Demon Driven (28 page)

She nodded. “In a way, it would make her your
Great-great-great grandmother or something, at least in vampire
lineage terms. That why she’s suddenly so interested in you. Plus
she’s always been a little put out that I was born into Senka and
Fedor’s lineage. Now you pop up!”

“Oh, I’m a prize alright!” I snorted.

She smacked me on the shoulder, but the
corner of her mouth was fighting a grin.

“Oh, here, I have something for you!” she
said suddenly.

She handed me a cardboard box a little
smaller than a shoe box. Inside were rows of cell phones lined up
like little toy soldiers. I pulled one out and noted that it was a
prepaid Tracfone. They all were. She answered my unspoken
question.

“Each phone is already activated and good for
a year. Each has a preprogrammed number under the contact name
‘Night Angel’. Soooo, when you want to call me, just grab a phone,
hit the contact and it’ll ring through a secure line to me! Then
you throw the phone away,” she said with a shy grin.

“Actually, Dude, you should probably destroy
the phone as completely as you can. The system is about as secure
as can be done, but better not to leave those feddie bastards any
help!” Chet said.

“Let me guess! You designed the system? And
I’ll bet you came up with the contact name ‘Night Angel’!” I
said.

He nodded, his grin proud as hell.

“You’re not gonna give me any crap about that
nickname, are you?” he asked, his voice certain.

“Nope! That one is exactly right! Is it
really safe for her if I call? I asked.

His look was offended, but I was unabashed
where her safety was concerned and he knew it.

“Yeah, actually it is. The number each phone
calls is a onetime Voice Over Internet Protocol that bounces all
over the world. When I designed it I mentioned that it would be
cool to get some access to the Russian server network. Did you know
that Tanya’s family
owns
a big chunk of the Russian computer
network?” His voice was incredulous.

“Not really, but she is Russian and they own
lots of stuff..” I drifted into a couple of interesting thoughts
about the fact that the Coven was immensely wealthy. Globally
wealthy. Hmmm.

Chapter 29

The Adirondack Mountains gleamed in the
afternoon sun, the forests greening rapidly after a long cold
winter. The Pack’s Cessna 172 purred smoothly as we winged
northeast across the ancient mountain range, guided by Brett’s deft
touch.

The young Alpha had answered my call on the
second ring and agreed to leave just after noon. My impression was
that he had things well in line for a trip north, and was anxious
to see the land next to Gramps’ farm. However, every news station
in the country was carrying the story of the terrorist attacks on
the schools, and the government was receiving massive kudos for its
swift decisive handling of IS 341. I couldn’t help but think he had
a decent idea of who the real operator had been. The fact that no
one in a position of authority had offered an explanation of how
the school was cleared hadn’t bothered the mainstream media pundits
from pontificating on the possibilities. Delta Force and the Navy
SEALs were tied for getting the credit, with the FBI Hostage Rescue
Team a distant third. The actual site was under intense lockdown
and the word I had received from Chet was that a microscopic
examination of the school, hostages, and the terrorists was
underway. The official word to the media was that a covert
operation had cleared the school, but the details were top secret
in order to protect the nation’s anti-terrorism capabilities.

“Of course, all the grunts know that’s
bullshit. These guys are scurrying around like frightened mice,
trying to figure out how eight bearded freaks got turned into
paste!” Chet had said with a snicker, over what he swore was a
secure cell line.

One of the media choppers had caught about
five seconds of me on the roof of the school as I left the scene.
The balaclava and bulky raid jacket had done a good job of
obscuring me and the footage, while surprisingly good, was too
blurry to get any detail. Thankfully, the helicopter had been
swinging around on the far side of the building from where I
pretended to fast rappel down the side.
That
particular act
would not have stood up well to examination. I hadn’t been wearing
a rappelling harness, which might have piqued the attention of some
retired special operator acting as media consultant.

Brett seemed excited, carrying on a steady
conversation the whole trip. His girlfriend, Kelly, was seated
behind me, and another young wolf, named David, was behind Brett. I
had offered the shotgun position to Kelly, but she had rapidly and
rather forcefully insisted that I sit up front. My honest
assessment was that she didn’t want me behind her. Kelly and David
were both visibly nervous in my presence, although Brett seemed
okay.

I hadn’t thought I would be willing to chat
much after my gruesome morning. But I didn’t seem to be bothered by
what I had done, and I surprised myself by getting into the
conversation with Brett, talking about everything from high school
football, to deer hunting. The property was close enough to Potsdam
Airport that we were able to take a swing over it before landing.
David snapped numerous shots with a sophisticated looking digital
camera and telephoto lens. Dark haired and rather somber, David had
been quiet the whole trip, his eyes watching me when he didn’t
think I would notice.

* * *

Gramps met us at the tiny airfield, his crew
cab Ford pickup ready to haul the lot of us to the farm. Two other
greeters were with him. One was stocky and dark, the other blond
with the long legs of a runner. They both hit me at a dead run, a
combined one hundred and seventy-seven pounds of excited dogs
slamming into my chest. I caught and held them while they fought to
wash my face with their doggy tongues. Sherm and Semp, short for
Sherman (as in the tank) and Semper fi. Sherm was the younger at
six years, a mix breed with a large chunk of Rottweiler in his
beefy frame. Semp was mostly Golden Retriever, but not a pure breed
by any means, and was the senior at eight.

Gramps cleared his throat and I realized that
holding almost two hundred pounds of squirming dogs was extremely
unusual behavior if anyone was looking, so I dropped them to the
ground and petted them fiercely. It’s hard to describe how
important your pets can be, but the impact is greatest at reunion.
My dogs never judged me, never shirked me, didn’t think I was weird
or freaky, they just loved me, completely and without reservation.
They didn’t like werewolves though, a fact that became apparent a
few seconds later when they caught wind of Brett, Kelly and David.
Erupting into a ferocious frenzy of snapping teeth and barking, it
took both Gramps and I to get them under control. Brett had warned
me that only dogs raised from puppies would tolerate the presence
of weres, the predator scent too strong for canines to ignore.

We got them loaded into the bed of the
pickup, along with our luggage, introduced Gramps to the weres,
then squeezed into the truck. I claimed shotgun, the other three
packed in the crew seat, and we headed to the farm.

Gramps’s land lies east of Potsdam, bordering
a little chunk of woods named Whiskey Flats State Forest. With the
state forest on one side and the six hundred acres of the old
Bennington farm on the other, it creates a tract of about two
thousand acres. Should be enough for a small pack of werewolves, if
they’re careful.

You would think that I would have known
better, but I was still surprised by how easily Gramps got on with
Brett and Kelly. David remained a dark, quiet presence, leaving the
talking to his two Alphas.

Gramps explained the boundaries and we drove
the roads that surrounded the property first, giving the wolves an
opportunity to get a grasp of the size and layout of the land. Most
of Gramps’ land was used to grow fields, with only about fifty
acres reserved for the twenty-five head of dairy and beef cattle
that he maintained. Of course, the farm had supported a much
greater herd in the years past, but while I would undoubtedly
inherit the land, it had been obvious for years that I would never
live the life of a farmer. The little herd left on the farm gave
Gramps an excuse to keep his men employed and he frankly enjoyed
the work.

Our perimeter tour complete, we drove
straight to the Bennington property, gave the wolves the nickel
tour and then let them investigate on their own. It gave me a
chance to catch my grandfather up on recent events. We occupied the
front porch chairs, Sherm and Semp staying huddled at our feet. It
would have been easy to tell where the junior wolf pack was at any
moment, even if I didn’t have my vampire senses. The twin perked
ears of the dogs swiveled to track the sounds of exploration, like
radar.

“They’re not what I expected,” Gramps
allowed, referring to the young wolves.

“Yeah, they are mostly normal, ambitious
twenty-year olds, right up until they do something wolfy.”

“They can earn a living here?” he asked.

“From what I understand, four of the nine are
computer programmers of one sort or another. One consults on video
games, one is a nurse and Brett does website design and search
engine maximization.

I’m not sure about the other two, but I think
one might be a mechanic. As long as they can get access to the
internet, they’ll be fine. I explained about using a satellite
based system for internet and television,” I shrugged. “We’ll have
to see what they think.”

He rubbed the side of his head for a moment
before responding.

“Actually, we have DSL out here now,” he
finally said.

“DSL? How the hell did that happen”

“Well, I convinced the phone company it would
be worthwhile,” he said, simply.

I didn’t doubt that for a moment. Whether he
had organized a group of local residents to all buy access packages
from the phone company, paid a huge sum to get it installed or some
combination of the two, Gramps would find a way.

“Why?”

“The dish system got spotty in bad weather,
and I needed to stay connected, in case, you know….you needed
me.”

Alex Gordon would pick up soda cans by the
road for the nickel deposit, and his clothes hadn’t been replaced
in years, but he would spend thousands of dollars to stay connected
to the internet on the off chance I might need to reach him that
way. I had trouble speaking for a moment so I just kept quiet.

After a moment he changed the subject.

“Looks like you got out of the Big Apple at
the right time, what with all these terrorists roaming around down
there. Glad to see our law enforcement people put a stop to it.
Course, there seems to be some mystery about that school with all
the explosives. The government’s being all kinda quiet about
that
one!” he said, eyeing me sideways.

I smiled, not looking at him directly.

“Well, people shouldn’t be messing with our
kids!”

“Certainly not when north country boys are on
the job!” he agreed, still watching me for reaction.

He knew! The cagey old bastard knew I had
been involved!

“Wanna talk about it?”

Surprisingly, I did.

It took about twenty minutes to discuss the
morning. It took another two hours to discuss the ramifications of
my adventures.

“You’re screwed!” he agreed with a nod, after
hearing my tale. He relented that after seeing my bleak
expression.

“Well, not really screwed, but you’re in a
pickle. Let me think about this for a time and we’ll come back to
it,” he said. “Why don’t you check on your friends and then we can
head to the farm. I imagine they’ll want to explore in their
‘other’ forms when it gets dark?” he asked obliquely.

“Probably. That’s a big part of the whole
thing, having the ability to run,” I answered.

* * *

We collected Brett, Kelly and David,
interrupting a conversation about the quality of the interior.
David didn’t think it was too bad, a view that Kelly vehemently
opposed. Brett was carefully appeasing his mate, although I think
he didn’t care much about the old farmhouse’s decorative condition
so much as he did the solidity of construction. It seemed to be
well built but old. Frankly I agreed with Kelly. The old seventies
era wallpaper was rather sad.

Back at Gramps farm we showed them around,
introduced them to Len and got them settled in the spare room.
David would sleep on the pullout couch in the family room.

Gramps and Len threw together an excellent
dinner of steak, potatoes, gravy and green beans. The three city
bred guests were amazed that every bit of the dinner had been
produced right on the farm, with the exception of the Sam Adams
beer that we drank with it.

After dinner, the young pack members
changed
forms and I gave them a quick tour of the property
lines, running on two legs to their four, but keeping up easily
enough.

Satisfied that they had their bearings, I
left them to run the land on their own, while I returned to the
farm.

* * *

Both men looked up as I entered the family
room. They had obviously been deep in discussion. Len looked much
the same as he always did, just a bit grayer, a bit more weathered.
They had served together in the Marines and I’m fairly certain they
both saw action in Korea, but details had been in short supply.

“Chris, I was filling Len in on your
situation. We have a few ideas for you to think about,” Gramps
said.

I nodded, handed out the beers I had grabbed
on my way through the kitchen and sat down.

“First, let’s talk about your situation, what
the feds might know, what they might guess. Then we’ll discuss what
they might do with that info. And last we’ll brainstorm about what
you have to work with and what you can do to block them. Okay?” he
asked.