ‘Dyke,’ he said, and walked off towards the pool table. His friend, following, looked back briefly to flip Franks the bird.

Casey Franks picked up the beer and downed it in a long gulp, then carefully carried the two steaming coffees back to the booth. Hammerson still had his eyes on the tracker, but looked up briefly to scowl at her.

‘Making friends there, Franks?’

‘Just makin’ some space, boss.’

Hammerson grunted. ‘We came in here to keep a low profile, not to wipe the floor with the locals. Got that, soldier?’

‘Got it, boss.’

She lifted her cup and sipped the dark brew, then turned briefly to see the barmaid smile and nod to her. She winked in return.

‘He’s reached the outskirts of Asheville — he’s coming right to us,’ Hammerson said, glancing at her as he spoke.

It was the first time in her life Franks had seen the Hammer look uncertain. It didn’t make her feel good.