Guardians of the Portals (33 page)

Odd, how one remembered details after the fact. Avoiding direct eye contact, subtly shifting position to circumvent crossing personal spaces, they'd done a complex, well-choreographed dance with silent rhythms and patterns in fractal disharmonies. She could not recall the color of his eyes, yet they appeared in memory as striking, deep-set and mesmerizing. He'd held her in thrall and time ceased to exist. When he peeled away from her burning flesh, he left a trail of confusion and irritation. Trey was the one who left her first yearning, then furious and hate-filled, swamped her with pain—her only lifeline in a sea of despair. The difference between them infuriated and mystified her.

The roar of engines snapped her awake. Drifting off was guaranteed to get her killed. The trackers, pursuers, whatever they were, carried serious hardware—military grade and handled with a casual confidence. If she had to guess, they looked like ex-Special Forces. Jake had taught her well, the echoes of her training translating into instinct.

The lead snowmobile skittered sideways, then snagged solid ground, bucking and kicking before settling into a steady growl. They'd been up and down the road at least a half dozen times, compacting the deep snow into micro-ruts that filled in with sleet and freezing rain. The temps continued to plummet as the low meandered north-northeast, dragging down frigid Canadian air.

Caitlin risked a quick peek. The lead machine disappeared around a bend but the following team halted just yards from her position, slightly uphill on the far side of the road. She looked at the stand of trees below and above. The brush had been hacked away to make for easy access to the sap lines. She would stick out like a sore thumb against the snow and lighter colored bark. If only she could change her clothing, darken it, or make herself invisible, small, a zephyr. Scrunching her face tight, she tried forcing the transformation, willing even a few extra pounds to fill in the floppy clothing. Nothing. Rising to a crouch, she prepared to bolt into the woods.

Cold hard metal bit into her scalp and slid seductively to prick her ear and vanish down her neck, the exposed skin pulling taut against the intrusion.

"Hands in the air."

The man had an odd accent, faintly familiar, not native born, but in the country for a fair amount of time. But it wasn't anything like the Greyfalcon group or Trey who had sometimes let the guttural pronunciations leak through when he'd caressed her through the interminable night, murmuring her name over and over. The man with the gun at her throat gripped her arm with his left hand and pulled her to her feet. From the angle of the barrel resting on her collarbone, she guessed him to be several inches shorter than her lanky frame.

Caitlin debated lifting her shoulder and dislodging the weapon enough that she could spin and grab it before her assailant figured out her plan. As if he read her mind, he warned her, "Don't try it."

Limbs creaked and moaned as upper level winds shifted and gathered strength. The snow had stopped but the cold raced in on a downhill ski run, picking up speed and wrapping everything in a smooth glaze.

"Is she alone?" This from one of the uphill team.

"Looks that way."

"Where'd he get to?" The question directed to her. She turned and mouthed, "I don't..." but the third, then the fourth of the squad converged and she felt rough hands slam her against the stand of birch. Her head cracked the coarse bark, sending shards spraying out and down. The gun barrel skittered down her arm, coming to rest just below her breast. Memories of Trey crushing her against the rough stone, his body hovering millimeters away, the tease, the inevitable swift rejection and little death as hope spilled tiny droplets of blood rushing to fill the spaces that fear opened. She felt the link, still weak.

The gun trailed over the rough wool, lazing an outline of her breast, until a harsh guttural sound, and a prick in the right side of her neck, sent her spiraling inward. She grasped at the energy pooling in her gut, willing it outward to follow the link. Something, someone, cooed patience and cradled her in his arms, her last thought for the man she would not name.

****

W
olf skidded to a halt as headlights winked intermittently through the line of trees. They were on another sweep uphill, still searching. He could barely hear the whine of the engines for the rush of blood and pounding of his heart. He'd gone full tilt for nearly a half mile on a squirrelly surface, rutted and slick, unforgiving. The stand of trees to his right banked up to the road, tight with heavy brush. Good cover but difficult to maneuver. He opted to scramble up the left bank, hoping to make time over clearer ground. It was risky but he had a reckless need to find the woman at all costs.

He could hear them clearly, engine pitch ramped high on fast approach. Faster than he could negotiate across the open patch he'd foolishly chosen. He'd never make it across the road in time to shelter in the dense brush. Already the high beams illuminated the stretch adjacent to his position. He muttered, "Damnation," and lunged downhill toward a stand of young trees. His toe snagged on something in the deep snow, sending him to his knees. Cursing, he rolled onto his side and slid into a shallow ditch running at ninety degrees to the road.

The shotgun sat at an awkward angle, digging into his right side. He wriggled until he could free it, then flopped on his belly and sighted down the barrel, waiting. The din from the four-stroke engine reverbed on deep bass notes as the ground vibrated and hummed. Wolf pivoted slowly using a flat rock to balance the weapon. He wished for a decent scope but the kick back from the Brenneke slugs would have put out his eye. As it was, the roughly 70 caliber special shotgun shells had a recoil that would beat the hell out of his shoulder with nothing to brace against. He forced his field of view into soft focus, blanking out the glare from the halogens that all but killed his night vision. The Bearcat ground past, its wide track digging into snowpack churned to icy slush.

One man. Wolf risked a shallow breath and swung the shotgun downhill, straining to hear footfalls as an under-note to the crushing blast of noise from the snowmobile. The machine would have overrun his tracks as he'd crossed the road, but not the ones on the edge of the far side where he'd run like a madman, following the intermittent set left by Caitlin.

Slow movement on the opposite side caught his attention. He'd been right. The second rider had dismounted, proceeding on foot and carefully assessing the tracks. He was still downhill and a mere shadow against the backdrop of trees but the motion was steady, nothing catching his interest. Twenty more yards. Soon he would find larger tracks, spaced farther apart. If the man were any kind of tracker at all, he'd know immediately that someone else had recently barreled down the mountain on foot. Ten yards. Slowing. Wolf dug his left shoulder into the edge of the ditch, his finger pressed on the trigger, metallic cold infiltrating his thin wool gloves.

The man scanned left and right, head bent toward the road surface. Against the dark curtain of heavy brush the figure appeared two dimensional and flat. Wolf's eyes watered and blurred his vision, but he dared not move and draw attention. As long as the stalker kept his head down, he'd go unnoticed. Five yards. Wolf tensed, blinked. Two yards. He set the recoil pad lower onto his right shoulder. The stalker stopped and stared up the road, eyes shielded.

Wolf cocked his head. The Bearcat was coming back down the road, not yet close enough to illuminate the figure in his sights. The machine sputtered over the rise, then geared down. The stalker waved and jumped onto the low bank as the Cat eased to a halt next to him. The two men exchanged words but Wolf couldn't hear the voices over the idling engine. The man on foot gesticulated wildly, clearly unhappy about something. The driver shrugged and turned away as the stalker mounted and slung his rifle over his shoulder. The machine kicked over and sped down the road, leaving Wolf in a cold sweat and curious about the exchange. He waited a few minutes to make sure the snowmobile kept a steady pace away from his location, then quickly lunged to his feet, stepped out of the depression and trotted across the road. The driver had allowed the Bearcat to swing close to the edge, near the culvert, effectively wiping away all tracks, his and Caitlin's.

He wasn't going to pat himself on the back and bless Freyja for that stroke of good luck. They had to know he was out there, somewhere. They were professionals, armed to the teeth and disciplined. He would not make the mistake of underestimating his and Caitlin's enemies. On one point he was clear—these men came from neither Eirik's nor Gunnarr's camps. A new player had joined the party. Eirik's paranoia may have been well-grounded. The Althings were too small and tight-knit to afford splinter groups without the gothi becoming aware of dissension and unusual behavior. In truth, most of his men were warriors, not deep thinkers, and not easily swayed by idle philosophy or the lures of competing 'opportunities'. If he had to trust anything, it was in the loyalty and steadfastness of the people under his command.

Gunnarr, however, controlled a much larger, and looser, organization—a hybrid of human and Norse, as he was fond of branding his ethnicity. He had satellite groups scattered about the North American continent and South America, with primary bases in Miami and New York City to handle his drugs and arms trade. Eirik had intercepted significant chatter between and among the far-flung groups that spoke to a growing awareness of the Portals and increasing irritation that the devices were under the absolute hegemony of a minority cabal in Greyfalcon. Gunnarr was under fire from within and without.

Something had happened while he and Eirik engaged in witness protection duties with the woman and her unreliable 'talents'. The Portals were under siege. His people had a moral responsibility to protect and guard the inter-dimensional gates from abuse and misuse. And if that meant shutting them down, once and for all, he wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. Even if it meant never going home again. Even if it meant ending his near immortality. He was weary, lonely. Something he'd never been before. Now everything had changed and he had little patience for looking at his own motivations.

At a subconscious level, Wolf became aware of the sky lightening to the southeast. His belly rumbled, demanding food. He hadn't eaten for more than twenty-four hours, not normally a problem for him, but the expenditures of energy to stay warm and to keep pace over difficult terrain, in less than optimal conditions, had finally taken a toll on his body. He shivered as a frisson of anxiety spun up his spine and lodged as a migraine-inducing ache behind his eyes. He knew it for what it was—the link that Eirik had described, that rare pathway between kindred spirits, suddenly blazed with clarity, fueled by fear and pain. They had her. And they hurt her.

They had to know he was coming. He shouldered the shotgun and took off at a sprint. Best not to keep them waiting.

****

"W
hat this?" A blocky figure in a black snowmobile suit and carbon-fiber helmet fingered the syringe. He flipped the shield up and asked again, "What you use?"

"Nothing. She's fine. She'll sleep for a while."

"No sleep. Look dead."

"Shut it, Uri. Arne knows what he's doing. Load 'er on the Cat and get her back to the cabin. They'll do a pickup once the plows go through." The team leader motioned for Arne to load the prone body onto the Bearcat with the extended seat.

"She gonna flop. Better to keep awake,
nyet
?" Uri persisted with his criticism but backed off when his boss swung a Glock in his direction. He raised his hands, palms up, and backed away.

The team leader barked, "
On idet. Voĭti v polozhenie.
"

"Yeah, boss, he's coming, but from what direction? We couldn't spot any tracks, at least not definite. Asshole here had to make like a fucking Formula One and wiped the tracks."

"Never mind that. He had to be following the woman. That means he'll be coming from," the team leader waved uphill, "that direction, likely keeping close to the road, making time."

The small man called Arne lifted Caitlin effortlessly and half-carried, half-dragged her prone form to the closest snowmobile. He settled her on the ground, propped against the Bearcat and stomped back to the small group. The men conversed quietly, still arguing over tactics.

"Arne, what do you think? You know this terrain. How's he gonna come at us?"

Arne pulled his helmet off and rubbed at short, sandy blonde hair, matted against his head from the pressure of the helmet. "We don' know nothing 'bout this one. I think just muscle. Maybe change mind."

The team leader grimaced and growled, "
Da
, not like he didn't hear us. But we can't take a chance and let him walk. Uri, you and Serge, get on either side. And watch your backs. If he's not on the road, there's no telling where the hell he is."

Uri nodded assent and motioned to Serge to follow him back up the hill. Despite the low-hanging clouds, weak light filtered through the woods, creating shadows that wavered and danced as the taller trees yielded to upper level winds. Serge split to the right and raced across the road, disappearing into a thick stand of white pine. Uri continued up the road for another hundred yards and melted into the underbrush.

The team leader waved his remaining member over. "We'll take her back to the cabin. If the man gets past Uri and Serge, he'll likely make for home base." He turned and strode toward the Bearcat. Stripping a glove he felt the woman's neck for a pulse, muttering, "Maybe that was too much." He mounted the snowmobile and waited while Arne lifted and settled the woman on the indentation behind the driver, then climbed onto the rear seat and braced her body between them. Arne tapped the leader's shoulder. The Bearcat jerked and settled, moving slowly downhill so as not to dislodge their cargo.

****

W
olf observed the tableau from a short overhang above a dry creek bed. He'd moved deep into the woods, relying on his sense of direction to keep him headed roughly parallel to the road. It snaked and s-turned down the steep grade and gave him the benefit of cutting off the distance between him and the assault teams. He worried he might actually overshoot the targets. His gut had been a churning mass of discontent—the only way he could describe the sensation. It wasn't painful, exactly, though the longer it went on, the more irritated he became. It grated against every nerve ending, bothersome at best and at worst a serious distraction. She was close. He could almost taste her essence.