Alien Hunter: Underworld (21 page)

“Aren't you in a police unit that works on this?”

Flynn thought about just how to answer that. He considered the office full of earnest kids; Diana in her suite worrying about political correctness; “Geri,” who could be anything. He considered it for a while, but said nothing.

Eddie's phone beeped. He looked at a message. “Gotta roll,” he said.

“No, wait. Just wait, Eddie.”

“Flynn, I—”

“Wait! You wait and you listen.”

“Okay! Take it easy.”

“I need you both to understand something. I need you to understand that I am that police unit. I'm the one guy who can put up some sort of a fight, and they know it, and they are hell-bent to capture me. Right now. Tonight. Soon as they can.”

“What about CIA assassins, Delta Force, Blackwater, Navy SEALs?”

“It's been carnage. So far, I'm the only man who's been capable of surviving in the field against these creatures.”

Eddie gave him a searching look. “Which is because of your speed?”

Flynn nodded.

“Then I don't get it.” He gestured toward Mac. “When we used to quick-draw, Mac was faster. Half the time, I beat you.”

“I've changed.”

“How? You don't get faster as you get older.” Eddie's phone buzzed again. “Yeah!” He listened. “Okay, I'll be there.”

“Let me guess,” Flynn said. “The FBI just showed up.”

“Yes, sir, and they're kicking ass.”

Diana had sent them, of course. “Just hear me out. I think what I am is a kind of breakthrough. Something was done to me that increased my reflex times dramatically. I don't have any memory of it. So it wasn't surgery, I don't think, but I could be wrong, of course. What I do know is this: The man who did it was a Dr. Dan Miller, and he did it at the Deer Island Biological Research Facility in Long Island Sound, and now that he's dead, there's a risk that I might be the only one of my kind ever created.”

“Holy shit, man,” Eddie said.

“You have to stay here and help Mac protect me. Until I get to Deer Island—and I have been notified that I need to get there with all haste—I absolutely must not be captured. Once I'm there, my best guess is that they're going to be able to re-create Miller's work using me as a template, and then we'll finally be able to create a police force of our own that can stand up against Morris. Hell, an army if we need it.”

“I've got a police department to run. That's what I do, and I'm gonna keep doing it. And as to this Morris, you need to go public with this one, buddy. Put out an all-points. Wanted posters. The works. Interpol, all of it.”

“We have turned over every stone in the past year. Every single stone. He's on wanted posters all over the world. Not for his real crimes, of course.”

Eddie headed up the stairs.

“No!”

He hesitated. “Flynn—”

“I need you, buddy.”

Eddie turned around. He looked suddenly smaller. Older. He came back down and dropped into one of the recliners that stood before the TV. He turned it on and began compulsively surfing.

“What about my wife, Flynn, the new baby? Don't tell me they're involved. If Ellen ends up like Abby—”

“Eddie, I'm sorry.”

“What have you done to me?”

The words ripped at Flynn's heart. But this was war. More than war.

“Eddie, the fate and freedom of the human species are at stake. I've got to get to that island.”

Eddie paused for a long time. Finally, he said, “I'm proud to be part of this. But you only have me for this one night. After that, I'm gonna take a leave and work on protecting my family.”

“Very wise, and thank you.”

“Flynn, it's always been a privilege to be your friend. It still is.”

“Goes for me, too, buddy,” said Mac.

“I've got to sleep, and I want to believe you're watching that door. Because if it starts to open, you've got maybe a second and probably less.”

He knew that there was a high probability they would fail, but also that he was too exhausted to continue. He had to place his trust in them.

He lay back, holding the Bull on his chest—clutching it, really.

There were no dreams, just an uneasy darkness. From time to time, he was aware of his friends' voices. He was always aware of the pistol.

The night flowed on.

The next thing he knew, his heart was hammering, he was covered with sweat, his guts were heaving. Across the room, Mac and Eddie sat in two recliners that they had moved to face the stairs. They both held guns in their laps. They were both snoring, and that was what had awakened him.

He was not a man who angered easily, but when he did, other people could have definite problems, and he had to work hard to force down the urge to dump them both out of their chairs.

Carefully, in order to avoid waking them up, he took each man's gun and laid it aside. He knelt down behind them and between the chairs, took a deep breath, and shouted at the top of his lungs,
“Good morning, fools!”

They both leaped up, snatching air, looking for their guns. Eddie was the first to figure it out. He said in a low, dangerous voice, “I thought you said it was safe during the day.”

“Safer.”

Mac said, “You do understand you've been asleep for a while?”

“What time is it?” Flynn figured Four o'clock, maybe five.

“It's nine thirty.”

“Yeah, well—I'm sorry, then. Just don't both sleep at the same time, please. It's a real bad idea.”

“Nine thirty,
Wednesday morning,
Flynn. You crashed on Monday night.”

There was no time. “Morris is liable to go to Deer Island. Maybe he's already there, and if he is, it's endgame.” Then another thought came to mind, and it was a terrible one. If he was broadcasting, he had already given away far too much. Even if all Morris could do was track him, he had to disappear from his radar, and right now.

“I need an MRI scan. Full-body. And a radiologist to read it.”

“Mexico okay?” Mac asked.

“Eddie, got an idea?”

“My wife's brother-in-law is a neurosurgeon at MD Anderson in Houston.”

“Let's go.”

“That's a long drive,” Eddie said.

Flynn nodded toward Mac. “Where's your nearest plane?”

“I don't have any planes.”

“You have an air force. Where is it, on one of the ranches you don't own?”

“I only have my one little place, you know that.” He made a call on his cell, said a few words, then cut the connection. “We fly in half an hour.”

“Do you need me, Flynn?”

“Eddie, your first instinct was right. Stay here and protect your bride and that newborn. Tell you what. Get them to a big city somewhere far away from here. Go on a vacation to New York. Even better, London. Paris. Stay in a big hotel. Don't go out at night.”

“I'll call my brother-in-law, get everything arranged.”

Flynn stood before his old friend. He put his hands on his shoulders. “Thank you for everything, and God go with you guys.”

Eddie nodded. He turned and started up the stairs. He stopped, turned back. “God bless, Flynn.”

“Same back.”

A moment later, the kitchen door closed. Flynn heard the lock turn.

“You got keys, too, Mac?”

“Yeah. Same keys I had when we were fourteen.”

They drove to a small ranch about ten miles outside of town, a tin-roofed house and a weathered barn. No sign of life.

“Nice place,” Flynn said.

“No, it's not.”

“That's right, it's not. I won't ask what you do here, because I don't want to know.”

“Indeed, you do not. But it would be wise not to inhale.”

“Not a meth lab! Jesus, Mac, how low have you sunk?”

“It's a joke, son.” He put his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Miguel! Compadre! You got gas in the buggy yet?”

The barn doors swung open to reveal a sparkling-new Cessna TT, as good as it got in the world of single-engine aircraft.

“Miguel Sanchez,” Flynn said to the heavyset man coming out from beside the plane. “How the hell are you?” They'd gone to school together, up until Miguel dropped out to become a professional criminal.

“I'm good, man. You still enjoying my Range Rover?”

“It's ruined.” He pointed a thumb at Mac. “His place.”

“Figures. What happened, it get et by some damn exotic animal out there?”

“You could say that.”

“I got used to those weird dogs, but man, that tiger—I don't like that thing.”

Flynn liked Snow Mountain a good deal, but all he said was, “Yeah, I hear you.” At that moment, he heard rumbling and turned around to see a black Audi convertible barreling up the dirt track that led to the house pasture. “Who in hell is that?”

“We're dealing with an airplane. You gotta plug in a pilot or the damn thing just sits there.”

“No.”

“Whaddaya mean, no? You gonna push it to Houston?”

“I'll fly it.”

“The hell you will. I've been up there with you one too many times. Never again.”

“We don't involve another innocent man.”

“Well, I'm not goin' with you. I've got my Citation over at the airport, I'll take that. Bernie flies it, too.”

“Mac, let me tell you what's goin' on.” He glanced at Miguel. “You don't need to hear this.”

Miguel didn't hesitate. He headed off and intercepted Bernie. They both stood about fifty feet away, watching.

“You take that Citation, you are going to your death.”

“What?”

“I'm tellin' you, man, you gotta get your head around this. Morris will waste you the first chance he gets.”

“What about, like, in the next ten seconds?”

“If he knows we're here, it's possible.”

Mac looked down and hunched his shoulders, closing in on himself.

“Once we're in the air, he will definitely find us and will definitely strike. If we're going to make it, it's going to take some fancy flying.”

Mac ripped off his hat and threw it down.

“We need to do this, Mac. Now.”

He grabbed up the hat. “I know it.”

They got into the plane.

Flynn looked over the controls. “Beautiful. This puppy can fly itself.”

“I hope so, because if you're as good as you used to be, there won't be anybody else involved who can.”

Flynn did the checklist, turned on the engine, and taxied across to the runway. The plane was light on the touch. A powerful little aircraft, probably capable of flying rings around most World War II fighters.

“Here we go.” He pushed the throttle forward and felt the airframe shudder into life as they sped down the runway. He didn't know the exact rotation speed, but the plane made it very clear when it was ready to take off.

Once airborne, he turned east.

“Why is it tilting? What's going on?”

“Take it easy, we're okay.”

He pointed the nose into the hard and unforgiving sun.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FLYNN FLEW
low with his radios and as many of his instruments powered down as he could safely manage.

Mac twisted in his seat. He peered out his window, then turned a pleading face toward Flynn. “Something wrong with the plane?”

“It's fine.”

“Then why do I see trees going by?”

“We're flying under FAA radars, which means we need to stay below five hundred feet.”

“Damn.”

Flynn was flying with only the gravitational and magnetic instruments, primarily the compass. Keeping a low signal profile probably wouldn't deceive Morris, but it wouldn't help him, either. He dropped the nose a little more.

“Water tower!”

They skimmed it so close that the plane's wind stream buffeted them as it compressed against the white-painted surface.

Mac screamed and threw his head back, clutching his fists to his forehead.

“Guess you didn't see what town that was.”

“Town? What town? Where are we?”

“Better if you watch the sky,” Flynn said. “Any gleam, no matter how tiny.”

“What do we do then?”

“Find out if your airplane's any damn good.”

They flew on, keeping as low as Flynn dared, between three and four hundred feet. He kept a close eye out for radio masts and more water towers.

An hour passed.

“Flynn, will you answer me a question?”

“I'll try.”

“Be honest.”

“If I can.”

“I think we both know I can't shoot the disk down, no matter how well I understand its design. I mean, we're talking about a seam a millimeter wide.”

Flynn said nothing.

If he had been enhanced at Deer Island—and he was reasonably sure that was the case—maybe Mac could have been, too. But he wasn't going to say that. He knew his friend. Mac was unlikely to be comfortable, at least not until he knew what was involved, and right now, Flynn could not answer that question.

They flew on through the empty morning sky, powering across the great, flat expanse of Texas, small towns, long roads, and a bleak landscape passing below in majesty.

When they were still about twenty minutes from their destination, Mac said, “There.” He pointed.

There was nothing there, just blue sky.

“Closing fast,” Mac snapped. “Eight o'clock.”

Flynn saw it, then. He pushed the throttle to the firewall and put the plane into a skidding roll, then dived almost straight down, forcing the disk, which had been coming up under the plane, to dart up past them.

“Shit, Flynn!”

Now at an altitude of perhaps fifty feet, he was flying along a highway, jinking across overpasses. He shot straight down the main street of a town with the disk close behind. Once out in the countryside again, he took the plane up to fifteen hundred feet as fast as he could make it go, then did a tight Immelmann turn and angled back down, passing under the disk, then doing another evasive turn at crop duster altitude over a field.