Battle Cry Page 12

  Much like the old doctor a couple nights before, there is no joy in what Sven is about to do. No imminent happiness spurring him forward, contemplating the life that is about to come to an end.

  For him, the pleasure has already passed. It was in going to that house the night before and determining a way to find them. Sitting and waiting for the Wolves, assailants he knew had him outnumbered.

  From this point forward, this is nothing more than the completion of a task. Proof that the money and faith given to him were both sound investments.

  Not once does Sven’s pace slow as he works his way forward. His breathing stays even as he bounds ahead, his focus aimed at the ground until the faintest of lights in the distance manages to pierce the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Dammit!” Byrdie snaps. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

  Each word is punctuated by his palm mashing against the top of the steering wheel. Folded up in the front seat of the car, he sits with his chest just inches away from the horn. Eyes pinched down to nothing more than slits, he stares out.

  Even with the windshield wipers going as fast as possible, there is little for him to see. Barely is the rain wiped away before being replaced by the next sheet of water falling from the sky.

  The interior of the vehicle is nothing short of steamy. A combination of the water clinging to Byrdie’s skin and the frustration he feels, sweat lines his brow. It mixes with the precipitation atop his head and drips down over the shaved scalp on either side.

  The decision to be here now is not what Byrdie wanted. Nor is it the choice he would have made if he was in charge.

  For more than a week now, the target has been Kyle Clady. He was the one that killed Linc. The one that wrestled with Byrdie and got the Ogo women away. That destroyed Joker and Rocket, then called Ringer to mock the Wolves and everything they stood for.

  He is the one they want. Not the women. They were nothing more than ancillary, an original payday that later became a way to get to Clady.

  That is all.

  That’s not what Snapper wanted, though. Reasoning that they knew where Clady was, that he and the others would soon be riding out for him, he told Byrdie to stay on the girls. To follow them and see where they went. Who they were with.

  Maybe give them an inside route on whoever the other man that attacked Ringer and the others was the night before.

  Seated behind the wheel of the battered sedan, Byrdie can feel his anger rising. Like every single other thing that has happened in the last week, this too has gone completely sideways on him.

  When he last saw the mysterious blonde man the night before, he was sprawled out on the floor. Gunshot wound to his stomach. What looked like another one to the temple, blood coating his face and neck.

  Knowing he was short on time, that he needed to get away, Byrdie had assumed that the man was dead. Instead of finishing him off when he had the chance, he’d opted to merely riffle through his pockets.

  A move that he knows to be foolish. Had he taken the time to check for a pulse or just fire a couple of extra bullets, he wouldn’t be here now. He wouldn’t have had to go streaking out into the parking lot and jumping into the sedan.

  Wouldn’t currently be flying down a deserted road.

  He’d be back at the Valley View. Where he should be. Where the others will soon arrive and could see him. With that, they would realize what he had done. The role he’d played. The loyalty he’d always displayed for the vest.

  And that, clearly, he was the man to take over and lead them moving forward.

  “Damn truck is the size of a house. It didn’t just disappear.”

  Wheel clenched tight, Byrdie keeps his body pitched forward. The speedometer climbs to forty-five, even as rooster tails rise behind him, the backend fishtailing slightly.

  “Come on,” he mutters, his head swinging to either side, “where the hell are you?”

  Light slaps.

  One after another they landed against my cheeks, pulling me up out of the sensory deprivation chamber I seemed to have been floating in.

  No sounds of any kind. No smells in the air or tastes on my tongue. Not even a single thing to focus on. Nothing but inky black in all directions, my body seemingly weightless, floating along.

  “Kyle, dammit, come on.”

  The words pierced through the veil. The simple sentence punctuated the slaps against my cheeks, helping to lift me to the surface.

  “Wake up, man. Come on.”

  A surface that came rushing up at me hard and fast, a spike of agony igniting in my right shoulder.

  Popping my eyes open wide, I drew in a sharp breath of air. With the expansion of my lungs, the pain in my shoulder grew more intense. My body curled in on itself, a natural defense mechanism to the harsh intrusion in my upper quadrant.

  “What the shit?” I managed to grumble, feeling myself list to the side. Reaching across my body, I clasped my right arm in my left hand.

  “Thank God,” Jeff Swinger said, falling back onto his haunches beside me. Landing hard, he sat bent forward at the waist. Elbows resting on his thighs, his hands hung down between his knees.

  Blood stained his fingers. A smear cleaved across his cheek, faintly visible in the early morning light.

  Opening my mouth to again ask what happened, I pulled up short. Took in my friend sitting before me. The rock face bulging from the forest floor beside us. The dense forest pressing up close nearby.

  Keeping my right arm clamped tight to my body, I rolled onto my left hip. Generated enough momentum to rock myself upright into a misshapen version of Swinger’s pose beside me.

  One item at a time, I ran a quick inventory. Tried to determine if my shoulder was the only thing hurting, or if it was simply the angriest, blocking other signals from getting through.

  Starting with my feet, I wiggled each of my toes. Worked my way to my knees and hips. Both hands. Left arm. Neck.

  Attempted to blink away the film of haze that had settled across my eyes.

  “What happened?” I muttered.

  Swinger glanced over my way. His jaw locked in a clench, it appeared he was about to explode, unleashing a torrent of obscenities and acrimony into the morning air.

  “Damn pilot,” he whispered. “Or the wind. Or this whole godforsaken country. That’s what happened.”

  Releasing my grip on my right arm, I ran my opposite hand up and unsnapped the chinstrap on my helmet. Sliding it off, I dropped it onto the ground between my knees. Running my gaze over it, I took in the deep gouges running along the back.

  Recalling the terror of my own landing however long before, I nodded in agreement. Flicking my gaze over to him, I again saw the blood marring his exterior.

  “You hurt?”

  “Little banged up from the landing, but I’ll live.” Without glancing over, he lifted his palms. “This isn’t mine.”

  “Shit,” I hissed.

  This time, he didn’t bother glancing over. Merely nodded, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point in the distance.

  “Spahn. Got tangled in some trees.”

  Reflexively, my eyes clamped down tight into a wince, another stab of pain running through what felt like my entire upper body.

  The move would be a classic rookie mistake. Someone that hadn’t been through near as many jumps as us would be more prone to forget his training, falling back on basic human instinct.

  Faced with the option of granite or pine boughs, most anybody would pick the latter.

  “Alcove?” I asked.

  “Unknown,” Swinger replied. “Was working my way south when I found you.”

  Nodding once, I returned my gaze to the helmet. Saw the trio of scratches running more than a couple of inches each, the middle of them cutting clear to bare metal.

  No doubt the reason gray smoke had settled on the edges of my vision, refusing to yield.

  “You good?” Swinger asked.

  In addition to a concussion, my right shoulder w
as separated. Having gone through it on the opposite side already, there was no mistaking the pain currently hurtling through the area.

  Or how miserable the coming months of rehabbing it would be.

  “I’ll live,” I said, echoing his words from earlier.

  “Good,” he replied, glancing my way. “For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to call Mira and tell her you weren’t coming back.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There is no warning of their arrival. No knock. Not even the sound of footsteps. Certainly, no chance for me to beat them there, pulling the door open before they get here like last time.

  The door bursts open, flung wide by Marsh in the lead. Tinley trails just a step behind, both of them throwing water everywhere as they stomp inside.

  Clearly, whatever they just found out on that call was what they were waiting for.

  Standing along the edge of my bed, I stare back at them both. Phone in hand, I look up as if their sudden arrival is completely expected. I give no visible recoil, no gasp at their appearance before me.

  Even as I’m already typing out a message to Swinger, telling him shit is about to go down.

  “Where were you last night?” Marsh opens. Walking right to the edge of the bed, he pulls up just short of charging on around after me.

  Gone is the even-keeled guy I met with a few times at the precinct. Same for the one that first arrived, just managing to keep his bubbling tension tamped down. In their place is someone that looks to be feeling every bit as much emotion as I have been this last week, appearing on the brink of exploding.

  If only the bastard had used that kind of energy looking anywhere but at me.

  “I told you, I had dinner with friends-”

  “Yeah, we heard that the first time,” Tinley snaps, cutting me off. “What friends? Where did you go?”

  My gaze shifts between them as I finish the last of the short message. Hitting send, I drop the phone on the bed and turn to face them square.

  I have no clue where this is all going, but it is obvious they think they have something.

  Leaving me with just one option.

  “In-n-Out,” I answer. “Picked it up and brought it here.”

  “With friends?” Marsh snaps. “Five minutes ago, you said you haven’t been entertaining much, and now you picked food up and brought people back here?”

  My gaze moves to him. I open my mouth to respond, intent to allow things to continue on their current path, before pulling up.

  There are a ton of things I’ve done in the last week they could get me for. That much, I know for certain. Just as I know that not a damn one of them occurred last night.

  “Yes,” I fire back. “Now again I ask, what the hell is this all about?”

  Another crack of lightning flashes outside. Momentarily illuminating the room, the low rumble of thunder flows in behind it.

  The rain increases, smacking against the roof overhead.

  “Who were you with?” Tinley asks, once again bypassing my question. “Who were these mystical people you claim to have been dining with here in Shangri La last night?”

  The anger in me continues to build. I can take the good-cop bad-cop charade. I can accept them being here poking around, trying to shake something loose.

  I will not abide them calling me a liar and continuing to ignore my most basic questions.

  “Valerie and Fran Ogo!” I yell. Shooting my glare from Tinley to Marsh, I add, “And I wasn’t entertaining, because they’re staying here too. Right next door, if you want to ask them, cause they’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

  Outside, the storm continues to pound away, the sound becoming ever louder just beyond the windows. Already growing annoyed with it, feeling like it is just one more aspect of a terrible night, I make no attempt to hide the anger I’m feeling. The frustration that started with the senseless killing of my wife and was just beginning to make sense before these two decided to show up.

  “Now, I’ll ask this once more, is somebody going to tell me what this is about?” I continue. “Otherwise, either arrest me or get the hell out of my room. I’ve had enough of your bumbling for one week.”

  In the wake of my outburst, both men stand in what appears to be stunned silence. The thunder outside moans again, one unending wail that sounds like the storm is sitting directly above us.

  Both with mouths sagging just slightly, they glance to each other.

  “Did he just...” Tinley mutters.

  “Yup,” Marsh whispers, nodding slightly. Shifting back my way, he reaches toward his hip, hand trailing beneath the tail of his coat.

  An instant later, it reappears, a pair of cuffs in hand.

  “Kyle Clady, you are under-”

  The rest of his sentence never makes it out.

  Or rather, if it does, I never hear it, the words drowned out by what I had mistakenly thought was thunder.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The engines rev in unison. At least a half dozen of them, if not more. Big pieces of American muscle with the throttle running wide open.

  Together, the sound bellows out, heard plainly even through the storm. The kind of cacophony that doesn’t come from merely riding, but from wanting to announce a presence.

  “Wolves!” I call out, having to yell to be heard.

  How these bastards knew to be here, I don’t have a clue. My best guess would be that they somehow got onto Marsh and followed him here.

  Not that it matters a damn bit right now.

  The sound of my voice doesn’t die away so much as is completely absorbed, overwhelmed by the sound of engines revving. The instant it is gone, the headlamps of the motorcycles light up in unison, two handfuls of spotlights aimed directly at the front of my room.

  The thin curtains covering the windows are no match for the concentrated beams. They turn the place into a veritable fishbowl, the three of us standing in plain sight.

  For the first time all evening, I don’t care in the slightest about Marsh or his partner. Why they’re here doesn’t concern me. Nor does their investigation or their questions or any damn thing else going on with them.

  Instinct takes over. Ingrained behavior honed through years spent in the shit. Years before that training and preparing for it.

  “Down!” I yell, dropping myself to the floor.

  The reasons why the Wolves would be pissed at me are numerous, and that’s before factoring in whatever Marsh and Tinley have been dancing around since they got here. Already, they’ve shot my wife and burned down my house.

  There is no chance they are here now for an extended parlay.

  Rising to my hands and feet, I spider walk forward to the front corner of the bed. A few feet away, Marsh has dropped to a knee. His gun is out before him, both hands clutching it, the tip just inches from the threadbare carpet of the floor.

  Tinley squats low beside him, hands splayed to either side, giving him balance.

  Both men are openly sweating. Eyes wide, they glance between me and each other.

  In the air, the damn motorcycle engines continue to wail, somehow growing even louder.

  “What the hell?!” Marsh yells, turning his focus my way.

  Poised with my chest just centimeters above the floor, I scream, “Why you looking at me? I didn’t invite them!”

  Tinley’s shoulders shift as he turns my way as well. “You don’t think this has to do with the six men you killed last night?!”

  With just one simple question, things snap into place. The reason for the detectives being here. The way the Wolves found the Valley View.

  Their intention in coming now.

  All of it smashes into me with vivid clarity, my mouth and eyes both opening wide. I had no idea a half dozen Wolves died last night, but it explains a hell of a lot.

  Both as to why they’re here now, and what they intend to do.

  “What?! I didn’t kill anybody!”

  “You sure about that?” Tinley fires back.<
br />
  “They sure as hell think you did!” Marsh yells an instant later.

  My voice rises in my throat, about to scream out a retort, when the gnashing of the motorcycles dies away. It is as if a conductor was standing before them and suddenly drew his wand from left to right in a quick slash. All cease in unison, there and gone in an instant.

  In their wake, the only sound is the rain. A faint din, it is almost gentle as it beats against the roof, a steady patter just faintly audible.

  Tucked away on the floor, the three of us wait in silence. Our glances alternate between one another and the front windows.

  Sweat covers my forehead. It stings my eyes. The salty brine touches my lips. Awakening feelings, thoughts, reactions, my focus shifts. It moves from the detectives before me to the gun safe stowed under the bed by my feet.

  The Mark 23 I have tucked inside. Chambered for a .45 CAP round, two full magazines wait inside as well.

  An offensive weapon in the truest sense, the small arm of choice for SEALs.

  And something that every inclination tells me is about to be most vital to any of us staying alive.

  Body still poised just off the floor, I ease back a few inches.

  Flexing my knees and elbows, I creep away from the front door, putting space between myself and the detectives.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “What the hell do we do?” Tinley asks. Like a man wearing headphones, he doesn’t realize his voice is so loud, the recent blaring of the engines distorting all sounds.

  Body crouched at the foot of the bed, Detective Malcolm Marsh raises his chin to look out through the windows lining the front of the room. His gaze traces across each of them, though he sees nothing, the bright lights obstructing any sort of view.

  His heart pounds in his chest. The remainder of the rainwater on his head now mixes with sweat, streaking down his bare pate.