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Seven |
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"Tanner, dammit! Where the hell are you?" Chris hissed into the radio headset. Reception was fading as fast as the light. Chris and Josiah had tracked right up to Black Canyon, but there'd been no sign or word of Vin Tanner.
The team had split up as planned when they'd found the tracks of four men leading south away from the trucks. About a mile further out, one of the men had double-backed, leaving three to continue south in a more or less parallel route with Black Canyon. Chris and Josiah had left the others there and cut straight across to the Canyon to wait for Vin, hoping to perhaps catch the killer between them. They'd been waiting for an hour, been trying to raise Vin on the radio for the past thirty minutes. Josiah had estimated they had barely another hour before nightfall and Chris agreed. They needed to catch up with Vin before it got any colder. Three men had more of a chance to survive the frigid temperatures than one. Seven would be even better. Chris tried the radio again, this time calling JD, but the result was the same. Larabee wanted to rejoin his men before dark, but there was no way he would leave Vin out on his own. No way!
"Tanner, dammyoursorrybutttohell! Where are you?"
"Right here, makin' sure your sorry butt don't get itself blown off!" Vin's voice drifted out from the trees moments before the man himself walked out. "Nice t'know ya missed me, pard. Josiah," Vin nodded to Sanchez. "Damn! You two've got all the finesse of a herd a'bulls. Haven't you ever heard of tiptoeing?"
Sanchez reached over and took Vin's hand in a strong shake. "Vin. You had us worried."
Chris glared at the new arrival, worry and anger churning inside him at the recalcitrant sharpshooter. Before he could let any of it out, Tanner had let go of Josiah's hand and took his in the familiar, strangely comforting grip the two friends shared. "Glad you're still both in one piece. Where's the rest o'the boys?"
Larabee returned the shake with a forced smile. "Trailing the rest of the gang. We've lost radio contact again."
Vin nodded. "Drums'd be better use than these radios. I've been trying to contact you for over an hour. Our boy's got himself holed up in the canyon for the night." He turned his face to the sky. "We should be lookin' for a hole too. Storm'll hit soon."
"There's nothing around here. If we head south, we might be able to meet up with Buck and the others," Sanchez said.
"Not enough time. We need to look for shelter now," Vin told him. "Get a fire going if we can or we'll be caught out. There's some rocks not far from here, should be enough of a windbreak, some gaps for a fire."
"Let's do it. It's already colder than I like," Chris replied.
"Lead the way, MacDuff," Josiah added.
Vin turned and started back in the direction he'd come. "Besides," he said as they walked through the pale Aspen trees. "It's right above where the target's spendin' the night. Reckon we could do a bit of ice fishin' in the mornin' and pull him right in."+ + + + + + +
Ezra and Buck slipped back into camp not long after dark. "No trace of them," Buck said. "No fucking trace! I knew this was a bad idea."
Standish dropped his pack beside Nathan. JD was hunched over the com-pack, tweaking and cursing like never before. Ezra hadn't realised the younger man knew so many colourful phrases. "No luck?" he asked Nathan.
"Got a five minute window of clear reception. Travis is with Karr at the encampment," Nathan told him.
"Any new orders? Intel?"
"Nope, just enough time to report our position and fill him in on events. Did get a weather report."
Ezra leaned closer to the small fire Nathan was tending; his hands were stiff with cold and still ached from the day before. "Let me guess. Blue skies and a tropical sun?"
Nathan laughed. "You wish." His face grew serious again. "High winds, dropping temps and more snow. Wind's gonna be a bitch out here in the open."
"Snow will cover any tracks too," Ezra thought out loud.
"Only what the wind hasn't already blown away."
Buck had been standing at the edge of the camp, staring back into the darkness. "Damn!" he muttered. "Damn, damn and double fucking damn! I hate this."
"Buck, come an' get some coffee while it's still warm," Nathan called. "We've got a long night ahead of us."
Wilmington turned on one heel and strode closer to the fire. "As soon as it' s light enough, we're heading west to that damn canyon. With any luck, Chris and Josiah haven't stepped right over the edge in the dark."
JD looked up and accepted a mug of almost hot coffee from Nathan. "What about the guys we're supposed to be following and the safe house?"
Nathan passed a mug to Buck. "We should stay on their tail as ordered," he added. "Might get in Chris's way if we show up unexpected."
"They might also be injured somewhere out there waiting for us to come get 'em." Buck was adamant. He sipped the coffee. "Nathan, your coffee tastes like piss, man."
"Yeah, but it's warm piss, Buck. Now, shut the hell up and drink it. Come the morning, you'll be glad we've still got some coffee left to drink 'cause we sure ain't got much else."
Buck grunted and turned to JD. "I hear you say you've been talking to Travis?"
"Only enough to tell him what's going on and that we were heading toward the safe house," JD replied.
"He'll send in the troops for sure. Those guys'll be trapped between them and us," Buck said, thinking ahead.
"And they took the Barrett," Ezra added. "That means they'll have to find a position and stay there. All we'll have to do is find them before they can use it."
Nathan pulled out a map. "It's got a range of roughly 1500 metres." He penned a rough circle around the position of the safe house. "They'd be in this radius from the edge of the Black Canyon to the east of the house. The damn thing's too heavy to carry much further and the way gets a lot rougher."
Buck was nodding. "Right. We'll go get them sewn up then we'll come back for Chris, Josiah and Vin."
"Vin's been up here a few times," JD reminded the others. "He knows what he's doing. They'll be fine."
Buck scowled into his mug.
"A walk in the park," JD repeated, hoping like hell he was right.
Fourteen
The wind howled across the plateaus, whipping up snow into wild whirling dervishes. Trees bent, branches snapped - new tinder for the summer season - patches of ground were uncovered then covered again with new snow; the landscape was a constant, moving entity within the storm. Huddled amongst a group of boulders that had weathered many such storms, Vin, Chris and Josiah tended their pitiful fire and attempted to melt the ice that had built up between the rocks for water. The boulders allowed enough room to spread a single tent for added shelter - its edges flapping in the wind and threatening to blow away at any moment. Another tent was used as groundcover, the snow dug out from beneath and formed into a rough wall of ice to block off the open end of the rock shelter. The blankets were used as temporary wall lining while the men ate. It was too cold to formulate plans, too damn stormy to think about anything other than keeping warm and holding sleep at bay. The need to keep the fire alight kept the men going through the long night, the thawed ice and tepid water keeping body temperatures high enough not to freeze solid. Shared body warmth did the rest.
Morning came and went unnoticed on the plateaus that day. The storm wiped it clear away.+ + + + + + +
Having four men in the temporary shelter didn't make much more difference for the rest of Team 7. Their retreat from the weather was strung between bushes and tied down to the closest trees. The covering snapped and billowed, the snow came in through the gaps, the cold seeped up through the ground. Buck, Nathan, JD and Ezra sat hunched together the entire night, their blankets - four deep - spread over them with a small opening in the centre to release smoke from the fire they tended. The radio pack sat between JD and Ezra. JD occasionally attempted to make contact with the outside the world, but even static could not make it through the bank of clouds and driving winds - the pack stayed quiet in a horrible night full of noise and the type of frigid terror only Mother Nature supplies. It was hours past dawn before the men realised that the dark void of the night had been replaced with blinding white.
Both groups had to dig themselves free of mounds of snow before they could resume the hunt.+ + + + + + +
Declan Raddick suspected he was being followed. Every now and then he had the urge to turn around and see who was there. When he stopped to catch his breath, he'd look up expecting to see someone beside him, or just behind him, or maybe the other side of the next tree. His mind was in turmoil, running from one idea to another, one plan to the next. His gut was twisting and churning, his hands - bloody and torn - fidgeted with his coat, his sleeves, and his hair. He pulled his sunglasses off his face then shoved them back on, wiped his hands down his legs then joined them together in a white-knuckled grip. Raddick didn't know what to do. For the first time in his life he was lost, the ordered patterns of his world pulling back and releasing their grip on the empty shell inside.
Moving became automatic. Declan's thoughts were too erratic for anything else. The emotional turmoil usually kept under strict control had been let loose by the last two explosions. Explosions that had fitted into the pattern in his head in a most basic sense, but at the same time, ripped apart countless others. It hadn't gone right and Declan needed everything to go right, to slot neatly into his world.
He reached the edge of the canyon almost by accident, remembering it was there moments before taking a fatal step. Looking down into the mist-filled void, he could see the shadows of rocks and the dark lines of trails that led into nothingness. Way below him was the roar of the river as it pounded its way through the cut in the earth. Declan felt eased inside as he looked down, and the tattered remnants of his control began to meld together. An image of clear water running over smooth rocks came to him, and he was filled with the desire to see it for himself. The water would save him. The water would wash away the confusion. Declan slipped over the edge and began climbing down the steep trail. He would go down to the water and be clean. One quarter the way down, Declan passed under a tree that had taken precarious root on the rocky canyon wall and spread its branches wide over the trail. It was dark at the base of the tree, and cold, but well protected from the wind that was starting to cut through every layer of clothing he had on. He could barely feel his hands and feet, and one arm was numb to the shoulder. Pulling his pack off was awkward; trying to open the clasps to retrieve food and some matches was near impossible. Declan worked at the straps until they came free then cleared a place to light a small camping stove. His fingers were clumsy inside the thick gloves and he stripped them off, continuing to work on lighting the fire with the same single-minded attention he'd given his plan.
Declan never noticed the blood on his hand, never felt more than the numbness in his shoulder where the bullet still sat, grinding bone and destroying tissue with every movement he made. He spent the night staring into the flickering flame and listening to the roar of the river below and the wind above.+ + + + + + +
JD, Nathan, Buck and Ezra stumbled across the last three members of Declan Raddick's team two hours after leaving behind their icy night camp. They were nowhere near the CIA safe house and they never would be. All three were dead.
"What the…?" JD exclaimed, pointing his rifle at the bodies anyway.
Ezra shoved one with his foot. The body was stiff and unyielding. "Bet he never guessed the road to hell would be so cold."
Nathan checked them all while Buck salvaged the abandoned sniper rifle from the bank of snow that had formed around it.
"Exposure," Nathan said. "They died from exposure. All they needed was some shelter and they might have made it."
JD and Ezra began shovelling snow away from the bodies. The signs of an attempted fire were found at the dead men's frozen feet, an upturned bowl of ice beside it.
"They couldn't keep the fire going," JD said. "Why didn't they have shelter? No blankets, nothing."
The men's backpacks had been laid out to form a partial windbreak. Ezra opened the top one and inspected its contents. "They didn't have any blankets with them." He pulled the next pack free and pushed back the top flap. "The packs are full of ammunition and arms. This one has hand grenades."
Buck looked up from the Barrett sniper rifle still half-embedded in the snow. "Why would they want all that when they've got this baby? That's two different kinds of war."
"Make sure they didn't miss anyone?" JD suggested. "Because they like to see things blow up?"
Buck was nodding. "Havoc and ruin. Sounds about right for this lot." He stood up suddenly. "There's nothing more we can do here that someone else can't do better. Time to go find Chris and the others. Nate, you want to mark this position on your map. JD, see if you can't get the radio to work and call in the coordinates."
"Are you suggesting we just leave these bodies here for the animals to feed on?" Ezra asked, standing and brushing snow from his pants.
"Don't give sweet F.A. for a bunch of murdering bastards that haven't got the sense to get out of the weather. Let the animals take what they can. I'm outta here." Buck adjusted his backpack, pulled his hood back over his head and turned to look back the way they'd come. The wind had already obliterated their tracks in. He pulled out his compass.
Standish shrugged. "They'll probably cause grievous indigestion to any animal unlucky enough to chew on their bones." He looked to Nathan. "You done?"
Nathan refolded his map and returned it to his sleeve pocket. "I wouldn't worry too much, Ezra. Animals aren't stupid enough to be out in this anyway. Let's go."
Ezra followed Buck out of the sombre camp, JD right behind him, having no luck with the radio, and Nathan taking up the rear. The four men headed straight for Black Canyon.+ + + + + + +
The briefing room at Coulee was empty of staff except for Paul Makin and Special Agent Bailey. Both FBI agents were exhausted and drawn. "When this is over, I'm heading south for the rest of winter. I've had enough of the damn cold."
"The Southern Hemisphere is currently experiencing record heatwaves, Sir. Christmas in Australia might be the thing?" Bailey replied. Her face was expressionless, but Makin got the feeling she was toying with him.
"Too many telephones," he replied.
"It's a big country, big desert in the middle. I'm sure you could find somewhere without a telephone."
"How about an exotic island paradise somewhere?" Makin could picture swaying palm trees and colourful cocktails served by smiling waitresses in bikinis.
"No good," Bailey interrupted his daydream. "Cyclone season."
"Damn. There's always something."
Any further comment was cut off as Bailey responded to a suddenly blinking computer screen. "We've got radio contact with the back-up team," she stated. "Say again, Team 3."
Makin walked over to the radio desk and waited impatiently. This was the first communication they'd received since the night before when Travis had called in from Team 2's position.
"Copy that, Team 3. Stand by." Bailey pulled the transmitter away from her mouth to speak to Makin. "The back-up team along with those Team 2 members that joined up with Larabee are down and on their way back to town. They've left the bodies in the mountains and advise a retrieval team should be sent in when weather conditions allow.."
"Warn the medical team that Team 3 is coming in. Some of those men have been out in this weather a long time. I'm going to talk to the CIA, see what they're doing about all this. Anything else? Any word on Travis's bloodhounds?"
"No, Sir."
"I want that report as soon as the men come in," Makin said, all thoughts of tropical islands shelved.
About the time that the three frozen bodies were discovered somewhere above Black Canyon, Makin had ensured that a team of CIA agents were being sent out from the safe house to intercept the oncoming threat and reinforce the ATF agents already in the field. He had already organised choppers to go in and retrieve the dead with the first break in the weather, and another to retrieve Team 7 as soon as the all clear was received. Paul had no doubt that Team 7 would succeed. The only thing troubling him was at what cost that success would come. He pulled out a tattered pack of cigarettes. Not usually a smoker, he had bought the pack the day before. It was that or a bottle of whisky, he'd reasoned with his lungs at the time. Right now he needed his brain to stay on functioning level. The whisky would have to wait.
He turned to Bailey. "I want the latest weather report and keep trying with Travis and Larabee. We need to get word to them of what we're up to down here."
Bailey nodded and went to work as Makin lit up his cigarette. Silently, she wished for a cigarette of her own. Next break, she promised herself. The very next break.+ + + + + + +
The trail down into the Black Canyon would suit mountain goats better than humans in clumsy boots and restricting coats. The ATF men had come dangerously close to going down the canyon side the fast way several times, their heavy-soled boots slipping repeatedly on loose and ice-slick rocks. They'd passed the tree and Declan Raddick's night camp, picking his trail up easily from there and following it down toward the canyon floor. They were wary of traps, but found nothing except the scuffmarks and loosened rock that marked their target's passage as precarious as their own. It was a long way down and the men passed numerous boulders and ledges, checking them all for ambush, without mishap. The man they followed had rushed past them all, either uncaring or unknowing that he was being tracked.
"I don't get it," Vin mumbled to Chris at one such point. "He's practically running down. This ain't even a proper trail. If he were heading to the safe house, he'd be better off on a trail that might actually get him there. The way he's goin' seems to me he's in no hurry to get to that house."
"Leading us away?" Chris asked.
Vin shrugged.
"Maybe he's got something else on his mind," Josiah added. "The house might be low on his list of priorities right now."
Vin and Chris stood up and pulled out water bottles. The wind pushed and tugged on their heads and coats, making conversation hard. "Like what?" Vin's voice was hoarse from the strain of talking above the wind and the echoing roar of the river below them.
"Don't know. He doesn't think like us though. Unpredictable, remember?"
The other two nodded. How could they forget? Water bottles were put away and the three agents continued on. Twenty minutes later, the tracks came to a dead stop. Vin removed his pack and passed it to Chris. Hunching over the tracks, he pulled off one glove and ran his finger over the edge of the last track. A rock had been dislodged, only a small one, but Vin followed the probable path down with his eyes. There was no other sign of disturbance, no evidence of someone falling, no indication of where the man had gone next. He had vanished into thin air.
Chris was standing above Vin, Josiah right behind him when the sharpshooter looked up, his expression perplexed. Chris and Josiah watched that expression change in an instant to horror and then Larabee was knocked from his feet and sent tumbling down the canyon side, a heavy weight on top of him, hitting and kicking all the way until he was stopped by jagged rocks, just feet from a sheer drop into the river. Chris landed on his back, his pack prevented him from being snapped in two, but the wind was knocked out of him with a thud and a loud oomph of expelled air. Stars swam before his eyes and his lungs screamed for oxygen. The weight that had stayed with him all the way lay heavy on his chest. Chris caught a hazy glimpse of orange hair and a laughing mouth. There was a yell from above and then the weight was gone.
Vin was taken by surprise. He'd looked up to Chris, confused by what the tracks were telling him, in time to see a flash of movement from a narrow ledge above and Chris being pushed clear off the canyon wall. Josiah was knocked sideways and struggled for a foothold on the slick rocks. Vin paused long enough to make sure the older man was steady then scrambled down the slope after Chris. He saw the pair crash into the rock, felt the thud of Chris's body as it connected and a sharp twist in his gut when the attacker blocked his view. He couldn't see whether Chris was alive or dead, but he could hear the crazed laugh of the man responsible for fourteen deaths so far.
The man was raising his arm. Something bright glinted in his hand. One more... The words came to Vin like a knife cutting through to his soul.
"NOOO!" Vin roared, throwing himself the last few feet between him and the two men. He landed his elbow into the killer's side, knocking him off balance and away from Larabee. Both men fell away from the winded ATF man, sliding further down the slope and dangerously close to the ledge rim. Vin pulled away from the killer, using his feet to kick himself free, and started to climb back up to Chris.
Raddick still had hold of the knife he'd already used on six men. The seventh still waited. Declan didn't care who - just how. He forced himself to his feet. One arm was completely useless now, the bones shattered in the fall, but as unfelt as the bullet. Declan contained the urge to lash out at the rocks and focussed the energy instead on the man who had come between him and his seventh kill. He couldn't go down to the water until order was renewed, and Declan needed the seventh to complete the cycle. He could feel the thrumming inside him - so close to being still, so close to satisfaction and peace.
Josiah had reached Chris and was checking him over before pulling the injured man into his lap. Sanchez himself was gasping for air, having landed heavily when he fell and bruised several ribs at the least. It hurt like hell to breathe, the cold air he was sucking into his lungs burned his throat making it harder to catch his breath.
Vin was on his way back up, worry etched into his face as he climbed. The sunglasses had long fallen away and Josiah could see tears in the man's eyes from the wind and the hair whipping across his face.
"He's okay, Vin," Josiah called. "He's okay."
Vin saw Chris blinking, disoriented from the fall and forceful stop, but blinking and moving as Josiah cradled him in his lap. Before Vin could reach them, his legs were caught in a rough grip and pulled out from underneath him. He slipped back down to the ledge and was shoved on his back, his head inches from the edge of the rock.
Raddick knelt down on the squirming man, holding him down with one knee while he wiped his knife up and down his sleeve. Satisfied it was clean enough he lowered it down to the man's throat.
Vin grabbed for the knife and felt it cut into his forearm as he struggled with the killer. He forced the knife hand back an inch from his bared throat, then, with a violent heave Vin bucked beneath the man and drove him back. The man stumbled and attempted to use his broken arm for support, but it buckled beneath him, giving Vin enough time to jump to his feet.
Raddick pulled himself back up to his knees. There was no room on the ledge for fancy fighting techniques. Vin kicked his foot out in a short, vicious jab that caught the crazed man full in the chest. He kicked again and the man was knocked back against the canyon wall.
Raddick tried to stand. The thrumming inside his head had turned into a thick, red roar of fury. He tightened his grip on the knife and pushed forward. Vin ducked and then stood, heaving his shoulder into the man's midsection as he fell over him. It was Raddick's turn to lie on his back, panting for air that wouldn't come. He lifted his arm, unwilling and unable to stop until the seven was complete. Vin grabbed the wrist and forced it open, taking the knife from Raddick's numb fingers and backhanding the man across the face.
Tanner pulled back, turning slightly to throw the knife behind him. Declan took that moment to surge forward, catching the sharpshooter off guard. Vin swung back around, the knife still in his hand as the madman lunged toward him. Vin's hands came up defensively, the blade, shimmering in reflection from the snow and ice around them, impaled itself deep into Raddick's chest.
Declan's chest burned and he looked down, stupefied to see the hilt of the knife protruding from his sweater - his sweater, once a pale blue, now turning purple as warm blood spread around the knife.
"You got your seven after all," Vin hissed into the murderer's ear.
Raddick felt an explosion in his brain. He tried to bring his arms up, but they wouldn't respond. His legs were folding beneath him. His ears were filled with roaring sounds. Declan opened his mouth and screamed defiance at them all.
All Vin heard was a strangled gurgle of sound, the pitiful death cry of something evil. The two men stood balanced on the edge. He shoved the knife in a little harder and felt the man begin to collapse as death took him. "You got 'em all right," he drawled. "But seven ain't your lucky number no more."
And then he let go.+ + + + + + +
The fall lasted an eternity. Years of dropping through space and time, being stripped bare of twisted truths and compulsions, until all that remained was the burnt celluloid of his life and the blank screen of a tormented soul.
Declan watched the man that had set him free lean over the edge, imagined for a moment that they'd locked eyes, and hoped that next time around would be better.
Rocks rose out of the river like jagged islands - eerie ghosts in the white of the rushing water, the white of the falling snow and chunks of ice that floated down river. The shadows of submerged rocks, smooth and slick from the fast flowing river, could be seen in the deeper pools where the current was still strong but less turgid. The roar of falls upriver carried down through the canyon; the sound bouncing off the sheer sides of the cutting until it was all around, coming from every direction.
Declan's body landed with a thump and a splash of icy water on an island in the middle of the river. One limp hand floated on the edge of a deep pool, the other lay across the rock, palm up. His legs were caught, bent awkwardly beneath him. He stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy and no longer able to see the man or the canyon - only white. Flakes of snow landed on his open lips and in his hair. He felt cold and clean, and still.
Tiny puffs of air escaped his mouth. Fast at first and then slowing.
Seven short breaths.
A hitch.
Then silence.
Epilogue
CBN NEWSCAST: Reports have just come in regarding a fatal FBI and ATF operation in the West Elk and Black Canyon regions of the Gunnison National Park. Fourteen agents were murdered by a splinter militia group known as Free America. Ten members of the group have also been killed. Assistant Director Orrin Travis of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms has stated that six of the Free America group were apparently murdered by their own leader…
TNN: Seven ATF agents walked, limped or were carried out of the Black Canyon last night at the end of a successful combined Federal Operation. But at what cost comes success? Fourteen ATF, FBI and Forest Service officers are dead with ten of the alleged criminal element they were chasing also dead, though whether they were killed by Federal agents or their own people is yet to be confirmed. Names have yet to be released and details of the operation may not come to light for some months as the surviving agents are whisked away for top-secret debriefings…
Coulee and District Regional News: The town of Coulee recently played host to the ATF and FBI as part of their operation to catch gun runners in the Gunnison National Park. The gunrunners were responsible for the death last week of an FBI agent investigating a major illegal arms operation and the deaths three days ago of three local Forest Service Officers. Another two officers were murdered in a later ambush that also took the lives of eight Federal agents. The gun runners were themselves killed as they fled capture, the last of them dying after falling from a ledge in the Black Canyon. Three ATF agents are currently recuperating at the Regional hospital from injuries sustained at Black Canyon and are expected to be released sometime in the next few days. This station offers its heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of those who died in the line of duty.
Coulee Bar and Grill, a few days later:
"I'm tellin' you, man, those ATF agents are somethin' else. They went in with guns blazin'."
"Mack, you're full of shit. You weren't nowhere near the action, man."
"Heard 'em talkin' while I was unloadin' supplies, smart ass. That guy in charge was fit to be tied waitin' to hear back from his men. Radios weren't workin' 'cause of the weather. They had them a crazy man on their hands. The one guy did most of the killin'. Blew up a pile of men at Faulkner's Pass, murdered those rangers and his own men. When the radio was workin' again, heard 'em sayin' how the crazy guy attacked another one of them agents they took down to the hospital and one of the others just up and threw him into Black Canyon. Reckon it musta been that big guy who did it. Reckon he could wrestle a grizzly and come off a winner."
"The whole thing was a fuck up you idiot! Twenty four men were killed all told and how many came out the other end?"
Mack stole a glance at the crowd of men in the far corner of the bar. Most were standing around a smaller group of men, all seated. One had his arm in a sling, two others were obviously stiff and sore, and the other four looked plain tired.
"Seven. Lucky seven."
END
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