Black Mountain

TWENTY-FIVE

Alex and Adira hunted through the aisles, throwing clothing over their arms as they went — lumber shirts, long johns, boots, socks. Alex stopped at a table covered in hunting knives, his eyes going to just one. He put the clothing down, drew the blade from its sheath and inhaled the scent of fresh oil. He hefted it and turned it over in his hand. ‘This’ll do.’ It was a Blackjack hunting knife, surgically sharpened high-tensile steel, triple-rolled — a bear killer.

As the overhead lights glinted off the razor-sharp edge, Alex’s vision turned inwards — he saw long steel coming down again and again, but against dark green fronds and vines… he was hacking through a jungle. Someone called his name — he turned to see a huge soldier, fearsome-looking and taller than he was. He blinked at the memory, then saw his own reflection in the polished steel. As he watched, it blurred and altered. There were other faces now — the man and woman he had just seen in the street. You’re one of us, you dumb fuck, the woman had yelled at him.

One of us — what does that mean? he wondered.

His mind sought the answer — and waves of images washed over him again. A dark tunnel, screaming soldiers, a desert, creatures that burrowed beneath the sand. Then that huge soldier again, hacking through jungle vines as thick as knotted cables.

Alex had no idea how long he stood there, frozen, before he felt someone touch his arm.

‘You okay?’

‘Huh?’

He saw Adira looking up at him, worried.

‘Sure,’ he told her.

She handed him a tissue. ‘Your nose is bleeding.’

He nodded his thanks and held it to his nose. In his other hand, he still grasped the hunting knife. He knew he was going to need it.

General Meir Shavit watched Adira and Alex Hunter exit the sporting goods store and climb into their vehicle. The intercepted VELA satellite images were as clear as if they’d been snapped from across the road instead of tens of thousands of miles above the Earth.

Obtaining the pictures had been easy; Israel intelligence had been accessing the high-value strategic images for years. Getting access to Alex Hunter’s sealed files from the technical safes at USSTRATCOM had been more difficult. Shavit had assembled a small group of specialist technicians who had been worming their way through firewalls, trapdoors and spring-loaded tech traps for weeks searching unsuccessfully… until now. The files had been exactly what Shavit had needed. Hunter’s mother’s address had immediately been highlighted by the predictive software program as a ninety-nine per cent probability match for likely destinations the pair would head to next.

Shavit lifted the phone, but paused before keying in the numbers. He felt they were no nearer to securing his niece, and that a bloody showdown was imminent. The initial interaction had resulted in three dead agents. He had already given Salamon warning to be careful of the man they pursued. Perhaps the agent’s ego had outweighed caution, or was it simply that a good warrior had met a better one?

He had consented to sending Salamon a replacement team; and the new agents had been picked for their specialisation in unarmed combat and marksmanship — he knew Salamon’s first instruction would be a takedown order on Hunter. He had cautioned his man about extending that order to Adira. He doubted now that she would come in without a fight, but if it was necessary to incapacitate her physically, then so be it. She would live. Alex Hunter was a different matter; capturing him alive was going to be far too difficult and costly. Besides, once the former HAWC had been taken down, Adira would have no reason to fight, or to stay on foreign soil.

Shavit brought the phone to his ear, pressed a string of numbers and waited for the line to be routed through to its destination.

‘Salamon, I have an address for you.’

Logan took notes as he listened to the rugged-looking FBI agent’s explanation as to how he and his strange-looking sidekick had managed to be in town for less than an hour before getting all shot up. Apparently, the FBI had been investigating a series of disappearances up and down the Appalachian slopes, and on the agents’ arrival in Asheville someone had taken pot shots at them from a moving car. They hadn’t got a look at the shooters so couldn’t tell whether the incident was related to their investigation, or just some tanked-up jackass with too much whisky under his belt. Both agents had refused medical treatment, even though the stains on their clothes indicated pretty deep wounds — bloody painful, Logan bet. But both seemed to be moving freely, so it wasn’t his problem.

He sat back and folded his huge arms across his chest. ‘Bit early in the season for drunken snow-blowers to be in town, throwing up on the sidewalks and shooting up the street signs. And I can’t see one of the locals shooting at anyone… unless you just got caught cheating with their wife.’ He looked at the woman, Franks, and grinned. ‘Or husband.’

Franks’s face turned a couple of degrees harder. Oops, Logan thought, and dropped his smile and cleared his throat. He made another note: FBI sense of humour = zero.

Jack Hammerson had stopped talking, but Logan continued to stare into the agent’s unwavering eyes for a few seconds. His police nose told him something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what that might be. Still, they were the good guys, so they said, and they certainly looked formidable. Every man, woman and dog was welcome to join his investigation right about now.

‘Thank you, Agent Hammerson,’ he said. ‘Let me make a few calls and I’ll be right back.’

As he got to his feet, he noticed both agents watching him like they were hungry predators, as if studying every inch of him to identify his strengths and weaknesses. The woman, if that’s what she was, made him feel especially uncomfortable. He hoped they checked out; he didn’t want to have to try to put cuffs on either of them.

Hammerson and Franks waited in silence while the Asheville police chief went out to check their identification. The FBI profiles they’d provided were perfect, and their reproduction IDs came with a divert and intercept technology net over the whole area, which meant any reference checks would be re-routed to their own information centres in Nebraska. Their back stories would survive a far more detailed scrutiny than Chief Logan would be able to bring to bear.

Hammerson reached forward to touch the gouge in his thigh — as expected, no pain and no stiffness. Both he and Franks had covered their wounds with battlefield skin-sheets, plastic-like adhesive patches that were infused with steroids, painkillers and antibiotics. The wound simply felt like it ceased to exist, and rapidly healed beneath the synthetic polymer sheet.

Logan came back into the room with two of his officers, and handed back their IDs.

‘Sorry for the inconvenience, but it’s unusual for the Feebies to pay us a visit,’ he said. ‘Especially over a few simple disappearances ahead of the coming snow season.’

Hammerson got to his feet as he took back the small leather ID wallets and studied Logan’s face. He liked the man; he seemed old school, just like himself, although he was clearly out of condition. He also seemed in a hurry and under pressure. Hammerson didn’t have the time to spend waiting for the man to open up; he needed to give him a little push.

‘We’re always happy to help the locals — offer our expertise, technology and hardware,’ he said, looking the chief in the eyes. ‘Now, tell us about Kathleen Hunter. The information we received is that the disappearance was far from simple. In fact, all the disappearances are about as far from simple as you can get.’

Hammerson was fishing; all he knew was that Kathleen Hunter disappeared in undefined circumstances, but the man was too edgy over a single case. There was a lot more he was keeping bottled up.

‘We don’t have to tell these stiff-collars anything, Chief,’ the smaller, moustachioed officer cut in. ‘This ain’t a federal issue, it’s Asheville jurisdiction. End of story.’

Franks got to her feet. ‘Wanna bet?’

‘Shut up, Markenson,’ Logan said, without turning to his officer.

The officer glared at Franks, who smiled. The second, taller officer stepped up beside Markenson and folded his arms. Franks turned side-on and flexed her hands, still smiling.

Hammerson spoke to her. ‘At ease.’ He could tell she was still pissed after the roughing up Senesh had given her. Nothing she’d like more than an opportunity to let off some steam by caving in a few heads.

He turned back to Logan, his eyes boring into the man. ‘We know the disappearances are not routine; we know there have been several abductions. There are identical MOs all over the state. We’re here to help, but we’ll only offer it once, Chief Logan.’

The chief held Hammerson’s eyes for nearly a full minute, before exhaling — probably with a great deal of relief, Hammerson thought. He motioned to the couch. ‘Sit down, Agent Hammerson, Agent Franks. Fact is, I could do with your help, and I’ve got a story to tell that’s getting weirder by the hour.’

Logan talked for fifteen minutes, detailing the missing cattle and domestic animals, the disappearance of the Wilson girl, and then the bloody scene at Kathleen Hunter’s place and her disappearance. He frowned as he ran through the scientific information he’d been given, seeming doubtful of its veracity, and finished with Amanda Jordan’s description of the thing that had attacked her and her husband, who was still missing.

Hammerson sat like stone as he absorbed the information. When Logan had finished, he said, ‘Tell me about the scientific consultants again.’

Logan repeated the names, and Hammerson nodded and smiled. Logan lifted his eyebrows. ‘You know them?’

‘I know one of them — Matthew Kearns.’

Markenson, perched on the edge of Logan’s desk, scoffed. ‘He’s a know-it-all asshole.’

Hammerson ignored him. ‘We’ve worked with him before; he’s okay. Where is he now?’

‘In town, I hope,’ Logan replied. He turned to his deputy. ‘Call them will you, Ollie — make sure they’re not planning on doing anything stupid.’

Markenson got to his feet. ‘Sure, which one?’

Logan scribbled down some numbers and handed the paper to him. ‘All of them.’

Markenson headed out, and Logan turned back to Hammerson. ‘I gave ’em a blast after they brought me their cockamamie theory on the disappearances.’ He snorted with remorse. ‘Now I’m thinking I’ve got a problem on that mountain that looks like it might just be…’ He grimaced and raised his hands palms up, before interlocking his fingers and bringing his large hands down onto his desk.

Hammerson realised he didn’t want to put into words what his imagination was telling him.

Markenson poked his head back into the office. ‘No answer, Chief, for any of ’em.’

Logan sucked in a deep breath and Hammerson saw him sag. He sat forward. ‘What are you thinking, Chief?’

Logan shook his head and exhaled loudly. ‘It’s my fault — I kicked ’em out, told ’em they needed more proof for their theories. I bet they’ve headed on up to the high slopes to get that proof.’ He stood. ‘We need to get up there too, with some firepower, and head off Kearns and his team.’ He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘Problem is, they’ll have half a day on us — and there’s no phone reception up there. Best I can do is try to catch up with ’em before they get into too much trouble.’

Hammerson tapped his chin with a gnarled fist. He suddenly knew where Alex Hunter was going. If Kathleen Hunter had been attacked, perhaps taken, by whatever was up on that mountain, then Hunter would find her, or what was left of her. And then he’d take his revenge. If it was up on those slopes, then Hunter would be heading that way too. Hammerson smiled ruefully; send a beast to kill a beast, he thought.

‘We’ll come with you,’ he told the police chief.

Logan shook his head. ‘Not in that gear — you’ll freeze. Look, Agent Hammerson, with all due respect, this isn’t gonna be like tracking down some psycho on a New York street, or an accountant who’s swindled his bank out of a million bucks. The Dome will be freezing and pretty inhospitable, even at this time of year.’

Hammerson laughed softly. ‘I think you’ll find we’ll manage, Chief. In fact, I insist.’

Markenson eyeballed Franks and made a sceptical noise in the back of his throat.

Logan glanced from Hammerson’s rugged face to the brawny and fearsome-looking Casey Franks. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but at least allow us to supply you with some cold-weather gear.’

Hammerson shook his head. ‘We’ve got kit. Like I said, don’t worry about us, we’ll be ready.’

Logan nodded. ‘We should get moving. Gonna take us a while to catch up to them, if we can at all. I just hope we’re not too late.’

Hammerson got to his feet. ‘Would a chopper help?’