Alien Hunter: Underworld (20 page)

Instinct told him to get out of the room, but close combat skills said to get a wall behind him, which he did, pressing up against the one beside the desk.

Harmon lay slumped against the opposite wall. His chest revealed slow breaths. Alive, unconscious. The two officers were also alive. Ford was groaning, his body under a fallen chair. There was bone visible in the middle of his right shin. The security cop was flat on his face in the hall. Nobody else was visible.

Flynn went to the cop and turned him over. He felt a moment of disappointment that it wasn't Morris. The guy was breathing, but struggling with a serious chest wound. Flynn did what he could to close the sucking hole with the man's shirt, then went through his pockets, looking for a phone.

He called 911 and said, “Been a shooting.” He described the location carefully, and twice, to a perplexed state police dispatcher. “There's two guys, broken back, broken hip, possible broken neck. One with a sucker in the chest, forty-five slug all the way through. Fourth one's banged up, he'll walk it off.”

“Sir, are you safe at this time?”

“I'm good.” He closed the phone and slid it back into the guy's pocket. Then he returned to the office. Gently, he removed the syringe from Harmon's eye. No doubt the eye was gone, but maybe not. Depended on what was in the syringe. Whatever it was, it had completely knocked Harmon out.

He went quickly through the facility, but he did not expect to find Morris. They had both mishandled this thing. Flynn should never have let it go on as long as it had. Morris should never have tried to capture him. To get Flynn, it was going to take a different approach. Stealth and indirection would need to be part of it—and luck.

There was nothing here except a few empty rooms. Signs of rodent infestation, cheap steel desks, rusting. He opened a few drawers. All empty.

It had been ten minutes since his 911 call. Troopers would be coming fast, probably down from Interstate 10, maybe up from US 90. He didn't want to engage with them, so he went out to the front. He was careful, stepping out just a foot or so, then checking overhead for any sign of a shadow.

Cloud cover combined with the lack of ground light to make the sky as dark as the interior of a cave. In contrast, in the infrared, he would be like a searchlight.

Nothing to do but keep moving, so he got into the Jeep and went under the dash. It was going to be a little faster to hot-wire than the Lexus they'd brought him in. He pulled down the wiring harness and did the bypass. A small spark flashed as he touched together the leads that activated the starter. With the engine running, he got behind the wheel and moved out immediately.

He drove along the dirt road for a time, then turned off into the darkness, heading south. As he drove, he watched the horizon for the glow from the lights of the approaching police. Meeting them would slow him down, which he did not need, especially because he was far from sure that he had escaped. He may have been let go so that he could be pulled back. It was an infamous technique that had been used for centuries to break the will of prisoners. The Inquisition had used it. So had the Nazis and the Soviets, and Pol Pot.

He turned off road and headed due south. He was still looking for a distant glow, but not of the approaching troopers. What he needed most right now was to disappear into a crowd, and in this part of Texas at this hour, that meant the Blue Bonnet Palace.

He was driving across an ungrazed pasture, which caused the Jeep to bounce against one big tuft after another. It hurt like hell, but he continued moving as fast as possible. In the distance, he saw the flickering of light bars, six sets. No doubt the first responders had called for backup.

Soon, he could not only see the the palace's lighted parking lot and its famous blue neon sign, but also make out the light poles and the details of the signage. So he was about a quarter of a mile out.

He took the truck over to the road and drove into the parking lot, getting as close to the doors as he could. From there, he hurried into the structure.

The Blue Bonnet Palace was an entertainment complex consisting of a dance floor, a bar, a barbecue restaurant, and an indoor rodeo arena capable of seating about two hundred people. Flynn no longer had any idea even what day of the week it was. He was hurt, he hadn't had more than a snatched hour or two of sleep since first getting off the plane in Mountainville a week ago, and now he'd taken a hard blow to the head, and you didn't shake that off so fast in life as you did in the movies.

The place was jumping, with city folks from all the communities in the area mixing with cowboys and ranch hands from local spreads. There was a square dance being called for about fifty dancers, and their happiness, the confident swagger of the men, the beauty of the girls, all but broke Flynn's heart. He had danced here many, many times—with Abby, with many other girls—had known that same happiness here, in his innocent days. He could yet hear the echo of their laughter, as he and Eddie and Mac swung Abby across that dance floor, on those long-ago nights.

“Hey, there, fella—you sure you're okay?”

It was a smiling security guard. It was one of the old guys, Cord Burleson. He'd been working here from forever.

“Cord, it's me, Flynn Carroll.”

Cord's eyes narrowed. He stared hard. “Holy shit, Flynn, you look a hell of a sight. You livin' in the wind?”

“No, man, I got roughed up.”

“'Cause you look like you've been homeless for a good long while. I thought you were rich.”

“Could you do me a favor and get Mac Terrell on the horn? I need to talk to that man.”

“Mac?” The smile became tight. “He doesn't come up this way a whole lot.”

“Well, I've got his number in my head, but I've lost my phone.”

“Yeah, that and just about everything else. What the hell happened to your face?”

“A truck sat on it.”

Cord led Flynn across the dance floor and back to the office. The last time he'd been in here, it was to get chewed out for trying a false ID in the bar when he was seventeen years old. Nothing had changed, not even the picture of LBJ on the wall behind Sam Carter's desk.

“Sam okay?”

“Hell yes. It's gonna take more than God to get him off to heaven. Way he figures it, this crazy place is better, and he intends to stay.”

Sam had built the Blue Bonnet Palace back in the '70s. He'd been running it for at least forty years.

Flynn sat down heavily behind the desk and dialed Sam's ancient rotary phone.

“Sam Carter,” Mac said, “what in hell are you callin' me for in the middle of the night?”

“It's me.”

“Where are you, Flynn?”

“At the Blue Bonnet Palace.”

“What in shit for? I thought you went back to Washington. I was just considering goin' up there and killin' your ass for getting my house burned up.”

“Mac, can you come up here and get me? I've had some trouble.”

“Flynn, you know where I am? I'm in your house with our friend Eddie. We're sittin' at your kitchen table, drinking what we believe to be a very fine bottle of your granddaddy's wine.”

Incredibly, a break. Flynn hadn't had a whole lot of those. “Mac, put Eddie on.”

Eddie took the phone. “Hey, Flynn.”

“Eddie, I'm in serious trouble. I'm a prisoner. I need help.”

“Okay. First, are you in immediate danger of your life?”

“No way to evaluate that. I need you to send a squaddie for me.”

A pause. “Where are you?”

“Blue Bonnet Palace.”

A longer pause. “You're free? You can walk out of there?”

“I can walk out of here, but I'm not free. I've been captured, Ed. How much has Mac told you about what's happening?”

“Enough to make me think he was completely insane. But you're worrying me, I have to say. Is my guy gonna go in harm's way? Because if he is, I'm coming myself.”

“I think it's more dangerous if you come. You stay at the house. Don't even go home. Tell Mac to do the same.”

“Me? How am I involved?”

“Send the squaddie. Fast.”

“He's rolling in five.”

As Flynn hung up the phone, he smelled food. He turned around, and there was Eileen Peeler, who had been running the pit out here since she signed on out of high school.

“Hey, Elly—why, thank you.”

She put it down on the desk: a plate of brisket, sausage, beans, and a pile of steaming collard greens.

“Cord said you came in looking half dead. I'd say three-quarters. Not to mention starved. You've lost a few pounds, Flynn.”

“It's been busy. I haven't had a lot of time to eat.”

“All I can say is, I hope whoever was on the other side of the beating you took got some feedback.”

“Oh, yes.” Flynn took some of the brisket between his fingers and put it in his mouth. It was like going to heaven. “Sam's bringing in some serious beef.”

“Goin' pit, too. That helps.”

He looked at her, her full cheeks, the permanent joy in her eyes, and felt so very, very far away, as if he were watching her through the wrong end of a telescope.

“I believe Sam fired up that pit when he opened, didn't he?”

“Forty-four years now. You shut up and eat, honey. I don't know what you're up to, but you've just about used yourself up.”

She left him then, and he ate and waited for the squaddie, and waited for the end of night, and wondered if either would ever come.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IN THE
squad car, he had wanted to sleep, but the sense that death could come from above at any moment never left him now. Ever since Miller's murder, Morris had been playing Flynn. Watching him. Experimenting with his abilities by throwing various challenges at him. Learning him.

So the question now was whether or not Morris was still playing him, or about to reel him in. Had the ride to the “base” been expected to end in Flynn's capture? If so, then Morris would be throwing everything he had into this right now.

For his part, Flynn knew what he had to do next and where he had to go. He was focused on two places: Wright-Pat, where one intact disk was stored; and Deer Island, where he was fairly sure that the truth about Flynn Carroll was known.

The house blazed with light from every window. Flynn paused in the midst of the ghosts and memories that crowded his mind. This place was the center of his life, just as Mac's ranch had been the center of his.

He went in. “I need to arm up,” he said without preamble as Eddie opened the front door to him.

“Man, you look like you've been bull-riding out there. And ended up under the bull.”

“I'll comb my hair.” He glanced at Eddie. “There's some people I need to talk to.”

“The state boys are out there. You've got one guy who's headed for the ER up in Lubbock unless they give him to the USAF. He's in uniform, but he's not air force, apparently.”

“Hold him.”

“On what charges?”

“Title Eighteen terrorism. I'll get Washington to sign off on it.”

“And that'll happen?”

“Yep.”

“Because I'll be out on a limb. Far.”

“I know it.” He went down to the basement, struggling with the old house's steep stairway.

Eddie followed him. “You said you'd been captured, but you're here.” Mac was close behind.

“Think of it this way: I'm wearing an ankle bracelet you can't see.”

“That's the explanation for the leg?”

“I'm not sure. It's just—” He was done. He went down on the couch. “Lock us in.”

“Lock the house?” Mac asked.

“Lock every damn thing, and I need you guys to stay up. Stay armed. If that door opens, don't aim, don't do anything, just start pulling your triggers. Flood it with bullets.”

“I can't do that, it's against procedure.”

“How I am coming to hate that word, Eddie. Shout the warning if you want to, but fire at the same time. You hesitate even a half second, we are all done.” The room wavered. “Look in my armory, get me the Bull that's there, get yourselves the shotguns. There's an extreme likelihood that they're coming. They want me alive, so they aren't going to just blow the place all to hell.” He was too dizzy to keep sitting, and had to lie back on the couch. “Sorry.” He shot a hard glance at Mac. “God only knows what that antivenin of yours did to me.”

“I keep the best stuff, you should know that.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah, I'm sure you do.”

Eddie got a call, took it. “Okay,” he said, “I'm rolling.”

“We need you here, man.”

“That was the state police. They're working four dead bodies out on Seventeen. That's what they found, Flynn.”

“Shit!” Morris had gone back and killed them, despite the fact that they were his own people. “How?”

“Head shots. One had taken a bullet to the chest, then later the head shot that did him.”

“Probably gonna find out that the weapon used was my other Bull. Morris got hold of it, I'm afraid.”

“Who in hell is this Morris?” Eddie asked. “It's somebody I need to know about, that's for goddamn sure.”

“We don't know,” Mac said. “Who or what.”

“I've been tracking him for a year. He's—shit, Eddie, you're out of the loop on this thing.”

“He's another of these aliens? Alien crooks?”

“I pretty much told him everything I know,” Mac said.

“Okay, then you're sucked in, ole buddy. Down the road, you'll need to sign some paperwork.”

“Lotta folks are being killed, man. That should not be kept secret.”

“I don't make the rules, but I understand them.” Frustration choked his bitter words. “I have to say, if the public finds out how dangerous this is and how helpless we are, there will be hell to pay. You can't tell people that something can steal them in the night or kill them at will—or do worse than kill them—and there is nothing whatsoever we can do.”