Dog Warrior (8 page)

Daggit tried to rise but Atticus kept him pinned, grinding his bleeding nose into the cigarette ashes. Daggit flailed for his pistol, and Atticus caught the hand by the wrist and jerked it up behind Daggit's back.

Ru snatched up the pistol and aimed it at Animal, who was starting to rise. “Easy, easy. Atty?”

It was more the awareness of Ru's exhale, the air warmed by his body and carrying his scent, than Ru's words that made Atticus realize it was the drug pushing him to act.

“What did you tell them?” Atticus managed a calmer tone.

“Fuck off!” Daggit cried. “I'm not telling you nothing about them.”

“I didn't ask about them,” Atticus said. “I want to know what you said about us! Now tell me, or I'll rip your arm off.”

“Nothing! Not a goddamn thing.”

Atticus could tell by the slight jump in the pulse under his fingertips that Daggit was lying. Clearly, though, he would
have to pretend to believe him or beat the information out of him. He was already putting the whole setup at risk for what—a stranger he just met yesterday? A man who might be the coldest bastard on the planet?

Letting go of Daggit, he stepped back out of Daggit's reach as the big man surged to his feet. The room suddenly seemed claustrophobic, taken up by the angry biker, the seated Animal, and the table blocking the exit. There was some part of him, that punk kid he used to be, that wanted Daggit to come at him so he had an excuse to beat the snot out of him. An older, wiser self, nearly swamped under the drug's influence, knew that would be a bad thing. Guns were already in the mix, and Ru could easily be hurt.

“Daggit, he's Pack,” Animal drawled, seemingly undisturbed by the violence or the gun that Ru held. “That's a losing hand. Just fold.”

Daggit froze, hands clenched into massive fists, panting out breath tainted with beer, blood, and years of cigarette smoking. He glared at Atticus like he meant murder. Atticus stared back, ready and waiting to see how things played out. They stood statue-still for a minute, like samurai testing each other's will. Finally, Daggit wiped his bloody upper lip with the back of his hand and looked away.

Ru took it as a sign that danger was past. He thumbed the revolver's cylinder out and rejected the silver-tipped bullets; they rained onto the tabletop. “You don't want us to know about them. We don't want them to know about us. It seems fairly simple—mum's the word, all the way around.”

Daggit grunted.

“We lost three men at Buffalo,” Ru reminded Daggit as an explanation of Atticus's reaction. “You lost three too.”

“Four.” Daggit spat out blood and wiped his thumb over his lip. “No one's heard from Toback since; whoever hit the place took him.”

“You sure he wasn't in on the hit?” Ru asked.

Daggit glanced to Animal and shook his head. “I don't know him that well. He's part of the Buffalo chapter.”

“Big, stupid, and loyal as a dog,” Animal said. “That was David Toback.”

So the nomad Animal was the link between Buffalo and Boston.

“Did you tell the Temple about the Buffalo deal before it went down?” Atticus asked.

Animal thought a moment this time before shaking his head. “No. Core got really creepy in the spring, moving out to Buffalo and talking about the end of the world. Let's just say I don't drink around them—just in case they're in the middle of doing a Jonestown thing.”

When members of the People's Temple staged a cult suicide with cyanide-laced grape Kool-Aid, not everyone had drunk willingly. It wasn't a good sign that the outlaw bikers—with their loose grip on normal—considered the Temple of New Reason unstable.

“So they're based in Buffalo now?” Atticus asked.

Animal eyed him warily and then shrugged. “They moved again. To Pennsylvania or Ohio. No forwarding address.”

Ohio was where they killed Ukiah.

“When we do this again on Saturday, we're not doing it here,” Atticus said firmly. “Do you know the Boston Harbor Hotel?”

“It's hard to miss,” Animal said.

“Use the guest phone and ask for Steele. We'll meet you there Saturday, at eight o'clock.”

Atticus slung the backpack over his shoulder, and they beat a hasty retreat then, the drugs weighing heavy on Atticus's back because of his hyperawareness of it.

Kyle started up the Explorer when they walked out of the bar and sat idling, waiting for them to reach the Jaguar.

“We'll need to bag this and wash my hands.” Atticus hated the delay, but he wanted it off him before they got into closed confines of the Jag.

While Atticus kept watch, Ru got out a large plastic bag and tented it open for Atticus, so he could slide the backpack in without touching the bag itself. Luckily they always kept bottles of water in the car. Ru emptied two over Atticus' hands before Atticus sensed that the drug had been washed away. Decontaminated, they got into the Jag and headed for the interstate. A few minutes later, the Explorer's lights appeared in the rearview mirror.

“No one's following you,” Kyle said over the radio, after Ru turned off their wires. “What the hell happened in there? It sounded like Atticus jumped someone.”

“I did,” Atticus snapped. Ru wisely said nothing.

“Sumpter called. He wanted to know when we're dropping the drugs to him.”

“We can do it tomorrow morning,” Atticus said. “I want to get back to the house.”

“They managed to reconstruct some of the records from Buffalo,” Kyle said. “He's got a DVD for us.”

They'd stopped at a red light, giving Atticus time to shuffle through his options. Sending Kyle to see Sumpter was a no-go; oil and water mixed better. Nor did Atticus like the idea of sending Kyle back to the house alone. If Ukiah was awake and not as harmless as he seemed, Kyle—or Ru, for that matter—would be no match for the Dog Warrior. Ru could take the drugs to Sumpter, but there was a slim chance that they had a tail that Kyle hadn't spotted. Besides, Sumpter was an officious prick and would probably throw a fit if Atticus, as team leader, didn't show. Normally Atticus couldn't care less, but he wanted the DVD—which Sumpter might refuse to hand over to just Ru.

Atticus took comfort that Daggit probably wouldn't endanger his status as middleman. Whatever the biker leader said to the cult, it probably hadn't included specifics on how to find them. Atticus sighed. “Fine. We'll make the drop.”

 

Ukiah slept deep and heavy as the dead, reabsorbed memories unfolding as dreams.

The Dog Warriors hunted like wolves. They ran silent and intent through the autumn night, the moon full and the wind wild, covering the sound of their passing. Ukiah could feel the Pack as they slipped through moonlight and shadows. Grim as their mission was, they were pleased he hunted with them. He made them feel complete: wolves showing their young how to hunt.

Fields of shorn hay. Pastures of sleeping cattle. Rich, freshly plowed earth, ready for the winter wheat. They searched for their prey, the Temple of New Reason; more specifically, for the deadly alien machines—the Ae—that the cult had stolen out of storage. Their informant, ex-cultist Socket, could give them only general directions; she'd been given exact change for getting the U-Haul truck through the tollbooths of the Pennsylvania and Ohio turnpikes, and knew that the trip would take roughly two hours. The cultists had mentioned a chain of convenience stores in Ohio by name, telling her one was close to their destination. She wasn't of the “inner circle,” so the cult told her nothing more about where they were going, or the plan once they got there.

With perfect memory and a century of roaming the countryside, the Dog Warriors were able to narrow the possibilities to a twenty-mile radius. They checked the hiding places the Pack knew and found them empty. So now the Dog Warriors searched on foot, with nothing between them and clues that the land might hold, using no motors that would alert their prey.

In a low fold in the land, they found the burned remains of a bonfire, built from old telephone poles, heavy with creosote. The fire would have burned hot and long. Ukiah crouched there, smoky ghosts of the bonfire filling his senses as he shifted fingers through the fine ash, finding bits of bone.

The man had been short, dark haired and dark eyed, Italian in heritage, born of a human mother and father, middle-aged, perhaps a parent himself—and long dead before the cult killed his body. The bone fragment showed that he'd been infected by the Ontongard and replaced, cell by cell, until he was fully alien in stolen human form. The cremated man had been Hex's Get long enough that all of the bone had not only been replaced but improved upon, a creature of inhuman speed and strength, healing faster than Ukiah could; the Get should have been nearly indestructible.

Rennie came out of the darkness, silent in his passage.

Ukiah handed the bone to him. “We're close.”

The tall, lean leader of the Dog Warriors examined the fragment, reading Hex's familiar stamp on what once was human. “They're good at this game.”

Rennie meant the Temple of New Reason, who had discovered the alien Ontongard and deemed them demons. Not that they were far from wrong—the Ontongard certainly fit the description of evil personified. The first Ontongard, Hex, had extended himself into hundreds by infecting humans over the centuries; a hundred thousand more humans had died when their immune systems resisted the virulent infection.

“The Temple is successful only because the Gets never see them coming,” Ukiah said. In the way that Pack knew Pack, the Ontongard could sense the Pack. The cult, though, could lose itself in the sea of humanity and strike without warning. Unfortunately, the Pack was as blind as the Ontongard to the cult, and thus just as vulnerable.

Seeing themselves as holy warriors, the cult believed the ends justified the means of saving the world. Ironically, with the stolen Ae, they could accidentally destroy all life on the planet.

A train whistle echoed out over the land, drawing Rennie's attention to the east. “We're losing the dark.” Rennie tossed the bone aside and took off at a run.

The dream skipped, plunging into darkness and resurfacing . . .

Ukiah's cell phone vibrated, and he paused to answer. An unfamiliar phone number showed on the display. “Hello?”

“Is this Joe?” a female voice asked.

“No. You've got a wrong number.”

“Is this . . .” She read off a number, but the last two digets were transposed from his.

“No. You messed up dialing the number.”

“I'm sorry; I just got this new phone. Sorry.”

The line went dead. Storm clouds cloaked the moon; the night grew darker. The lone headlight of a train crossed his path, a quarter mile ahead . . .

. . . the freight cars flashed by, the rails ringing up and down the sonic range. He was the only one on this side of the track. The diesel engine roared on, too far ahead for him to catch. Somewhere a mile or more in the opposite direction, the end of the train had yet to come into sight.

“Go on,” he thought to Rennie, who had paused in his hunting to check on Ukiah.
“I'll catch up in a few minutes.”

Rennie's memories played back over the countryside they'd just searched, reconsidering it for hidden dangers, finding none.
“Come when you can.”

Ukiah ran alongside the train, looking for something that went over the tracks, or under . . .

. . . Ukiah's cell phone vibrated. Who now? He took out his phone. The same number as last time showed on the display. He thought about answering and growling at the clueless woman, but he settled for turning off the phone completely . . .

. . . He paused on the berm of the highway, squinting as the headlights of an oncoming truck hit his night-sensitive eyes. He fumbled out his flashlight, knowing that he'd be night-blind for several minutes after the truck passed—a hazard of having eyes that shifted to night vision. At the fringe of his awareness, he sensed sudden intensity from the
others—they'd found something. He went still, focusing on them. The Dog Warriors gathered around a farmhouse, windows dark, hunched under towering oaks. The wind brought the smell of C4 and the taste of red.

Movement warned him too late, and he snapped out of the focus as the truck suddenly veered toward him.

It hit him on the left side, smashed him to the hard road, and rolled over him. Caught between the truck and the road, he tumbled. His flashlight flipped alongside him, showing frightening glimpses of the trailer's undercarriage. Strut, axle, gears flashed by. Somehow the big wheels missed him but his flashlight went under the last set and was crunched flat.

It lasted only seconds but it seemed like forever. Finally it was over. Ukiah lay sprawled facedown on the pavement, dazed and broken. The truck shuddered to a stop, its engine dropping to the low rumble of an idle. The air was heavy with the smell of smoking rubber.