Blood Retribution Page 2

  “I think she’s dead.”

  “Then let’s track down the other one,” Lee whispered. “It was a wolf, right?”

  Diane nodded, keeping her back to the wreck as she looked out into the dark. The brush made it difficult to see more than fifty feet.

  “It’s out there somewhere, hiding.” Lee stood beside her, watching for signs of movement. His night vision was complete, but the colors were still faded toward the gray. A wolf or panther could also see quite well at night, he knew, but skinwalkers in animal form had one tactical advantage over the animals they mimicked. They thought like humans, and recognized the danger of guns and other human weapons.

  “Think it’ll come to us? I hate the idea of moving through Ambush Central half blind. This night scope is so limited.” Diane had been using the device again, but now placed it back into her pocket.

  “You need to stay in the open so it’ll have to expose itself at the last minute before it reaches you,” Lee said, moving away from the overturned vehicle onto the road. “Take the shotgun, for close-range firepower.”

  “No, you’ll need that if you’re closer to the brush. I prefer my pistol at close range. I’m more familiar with it. I’ll sling the rifle over my shoulder. You keep the shotgun.” Diane walked out into the middle of the road, looking up the hill as she adjusted the sling, placing the rifle on her shoulder.

  He reached into his pocket for a shotgun shell, intending on topping off his weapon, then suddenly realized this was an ideal time for a wolf that thought like a human to strike.

  Lee turned his head just as a massive ball of fur and muscle shot out from behind the wreck. “Diane!” he shouted, bringing the shotgun up—too high.

  The growling beast ducked beneath the roar of the flaming barrel and struck directly at his midsection with open jaws. It felt like he’d been jammed in the gut with a log, one with raking fangs. Lee gasped for breath as he doubled over the animal, somehow managing to grab one of the creature’s back legs as the shotgun flew away in the opposite direction.

  Vampire and skinwalker tumbled to the ground, twisting and turning in a deadly wrestling match. Something snapped at Lee’s midsection, and the wolf’s grip on his gut eased. The animal had bitten off his belt buckle, not his skin.

  He rolled, trying to get free from the creature long enough to grab his pistol. Somewhere close by Diane was yelling, but the words were jumbled as he tried to concentrate on reaching his pistol. A fingertip on the leather told him the pistol had fallen out. Then Lee felt sudden, excruciating pain in his left forearm. The beast had clamped down on his arm with its powerful jaws.

  Trying to block out the sudden, warm wetness on his sleeve, Lee doubled up, bringing a knee sharply into the beast’s middle. The wolf grunted, but shook its head, digging further into Lee’s arm, ripping up muscle and tendons.

  An explosion went off close by, kicking up dirt, and he heard Diane curse. She’d obviously missed a shot to the creature’s head.

  The wolf snapped at Diane’s leg, yanking her to the ground as it snagged cloth—and maybe flesh. Lee took advantage of the sudden release in pressure and slid his fingers down into his boot, finding the handle of his commando dagger.

  Diane fired another shot, and the wolf yelped, letting go of her leg. Blood spurting from a foreleg, the animal turned back toward Lee, rage in its yellow eyes.

  Lee sprawled backward, spreading his arms and legs apart. He was the perfect victim, and the wolf fell for it.

  As the creature went for his throat, Lee brought his dagger up in a blur, braced against his upper chest. The animal was impaled at the throat, the dagger going in to the hilt from its own weight and momentum.

  Somehow the wolf, obviously a female, pushed off his body and threw herself back, sitting on her haunches, swatting with her paws at the dagger as blood literally spurted out in rhythmic streams. Diane shot the beast twice in the side of the head and she fell slowly over, twitching just a few times before all movement stopped.

  “Diane?”

  “Lee?”

  “You first,” Lee insisted. “What about your leg!”

  “Just my jeans. The bitch jerked me around, that’s all. But your stomach—your arm.”

  Lee lay there, looking down at his midsection. He’d been raked with the canines, but the wounds were shallow. The large Western belt buckle had shielded him. “Good time to be a nightwalker.”

  “Stay down, Lee. Your forearm looks like crap.”

  “Hurts like crap too, but its healing already. Just keep an eye out for another one of those wolves. I’ll be fine in fifteen minutes.”

  He sat still, not moving his arm, and the pain began to numb, then go away completely. If the damage had torn apart his heart, or vital areas of his brain, it would have been the end. But tonight he’d been lucky—so far.

  Finally, Lee stood. His arm felt fine, and he was ready for action. Bending over, he pulled his dagger from the dead skinwalker’s throat and wiped the blood off on her fur.

  Jamming the blade back into the boot sheath, he took his pistol back from Diane, who’d retrieved it, and the shotgun while she kept watch. Finally he picked up his silver belt buckle and wiped off the blood and saliva with his handkerchief. “Guess I’m going to need a new belt.”

  “Let’s check the pickup again, and that jaguar too. After our last surprise, I don’t want anything else to come out of the dark again for a while,” Diane said, her voice still a bit shaky. “Close call, partner.”

  “You got that right.” Lee checked his shotgun, cleared debris from the action, then moved with Diane over to the wrecked truck.

  “She still looks dead to me. Should I check her pulse?” Diane asked, shining her flashlight on the body. The old woman’s eyes were open, but they’d lost their shine.

  “Don’t bother. Let’s just get away from this wreck. Smell the gasoline?” Lee’s sense of smell was exceptional, and the scent was nearly overwhelming at the moment.

  “Time to call the tribal police?” Diane asked, her eyes always searching the darkness beside the road.

  “Yeah.” Lee turned completely around as he took in the area around them once more before moving toward the SUV. “Clarence Atso is still unaccounted for, so we need to make sure that neither he nor the other members of the pack are still around. Keep an eye out while I use the radio. Then we’ll go check on the house again.”

  Moments later Lee returned to where Diane was standing and, following her gaze, looked over at the dead jaguar.

  “Death is such a waste,” she said, her voice heavy. “She killed Agent Thomas, I killed her, and it all amounts to one big zero.” She paused, then biting off the words, added, “It felt good to kill her, I won’t deny that, but now I feel nothing—nada.”

  Diane took a deep breath, then let it out again. “I wonder how we should explain what happened tonight?” she asked, looking back at the wrecked pickup.

  “We questioned the woman, then encountered the cat when we returned to our vehicle. We believe she must have let it loose. When it attacked we were forced to shoot it. The woman tried to run me down, but had the accident. The wolf, who’d been riding in the truck, attacked and we killed it. I think that fits the superficial evidence and is basically true. I’ll just have to change shirts before anyone else sees me wearing all this dried blood and wonders why I’m not injured. That’s why I never leave home without a spare change of clothes in my vehicle.”

  “That solves a couple of problems. But the Navajo cops are going to be pissed off when they find out we came here without checking in with them first,” Diane said.

  “What can they do about it without making themselves look bad? We came at night, knowing that’s when the jaguar might be allowed to roam. We successfully hunted down an animal who killed an FBI agent—what was in essence this woman’s trained assassin. The cat tracks lead right up to her door, so the evidence supports our story.”

  “But you’re right,” Lee continued. “The local police
won’t forget. They weren’t able to find the animal, and we were. Next time well have a hard time getting their cooperation if we need it. The public, on the other hand, will be thrilled that another dangerous neighbor is gone, but they won’t talk about tonight. It’s not safe to get too curious about skinwalkers. Traditionalists teach that talking about something like this means calling it to you.”

  “Do you suppose the crime-scene team will be finished before daybreak?” She looked at her watch. It was nearly 2 A.M.

  “If not, I’ve got extra sunblock,” he said, “and will apply it before anyone arrives. But, for now, let me change clothes. Then well check out the house before the troops arrive.”

  Less than five minutes later they drove up in front of the small house. The Lab puppy was in the front room, barking. Lee left the engine running with the headlights aimed directly into the front window. Anyone inside would have a hard time spotting them in the glare.

  Lee watched the front until Diane had enough time to get around back, then ran up to the door. Crouching low, he reached up and tried the knob. It was unlocked, so he swung the door back and peered inside. The puppy ran up to the threshold/barking; then his tail started wagging furiously and he rolled over onto his back.

  “Ferocious, aren’t you?” Lee muttered.

  The room was empty except for a worn sofa, two fabric chairs, and a small TV on a shelf made of cinder blocks and boards. A gas heater stood in the center of the room, vented via a metal chimney.

  “Bedroom looks empty,” Diane called out from behind the house.

  “I’m going in, keep watch.” Lee stepped past the dog and slipped inside, hugging the wall as he watched the doorway in the opposite direction. It led into the kitchen. He crossed over, knowing Diane was covering the bedroom, and peered into the kitchen. A small refrigerator was humming beside a gas stove, and in the center was a cheap dinette set with four chairs. Shelves made of cinder blocks and one-by-tens held groceries, dishes, and cooking utensils. There were no closets or cabinets.

  “Kitchen is clear!” Lee crossed back into the living room, still watching the other doorway. The floor was all vinyl tile and didn’t appear to have any trapdoors or access below, so he’d ruled out a basement or root cellar. The ceiling was un-painted Sheetrock, taped and textured only. The only attic access was via a few small vents or from outside, perhaps.

  Two minutes later they were searching the bedroom for anything that would indicate how many people lived in the house. They found women’s clothing, coats, and shoes in three different sizes and also portions of a man’s wardrobe. If anyone else had lived there in the past, their possessions had been removed. A lot of extra bedding was present, along with a folding cot and the sofa bed. This suggested that at one time several people had lived here, but other than that there was little to learn from their cursory examination.

  Diane picked up the dog, who came eagerly, licking her hand, and they drove back to the site where the skinwalkers had died.

  “We had a bit of luck tonight, partner,” Lee said as he pulled up and parked fifty yards from the overturned pickup.

  “Against an enemy like this what we need most is good intelligence, and sharp instincts,” she said. “How many skinwalkers besides Clarence Atso are still out there?” She waved her hand around in a wide arc.

  “Angela, for one.” Lee had encountered the attractive young Navajo woman not long ago, but she’d eluded them. Angela had been from another pack living near Fort Wingate and was now the only survivor of that group. But he didn’t like to think about Angela. The skinwalker reminded him of another woman he’d once loved—one who’d been as good as Angela was evil.

  Lee noticed Diane watching him closely and added, “All it takes is one Navajo skinwalker to begin another pack. One nonlethal bite from someone infected with this disease and it’s passed on. At least this affliction seems to be limited to Navajos only, but there are more Navajos now than ever before. The Navajo Nation itself is the size of West Virginia, so Clarence, and Angela, have plenty of places to hide.”

  “Vampires, werecats … what’s next, partner?”

  “This is New Mexico, so maybe aliens from Roswell?”

  “Forget I asked, Lee,” she said, and reached over to pet the puppy, who was now between them on the seat. “Don’t worry, pup, well find you a good home.”

  “Here comes the crime-scene team,” Lee said, looking into the darkness ahead. “Get ready for tough questions from some angry-as-hell local cops.”

  CHAPTER 2

  he local sergeant was a prick, and as pissed off as Lee had expected. But after a while, the tribal officers wanted them gone just as badly as they wanted to leave, so that had lessened the headaches all the way around.

  Lee and Diane finally set out for Albuquerque and managed to grab a few hours’ sleep before starting all over again. A few minutes before 10 A.M. they drove up the ramp to the underground parking lot beneath the downtown Albuquerque FBI building. It was a previously scheduled meeting, a debriefing related to their earlier work.

  After passing through the security gate, Lee parked his black and white patrol unit in the secure garage of the modern stone, concrete, and glass structure. Three minutes later, after going through a second security checkpoint, they reached the quiet, tastefully decorated office of Acting Special Agent in Charge Vernon Logan.

  The SAC’s secretary, whose ID badge identified her as Irene Herrera, motioned them to the small waiting area beyond her desk, then quietly informed Diane’s supervisor of their arrival.

  Lee felt calmer than he should have. True, they both knew what tack to take if any questions concerning what had happened last night came up. They’d been off-duty, supposedly, so there was the possibility they were going to be disciplined, or at least given a good reaming out.

  Logan opened the door almost immediately. “Agent Lopez—Officer Hawk. Come in and join us.”

  Leonard Hawk was Lee’s current alias. Only Diane and a Navajo medicine man knew who—and what—Lee really was.

  SAC Logan, a broad-shouldered, pale blond and blue-eyed man in his late thirties, motioned them into the cluttered office, which contained several cardboard boxes stacked against one wall.

  Rising from his seat, which took a while owing to his six-foot-six ex-Lobo basketballer’s frame, was Lee’s supervisor, Lieutenant Richmond. He, like Lee, wore a New Mexico state police charcoal gray uniform with medium gray accents. Like the SAC, Richmond had light blue eyes, but his red hair and freckled face had earned Michael Richmond the nickname “Mikey” when playing for UNM.

  “Lee, Agent Lopez.” Richmond shook both their hands. “I’d like to commend you two once again on your success in taking down those German terrorists.”

  “Yes, you two did a great job. I’m in complete agreement with the lieutenant here,” Logan said, then added, “Some new intelligence on Muller has come to light. I thought you’d want to know that it’s likely Muller was trying to buy freedom for a relative of his who was condemned to death for trying to kill an Iraqi general.”

  “CIA know about that?” Lee asked.

  “The agency didn’t know about Muller or any assassination plot. They’re not happy that we uncovered it first.”

  Lee nodded. “Yeah, well, maybe they should pull their heads out of their … assets, once in a while.”

  “And on that note, there’s an issue you need to clarify for us now. The tribal police chief called with a major beef about your operation last night on the Navajo Nation. According to him, his department didn’t even know you were in their jurisdiction until you’d bagged two animals and their keeper.”

  “They were pissed as hell, according to the brass up in Santa Fe,” Richmond added, his Little Texas accent showing. “SAC Logan and I want an explanation—and it better be a damned good one. Why did you choose to make this move on your own initiative, Officer Hawk?”

  Lee exhaled softly, counting how many times in the past fifty years he’d danced to thi
s tune. The first time he’d been a state police officer, it hadn’t been necessary. But Lee’d had many other identities and careers since he’d become a night-walker, in 1945. Whenever his behavior or lifestyle began to prompt questions, he’d simply moved on, reinventing himself. However, Lee enjoyed being a police officer again after so many years, and he’d learned to cover himself expertly. Explanations, as far as he was concerned, were an exercise in creativity wrapped around the known facts. “After Blackhorse’s death in Las Cruces, the Navajo PD stopped watching his house. We—Agent Lopez and I—figured that made the residence an ideal place for someone to hide that black jaguar. Since Blackhorse’s home was in the middle of nowhere, and those cats stalk their prey at night—a time when most Navajos prefer to remain indoors—no one was likely to spot the creature when it was taken out and allowed to hunt.”

  “Officer Hawk needed backup and I volunteered. News of an FBI agent on Navajo land travels at lightning speed, so the whole thing had to go down quick and neat. When we saw that someone was living at Blackhorse’s old place, we headed back to our vehicle. We were about to contact the Navajo police via radio when we were ambushed.”

  “That dog you found, a black Lab. It’s not dangerous like the wolves, right?” Logan asked.

  “No, it’s a regular, run-of-the-mill puppy. I left it with a Navajo officer who promised to give it to the Bureau agent covering the Four Corners,” Diane said.

  Lee had known that finding that particular dog a home on the Rez would be all but impossible. No one there would have wanted anything to do with an animal that had belonged to a suspected skinwalker.

  Logan’s telephone rang, and he looked down at it with a scowl. It rang again, and he picked it up. “What, Irene?” Logan listened for a moment, then looked over at Lee. “Okay, fifteen minutes.” Logan hung up and looked at them. “Well have to cut this meeting short. The call was from state police headquarters in Santa Fe. Two undercover officers, one a state policeman and the other a Navajo officer, have been found dead east of Shiprock on the Navajo Nation.”