Alien Hunter: Underworld (25 page)

“Bring your driver.”

“My driver? What the hell are you talking about?”

“General, you've got two things to do right now: The first is to come in here with me and find us both uniforms. The second is to put on our clothes and fly to Langley AFB.”

“Langley! What the hell for?”

“Because you're receiving an order from somebody who is empowered to do that.”

“
You?
You're a—I don't know what you are. I need some identification.”

“No, you don't.” He glanced toward the driver. “You. Find us uniforms. Do it now.”

“You can't impersonate air force officers!”

“General, you have no idea what credentials we carry. But you listen to me now, and you listen good, because if I have to say this again, it's going to be to a soldier with no stars on his collar. Do you understand this?”

“This is extremely irregular.”

“What you are dealing with right now, sir, is the single most urgent national security matter that you have ever encountered in your career, or will ever encounter. Do you understand this?”

“I have no idea who you are or what you're supposed to be doing.”

Again, he said to Mac, “Phone.” Then, to the general, “If I have to make this call, your career is over.”

They went eye to eye. The general was pure determination. Then they really connected, and Flynn watched a familiar surprised confusion come into his face. An instant passed, and he took a step back and cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said. He cleared his throat again.

The driver reappeared, and he and the three of them changed in an office. The general was pretty well swallowed in Mac's clothes, but the driver, who was a tall kid, did all right with Flynn's sweat suit.

“Have a pleasant flight, gentlemen.”

“Thank you,” the driver said. The general glared at him.

After they went out onto the apron, Flynn told Mac that they were taking the general's car. “We're going to Hobby.”

Mac didn't ask any questions, which was good. He was becoming more efficient at this.

The general's Buick stood where it had been left in front of the building. It was unlocked, but they had no keys to start it.

Mac used to be better at wiring cars than he was. “How long for you to wire it?” he asked.

“They're more complicated than they used to be, and it's not something I do a lot of anymore.”

“You did good with my dad's Mercedes. Why don't you give it a shot?”

“You're smarter, you do it.”

“Don't undersell yourself, you'll be faster.”

Mac went under the dash and had the engine turning over in four minutes. To anybody watching from above, they would have appeared to linger in the parked car a little longer than normal, but hopefully not long enough to arouse suspicion.

On the way to the airport, Mac asked, “May I know what we're doing?”

“Changing the world.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

AS THEY
drove off the base, Mac was unusually quiet.

“You trying to come up with a question that makes sense?”

“I guess I am. What I'm thinking is you might've gotten those two guys killed just now.”

“I agree.”

“You sent them in harm's way without so much as a prayer book.”

“I'm not sending them into any more danger than I'm going to take on myself. Less, probably.”

They drove on for a while. It was six fifteen, and Houston's notorious traffic was just that—notorious.

“How much have you lost on this so far, Mac? What with your house and all?”

“Four million.”

“So, maybe a million.”

“No, it really is four. The paintings were originals.”

“They're forgeries.”

“That is not true.”

“Manet was right-handed. Your forger painted with his left. Who were you planning to sell them to, billionaire morons? I didn't know there were any.”

“Gifts for
drogos.
”

“So, a grand for the paintings. Tell you what I'll do. I know how hard you have to work for your money.”

“Which you do not.”

“I do not. So I'll rebuild your place for you. As long as you don't cheat me, I'll pay the bills.”

“My accountant—”

“He outta jail?”

“Four more months.”

“Any contractors on the outside, but not on the lam?”

“I'll need to check.”

“We'll use my accountant. My contractors.”

“I get that.”

Flynn watched the passing cars and kept his eye on the low, thick clouds, looking into their faint glow for any sign of a shadow. Mac sat with his knee up against the dashboard. His long face was usually ready to crinkle into an affable smile, but that easiness was gone now. He, too, stared into the empty night.

“I miss my dogs.”

“Those weren't dogs.”

“Yeah, I guess not. Alien animals.”

“Those were people who'd been genetically mixed with dogs.”

“Oh. That must be why I liked them so much. I like people.”

“Then you like Snow Mountain, too.”

“Only see him once in a while. He liked Mozart. He liked the Stones. I used to hire bands and quartets from over at Sul Ross University to come play for him.”

“What did they think of him?”

“The kids? Nothing. They never saw him. But he was there.”

“Who did they see?”

“I'm more of a narcocorrido type of guy, so, nobody, basically.”

He tried to imagine the scene, a string quartet or a rock band set up in Mac's house pasture, playing to the night, with a tiger way back in the dark somewhere, listening blissfully.

“I guess they thought they were playing for a rich, cantankerous eccentric, then?”

“I guess they did. I never really thought about it. There's a lot of eccentricity out in our neck of the woods, as you know.”

“All too well.”

“I think it's the Marfa Lights. They make us crazy.” He paused for a moment. “I want to go home, Flynn. I'm not cut out for this.”

“I wish it was safe for you, buddy. I wish to God it was. You stick close for a little while longer, I'll make it safe. I promise you that.”

“When I went back there and saw my house burning up, I really, seriously thought about killin' your sorry ass, Flynn. But I love you, goddamnit. You're a good friend and always have been. So here's what I think: Let's kill ourselves a damn alien and do it soon.”

“I have a plan.”

“You always do. Only remember that only some of 'em work. Just never forget the freight train.”

When they were kids, Flynn had devised a plan to slow down a freight so they could hop it more easily. The result of their attempt had been a fifty-three-car derailment.

“I believe Eddie set that one up.”

“Your idea, Flynn. Your idea.”

Flynn had been way overconfident, thinking the engineer would notice the switch signal and stop. He didn't notice a thing, and rolled the whole consist out onto the siding at forty miles an hour. Nobody was hurt, fortunately, but seven thousand chickens had escaped into the night.

That was then, in the delicious, lingering summer that had been their boyhood. This was now, and this was a time of storms.

They parked and walked silently to the terminal. As they exited the parking structure and were briefly exposed to the sky, Flynn felt a tremendous sense of vulnerability. If only he could know for certain how capable of following him and reinserting themselves the implants were. He knew now that nobody had been there to insert them in the first place, which was why he had no memory of it. They'd been released at some point, probably when he was at the Miller place, and entered on their own. He recalled feeling a sudden, sharp headache there, just as he was leaving for Wright-Pat. It had passed quickly and he'd thought no more of it.

He remembered the old Hobby terminal from his childhood, flying in here with his dad to watch him do his business with the big oil companies downtown, which chiefly consisted of making sure they were reporting his royalties accurately. It was still a battle, but Flynn had others to fight it now.

“We need to find a pay phone, because Diana's going to have to get us on the plane from her side of the line.”

“I've got plenty of cash.”

“We're both packing heavy heat and have no luggage, and I have no ID. And what happens when you show your license?”

“Depends on which one.”

“You have more than one on you right now?”

“I've got seven on me right now.”

“Give me one, and we can buy the tickets.”

The ticket counter was empty. “Two for Dayton,” Flynn said.

“Credit card and ID, please,” the agent replied, standing up from her stool and going to her terminal.

“Cash,” Flynn said. He handed over the two IDs.

She looked at them, blinked, and looked up. “I could give you military. You got air force IDs?”

Mac pointed a thumb at Flynn. “We don't have those with us, because this gentleman here is a professional fool.”

She smiled, then looked again at the driver's licenses. “Are you two twins?”

“Yes,” Flynn said.

“And in the air force together. I think that's cool.” Her smile widened. “I'll write you up military—that way you won't have to bicker. I know how twins like to bicker.”

A few minutes later, they had their tickets on the last flight out, a 9:20 through Atlanta.

“I don't look a thing like you, Flynn.”

“They see a lot of people. This time of day, they're looking right through you.”

“You're one of the most hideous men I've ever seen. I'm very insulted.”

“Mac, you know what you look like? You look like a wizened, shifty-eyed cowboy who got shrunk by too much exposure to the sun.”

“You realize how much of your height is in that neck? My dogs mighta been part human, but I wouldn't be surprised if the aliens didn't start you out right in your mother's womb, and make you part turkey.”

“You need to quit using that shoe polish or whatever it is you're putting on your hair. Spring for a dye job.”

“If I get my hair dyed down in Marfa, everybody in West Texas is gonna know.”

“You look like somebody pushed you up a chimney.”

“Women happen to go for my hair.”

“Women only go for you because they find your criminal ways exciting.”

“Yeah, they do get off on murder stories.”

“Don't tell me that. Then I'll have to tell Eddie, and he's gotta question every damn one of 'em.”

“Okay, so I didn't tell you.”

“Let's find us that phone.”

“Use my cell.”

“Give it to me.” He removed the SIM card and handed it back. “I'll keep the card for now.”

Mac said nothing. He understood perfectly well what Flynn was doing, covering their tracks. This was also part of the way he conducted his life, whichever side of the law he happened to be on at any given time.

“We oughta get us some throwaway cells.”

“You will find that they don't sell them in airports.” He located a pay phone and dialed Diana's home number directly. He did not go through the secure network.

It rang once, then twice, then a third time.

He hung up.

“She's not there?”

“Three rings. Our prearranged emergency signal. She hears that on her landline, she knows there's big trouble.”

“I thought we were out of trouble.”

“We're not out of trouble.” He dialed again. This time, she answered midway through ring one. He listened as she accepted the charges on the call.

“What do you need?”

“Back door through Hobby, then I need to see General Sam Dickerson at Wright-Pat. We'll be landing in Dayton at three this morning. I want to see him at seven. Still no ID and no money.”

“Can I get some kind of an update, Flynn?”

“We're alive.”

“I'm glad you are, because I thought Morris had you.”

“I thought he had you.”

“Why?”

“The way I learned that you'd returned to Washington was from him.”

“How could he know my movements?”

“He figured it out. Not too hard, though. Where else would you be going except to your safest place?”

“I need to be sure we're secure here.”

“You got that right. Is Geri still with you? Because I have a question for her.”

“She's always with me. In my office right now. I'm sitting in my suite, wishing I were alone.” He could hear the crackle of tension in Diana's voice.

“Trouble?”

“She doesn't sleep, ever. She just sits there, watching me. She doesn't read, watch television. Hardly eats. Just stares.”

“She's scared.”

“I think she's absolutely furious about what happened out there. She considers us dangerously incompetent, and she wants in the worst way to go home.”

“Put her on.”

A moment later, he heard Geri's voice. “Yes, Mr. Carroll?”

“You know what a tracking implant is?”

“Yes.”

“Two of them were removed from my head today. They seemed to have some sort of an ability to move on their own.”

“They do. Once they're synched to an individual's genetic identity, they can be released and they'll find their target on their own.”

“How much range do they have?”

“Range? You mean, how far can they broadcast a signal?”

“No, how far away do they have to be before they can no longer find their intended host?”

“Far. Ten, twenty thousand miles.”

“All right. How can they be destroyed?”

“Heat above two thousand degrees.”

“How about blowing them up or smashing them?”