Crooked River

59

When Coldmoon was about two hundred yards from the main building, the swamp gave way to a thin forest of sickly pines growing upon sand. The storm had finally broken for real. A heavy rain came down, accompanied by lightning, booming thunder, and gusts of wind that pressed the trees down and almost blew him off his feet. Coldmoon was glad of it. Even though he was soaked, the night was muggy and warm and he was grateful for the rain now washing away the mud from his skin and clothes. It also provided excellent cover — there was almost no chance that, in this chaos, he would be seen or heard.

He walked through the forest and soon came to a looming cinder-block wall, about fifteen feet high, with spikes along its top. It was too smooth and high to climb, and the trees on either side had been cleared back at least a hundred feet.

He’d have to go in through the gate. What a shame... for the guards.

He moved back into the forest and walked parallel to the wall until he could see the cluster of lights that must represent a gate.

How many were on guard?

Keeping away from the road, moving with greater caution now, he approached and paused in a thicket about fifty feet from the gate. He could see a single man — a soldier — inside a gatehouse, brightly lit. He raised his binocs. The man was thumbing through an issue of Maxim, looking bored. Could it be there was only one? That would be most convenient. Of course, there were also cameras mounted above the gate, four of them, providing full coverage. Someone would be monitoring those.

He circled closer, creeping on his belly, until he was within fifteen feet. The water was lashing the windows of the guardhouse, making it hard for the guard to see out even if he were looking, which he wasn’t. It really did look as if there was only one.

Coldmoon continued crawling until he was at the guardhouse itself. The door was shut, as was the sliding window. But was it locked?

Moving with infinite care, glad of the noise of the storm, he edged around to the door and reached up. The wind was shaking the flimsy metal shack.

There was really only one way to do this.

He stood up and peeked through the door window. The guard’s back was turned, hunched over the magazine as he flipped a page.

He picked up a stick and whacked it against the guardhouse window.

The guard jumped like he’d been shot, stood up, and peered out the window. He could, of course, see nothing. The guard sat down again. Coldmoon knew exactly what he was thinking — a branch, blown by the wind. Not even worth checking out.

Coldmoon smacked the window again, even harder.

The guard got up again, went to the window, peered out, and then, looking uncertain, stepped outside.

Instantly, Coldmoon grabbed the man by the hair and pulled his head back, while at the same time yanking him behind the guardhouse, where he couldn’t be seen from the camera array, and cutting his throat. He skipped back as the body tumbled to the ground, neck jetting blood.

So much for not killing anybody.

Coldmoon waited a minute for the body to bleed out. Then he quickly removed the guard’s coat and hat, put them on, went back in the guardhouse, and opened the magazine, slouching down in the chair, all for the benefit of the cameras. He’d taken care to stay out of camera view as much as possible, but if someone had seen him, he’d rather know now than later. He remained for a few minutes, flipping pages; then he laid down the magazine and sauntered out of the guardhouse, playing idly with his fly, as if on his way to take a piss.

He slipped through the gate and walked along the inside wall, pausing in a dark angle. He felt shaken by what he’d done... what he’d had to do. He’d killed before — once — but it hadn’t been in cold blood...

He stomped hard on those feelings. Not now. Not until his partner was out.

He couldn’t be sure the cameras hadn’t picked him up, but in the driving rain the view would have been poor. In any case, nobody had come running, no alarms had gone off, and no lights had started flashing. After getting his heart rate under control, he crept farther along the inside wall, moving into an area that was darker still. The tower spotlights roamed about, but their movement was desultory and repetitive. Nobody expected an intruder to show up on a night like this. He pulled out his binocs to reconnoiter.

The main facility lay across a cracked and weed-infested apron of concrete, a solid two-story factory-like building with rows of small windows punched into a cinder-block façade. The windows looked new and there were other signs of renovations, especially evident in a freshly painted three-story building to one side. Past the gate, the road went straight on into the building, beneath a tall archway, also with a gate, into what looked like an interior courtyard. On either side of the courtyard, parking areas were visible.

Crouching, Coldmoon waited for the klieg lights to circle around on their route — and then he sprinted for the archway leading into the building.