Nemesis (FBI Thriller 19)

The trail ended in a small clearing no more than ten by ten, the trees forming a nearly perfect circle. Savich froze. He knew this place—Dalco’s dreamscape. All it was missing were scattered piles of snow and frigid air. There was even a faint smell of smoke. A nearby smoke stack? Savich saw a small stump in the clearing, on top of it Brakey’s ankle bracelet.

Savich grabbed Griffin’s arm. “It’s a trap—get down!”

Both men hit the ground and rolled into the trees as half a dozen fast shots rang out. Dirt kicked up around them, and a bullet mangled the bark of a pine tree beside Savich’s head. They returned fire blindly. Griffin knew if Savich hadn’t seen the bracelet, they’d both be dead.

The shooting stopped.

“So far only one shooter,” Griffin whispered. “A semiautomatic pistol. He’s changing magazines. I put him at eleven o’clock.”

“We’ll flank him. I’ll take the left about twenty feet out, then turn. One of us should be behind him.”

They separated, moving as silently as they could, bent over from the waist, using the thick trees for cover. They heard another seven rounds fired in a burst, but behind them now, toward where they’d been crouched. The shooter was as blind as they were.

Did the shooter have a third magazine? Savich hoped it was Dalco himself, but he didn’t think so. It wasn’t his style to dirty his own hands. He hoped it wasn’t Brakey.

Savich and Griffin waited and listened. There was an eerie silence now, no animals or birds were moving; even the patter of the raindrops on the pine needles had stopped, as if time itself was holding its breath.

The man couldn’t be more than ten feet ahead of them, unless he’d been moving, too, trying to circle them. They saw only each other, no trace of movement in the trees. Savich wiped the rain from his face, whispered low, “Fan out wide.”

Griffin heard movement from up above, from in the trees. He shoved Savich away from him as hard as he could. “Savich, he’s above us!”

Shots rained down again, kicking up dirt and wet needles around them. They dove for cover, spraying suppressive fire into the tree above them even though they didn’t see anyone.

Savich raised his head and shouted, “Up in the tree, you’ve used three magazines. You’re nearly out of bullets, if you have any left at all. Climb down out of that tree and we won’t hurt you. Do it now.”

They walked back toward the tree, their guns fanning the branches. They saw no one until they heard a crackling sound overhead, branches rustling and breaking. A man crashed through the branches to land on Savich, taking him down hard. His Glock went flying. Savich twisted, looked up into a young face whose mouth was open, teeth bared, his eyes hard and nearly black with ungoverned rage in the rain-blurred light. Savich struck him in the throat with his fist, sent him careening backward. A teenager, he thought, wearing a ball cap, the bill pulled low over his forehead to protect him from the rain. He landed hard on his back, clutched his throat and wheezed for breath. Savich saw the pistol the young man had dropped at his feet. It was a Kel-Tec PF-9, seven rounds, not all that common. Where had a teenager gotten hold of it?

Savich thought the kid was down, but he jumped at Savich, a knife raised in his hand. He was slashing down with it viciously when Griffin shot him.

Griffin leaned over him. “Don’t do anything but breathe.” He said blankly to Savich, “He’s only a kid.”

Savich looked down at the boy, who was staring hard back at him. He didn’t look like a would-be assassin, but he still had the look of blind hate on him, even with a bullet in him. Savich slammed his hand down on the wound on the boy’s shoulder. He struggled and heaved. “That’s enough! Stop it or you’ll bleed to death. Now, who are you? Why did you try to kill us?”

The young man looked up at him, now he looked as if he was confused, his brow furrowed—in pain? In question? He opened his mouth, groaned and closed his eyes as his head fell back.

Griffin was on his cell—thankfully, there were bars—and called 911. When he hung up, he leaned down and looked into the slack young face. “How bad is it?”

Savich pressed bloody fingers against the pulse in the boy’s throat. “Bad enough. Go through his pockets. If he doesn’t live in Plackett and know Brakey and Walter, I’ll give up my season tickets to the Redskins. Thanks, Griffin, for saving my hide.”

Griffin pulled a wallet out of the young man’s jeans pocket. “His name is Charles Marker, and yes, he lives in Plackett. He looks younger, but in fact he’s twenty-four years old, same age as Brakey. The ambulance should be here in ten minutes; we’re a long way out.”