Scott Nicholson - The Gorge

Suffocation was the most likely outcome, for sure. If Goodall didn’t come back to finish the job first.

Castle had been edging up to the camp, guided by the thin thread of smoke from the fire. He’d gone from tree to tree, moving the way they’d taught in Hogan’s Alley. But shooting at cutout targets was a little different than shooting a breathing human being. Even when this particular human being deserved it, if “human” even applied to someone who taken at least four lives. Five if you counted the fetus.

Castle had gone over every possible detail with The Rook before they made the approach. Every detail except the possibility of a booby trap. The plan was to capture Goodall alive if at all possible (though they both knew no one would question a kill), make sure the woman didn’t take one for posterity, cut off any escape routes, and use the cliff edge to block Goodall’s retreat. Castle from the left, with the sun at his back, and The Rook closing in from the east, aided by his hunter’s compass. No way could Castle have foreseen a trip wire.

No way, because the brass hadn’t expected Ace Goodall to actually be in the Unegama. Otherwise, why would they have sent me?

A bomb that matched the previous attacks had detonated in San Antonio a month ago, shifting the manhunt from the Southern states to Texas. The tip placing Goodall in the Southern Appalachians was one of those believed to be a complete waste of time, but one that had to be followed up nonetheless. Since experienced, knowledgeable agents were in short supply and needed for the primary investigation, mop-up was left to burnouts like Castle. The FBI hadn’t bothered to set up a regional command center or a communications post, and their radio batteries were all but dead.

This was one mission he’d been stuck with, for sure. Castle was wedged tighter than a cork in a parakeet’s ass.

“10–20?”

The Rook. On the radio. Probably hunkered down behind a tree somewhere, analyzing the situation, measuring Goodall’s probable reaction with the blunt instruments of psychology and guesswork. No shots fired, so the situation was still under control. That was the book, and The Rook went by the book. Under control.

“Control” was a military word, the delusion of a former officer. Over the past three weeks, The Rook had taught Castle plenty about Robert Wayne Goodall. The personality assessment was crafted from bits of the Unabomber, Eric Rudolph, Timothy McVeigh, and Imaginary cases and boondoggles.

Something tugged on his boot, somewhere in that numb space below.

Must be a loose rock falling, putting more pressure on him. That meant the little cavern was shifting. Another palm’s worth of dirt sprinkled onto his shoulders from above. So the bomb-spawned earthquake hadn’t finished its business yet. The mountain hadn’t settled. God still wanted to play with his latest plaything, like a cat batting a crippled mouse.

The tug came again.

“Jim.”

Castle heard The Rook both above him and on the radio’s speaker below him. “Down here.”

The Rook’s head appeared in the opening, silhouetted against the dusk. “Are you hurt?”

“Not yet. Where’s Goodall?”

“I didn’t see him.”

Castle wiggled, kicking his foot, trying to free it from whatever had it snagged. “Take him down. I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“Take him down, damn it.”

“I lost him. What the hell happened?”

“Trip wire. I blew it.”

“Hey, we all make mistakes.”

Castle grimaced. His mistakes were getting to be pretty frequent. But this might be his latest and greatest. This might be his last.

The Rook lay on his belly and stretched an arm into the gap. Castle reached up, the shoulder muscle complaining, but a good two feet separated their fingertips. “I’ll have to find a branch or something to pull you out,” The Rook said.

“Watch your ass. Goodall’s got to be around here somewhere.”

“The camp was empty.”

“I heard the woman scream.”

“No shots, though. Maybe he took her. Hold on. I’ll check the camp.”

Castle could hold on, all right. Not like he had anything better to do. Though the tugging on his boot had grown more insistent. Castle remembered the Jaws craze, when TV and newspapers were filled with shark frenzy. Bite victims often described their initial attacks as painless yanks, but then looked down to find the stub of a limb gushing blood.

Attack. He wondered why that word had entered his mind. What did he suspect, that a giant mutant groundhog was chomping on his shoe leather, trying to get at the flesh inside?

Something swooped over the opening, a fleeting shadow that strained against the dusk. Castle’s perspective was skewed due to the narrowness of the opening, but the thing appeared to flutter its wings like a bat. Except these wings hadn’t been frantic, guided by a blind pilot. They had moved as slowly as a crippled vulture’s, a bird that only needed a few strokes to lift its body and glide on the wind currents. The vultures couldn’t have found him already, could they? If so, he’d damn well show them he was far from carrion.

Or maybe the vulture was after something else. Maybe Goodall had left a victim in the vicinity, either the girl or some unlucky hiker. Or maybe the Bama Bomber had been killed by his own shrapnel.

No, God never dished out such fair justice. If justice is blind, then God is nearsighted.

The bird swooped overhead again. Castle saw now that it wasn’t a vulture after all. Freshwater herons might live near the river, or some other large fisher, but this creature flew without purpose. This thing didn’t even seem to have real wings.

Sort of like the creature under his childhood bed might have looked. But Castle didn’t want to think about that. Besides, the bed was far, far away. But night was getting closer by the second.

One of the bombs must have had a faulty trigger, because it had detonated a couple of seconds after the first two. Ace hadn’t expected the wire to set off all three bombs. The sulfuric stench of explosives filled the air, along with shredded bits of leaves. After Ace picked himself off the ground, it took a second to get oriented.

Haircut Number One was prone on the ground, yelling into the radio. “Castle! You down?”

A voice, most likely that of Piss-and-Vinegar, broke through the static and burst from the speaker. No words came out, only an angry moan.

“What’s your 10–20?” Haircut said into his mouthpiece, rising and circling below the clearing, nearly disappearing into the gloom. In the silence that followed the explosion, Ace hustled to keep up. If Piss-and-Vinegar was down, then Ace could nail Haircut during the rescue attempt. Cops and soldiers had those stupid codes of honor that required them to risk their own lives for their fallen buddies.

“Ace?” Clara called from the camp.

Haircut, hearing her voice, headed toward the ledge that opened up onto the gorge. Piss-and-Vinegar must have tried to sneak up on the camp from that side, figuring to hide among the rocks. Haircut stopped, set aside his radio, and sprawled on his belly in the jumble of granite slabs. The bombs had triggered a landslide.

He shouted down into an opening in the rocks. The roar of the river kept his words from reaching Ace, who gripped a dead tree at the edge of the clearing. Though the deepening darkness disguised the sheer expanse of the gorge, Ace could feel it in his gut, and vertigo turned his knees to jelly.

Damn. He would have loved a two-fer, getting headlines in big type, but he wasn’t quite ready for the last hurrah. A cop killing would pretty much guarantee his own execution, and he wanted his death to mean something. The Lord had told him that life was sacred, even if that life was still in its mother’s belly. But all life wasn’t created equal. Ace scrambled away from the agent, glad to put some distance between him and the ledge. He doubled back to the campsite, expecting to find Clara there.