Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

Adrian pulled up in front of the house. Taking the empty pipe out of his mouth, he got out of the car and whistled.

No response.

"Jock! Jock!" he called.

The hills gave him back a faint echo, but there was no sign of the dog.

"You think it was okay to leave him?" Maria asked.

Adrian filled the pipe as his eyes looked around. "Aye. He's not your city-dwelling lapdog. Plenty smart enough to seek sustenance from the neighbors. They'd feed'm, f' sure."

"Maybe they fed him too well," Jason suggested, lifting the carton of water from the trunk. "He's decided to take up with them."

"'Tis possible," Adrian admitted, the levity of the words not matching the. serious scan he was giving the surrounding countryside, "but a dog's not like a person. Y' canna buy his loyalty."

Jason was certain Jock was not what was on Adrian's mind at the moment. He was about to ask what the Scot sensed when he heard grunts from behind the house.

"Jock may be taking time off, but your pigs sound hungry."

"Always are. That's why they're pigs. May have to turn 'em loose to forage f themselves if we canna find slop for 'em.

Adrian's eyes were fixed on the house.

"You're not thinking about the dog or the pigs," Jason said.

"There's somethin' not quite cricket here. I'm tryin' to figger out what."*

In small, highly mobile strike groups like Delta Force or SAS, instincts were sharpened to the level of a sixth sense: a sudden quiet in the clamor of a jungle night, a pebble recently knocked loose from a mountain footpath, an old and battered automobile in a wealthy residential neighborhood. More than once, Jason had saved his own life as well as those of his men by noticing some almost imperceptible incongruity.

He put the carton of water down, freeing a hand to go to the weapon in the small of his back.

"What is the matter?" Maria asked.

Adrian shook his head. "Naught, lassie, jus' an old man's years of paranoia."

Perhaps, but Jason noted that the Sten gun under the seat was the first thing his friend removed from the Peugeot.

Each of the three loaded what they could carry. Adrian used a foot to open the door.

"Unlocked?" Jason asked.

"Aye. Someone come by to be a-borrowin' somethin' an' find th' door locked, I'd be regarded as an inhospitable sod, or, worse, one who dinna trust his neighbors. 'Sides, I dinna recall th' las' time I even saw th' bloody key."

Jason headed for the kitchen. "Where do you want me to put the dry ice?"

"Th' fridge, along with the sausage, cheese, and vegetables. Also the bottled water. It's better cool."

Perhaps the first time Jason had ever heard a native of the British Isles express a preference for chilling any beverage, including beer or drinks the rest of the civilized world served over ice.

Maria came in, her arms full. She leaned over to stock the small refrigerator. When she straightened up, her gaze went to the single window, a view of the rear yard.

"What is that?"

Both men joined her. Just beyond the shadow of the house, a small mound of fresh earth had been piled up.

" 'Twasn't there before," Adrian mused.

Jason was reaching for the back door.

"Please stay where you are, Mr. Peters."

The voice came from the kitchen's entrance to the rest of the house. The doorway was filled by three men, all with shaved heads, two pointing AK-47s. The one in the middle had a patch over one eye and recent scars on his face. Even so, Jason recognized him instantly.

Eglov.

"Please do not make any move I do not request. I would be greatly disappointed if I had to shoot you right here and now." He leered at Maria. "I have much more, er, interesting plans. An eye for an eye, I believe your Bible says."

"The dog," Adrian growled. "You-"

"The filthy mongrel bit one of my men. We could hardly leave him to warn you we were here upon your arrival. For that matter, we would have slaughtered the pigs also, but their absence would have alerted you. Besides, no true lover of the Earth would want to needlessly kill something so nearly feral as those swine. Now, if each of you will assume the position against the wall…"

Adrian leaned against the wall, legs and arms spread-eagled. "It was th' windows, laddie. Th' bloody windows. Since na' person was here, they shoulda been dirty from th' dust that blows aboot, not clean enough to see through."

Having the answer was small consolation.

Hillwood

4155 Linnean Avenue

Washington, D.C.

0801 EDT

Them cars was no presidential caravan; Shirlee could see that. Two District police cars 'n, a black SUV with blue lights behind the grille. 'Bout the time Shirlee made that determination, the mens in the suits was listenin' to their earpieces. She couldn't hear them, of course, but their hands went up to the little devices like touchin' the things would make them louder.

"Say again?" one of the mens said, his forehead wrinkled like he was hearing some sorta foreign language.

At the same time, the cars sqealed to a stop and men both in uniforms and suits came pourin' out like they was on fire. Shirlee was pretty sure she had enough doughnuts an' pastries, but these mans weren' interested in breakfast. Instead, two or three of 'em were carryin' guns an' the rest of 'em shovels.

Shovels?

Like they gonna garden?

Now?

Sho' 'nuff, while the mens with th' guns were lookin' 'round like they 'spected some kinda trouble, the others were digging at them ugly little plants jus' outside the dinin' room.

Then things got crazy.

One of them men who'd watched the plantings all week come screamin' outta the house, waiving this long, curved knife. He not be too smart, tryin' to cut the man with the gun, who shot him right there.

'Bout that time two more Russians-or whoever they was, ones been in and out the kitchen all mornin'-they pulled guns outta the drawers of the sideboard where Shirlee guessed they done hid 'em sometime in the las' few days. The two mens with the things in they ears, they got no guns, 'cause nobody 'sposed to have weapons on 'em for this conference. Still, they rush the mens with guns. There be two, three shots, so loud in the room Shirlee's ears ringin' and she stone-deaf. An' one o' the mens in suits, lyin' on the floor bleedin' bad.

The other Russian, he swing his gun around at Shirlee and shot. First she just feel a burn in her shoulder. Mutha-fucker done put a hole in her clean, starched uniform, one she done spent half the night ironin'!

Then it hurt. Oh, shit, did it hurt!

That same dude, he turn toward the other man in the suit, gonna shoot him, too.

Even months later, Shirlee was unclear exactly what happened next. She thought she remembered reaching with her good arm for the big coffee urn, the one she couldn't hardly lift with both hands. She definitely remembered the clunking sound of that big pot hitting the Russian's head. She remembered thinking that she was in the shit now, coffee an' blood all over the rug along with one very unconscious Russian.

Then it all went black.

Next thing Shirlee knew, she was still in the dining room but she was strapped to a stretcher. A woman in a pale blue uniform with ems stitched on the pocket was standing over her, holding some kind of bottle attached to Shirlee's arm. Two men in their light blue uniforms were lifting the stretcher.

Shirlee tried to sit up but couldn't, either 'cause of the straps or because she jus' didn' have the strength.

"Lemme outta here," she croaked, surprised she could manage no more than a whisper. "Who gonna take care my kids tonight, I ain't home?"

"I will," said someone behind her. She thought she recognized the man's voice from somewhere but couldn't quite place where.