Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

She seemed unaware of their presence, all her attention fixed on the courtyard. And then, Coldmoon saw a man rise, hands in the air. Now more men began to stand up, hands raised. Still Constance gripped the machine gun, stock pressed against her shoulder, the barrel of the weapon smoking and steaming in the rain. She took aim, breathing heavily.

Pendergast put a hand on her shoulder. “Constance?” He gave her a gentle shake. “You can stop shooting now.”

For a moment she remained motionless in the gathering silence; then she eased her finger from the trigger. Silence fell as more soldiers rose up, shakily, some splattered with their comrades’ blood.

Although her face remained composed, her eyes were afire — a wraithlike, mud-covered specter of death.

“We’d better get the hell out,” Coldmoon said. Even as he spoke there was a scattering of fire in the parking lot beyond the courtyard. The soldiers who had surrendered, seeing their comrades arriving, hesitated, and some broke into a run to get away.

In an incongruously courteous gesture, Pendergast motioned down a faint road into the dark swamp. “Constance, if you’d kindly lead the way?”

They ran down the track and were soon enveloped in protective darkness. A few random shots rang out behind them, but nobody, it seemed, cared to follow.

“Where’s that woman?” Coldmoon asked abruptly.

“Alves-Vettoretto? Gone,” Pendergast replied. Then: “She’s a survivor; she can take care of herself.”

“Why did you take her with us, anyway?”

“I believed I saw something worth saving. Chalk it up to a personal weakness, perhaps.”

They jogged down the muddy path toward the docks, Constance in the lead.

In his entire law enforcement career, Coldmoon had never seen anything remotely like what this woman had just done. He wondered if she was really Pendergast’s “ward” — this crazed angel of death, in her torn and filthy clothes — or instead some kind of homicidal bodyguard the man had trained for his own protection. For a moment, his thoughts strayed back to his grandmother, and her description of Wachiwi. He recalled seeing Dancing Girl with his own eyes, walking through the frozen trees, her thin form wrapped in a blanket. She is mortal, as we are. Yet she is also different.

Pendergast had taken a spotlight from one of the dead soldiers, and it now illuminated a grisly sight: three dead guards in a rude pillbox made of earth and bricks, their bodies sprawled and splayed in various attitudes of death.

“Your handiwork, Constance?” Pendergast asked.

“I needed their weapon.”

“How did you do that with only a stiletto?”

“Chief Perelman lent me his gun. Not voluntarily, of course. He’s down at the river, with a broken leg. We were caught in a tornado as we were landing.”

They proceeded through the dark trees and around a bend in the lane. Ahead now, Coldmoon could see the black mass of the river through a tangle of wrecked docks, piers, and metal buildings. Constance veered off the road and they made their way to the embankment.

“I left him here,” she said as they came to a small grove of trees. Pendergast shone the light around.

“Over here,” came a faint voice from downriver.

They worked their way along the embankment to find Chief Perelman lying on his side next to his wrecked boat. He had the mike of a VHF in his hand, the radio next to him, wired to a marine battery from the boat.

“Dragged myself over,” he said, gasping, his face smeared with mud and dripping with rainwater. “When I heard all that shooting, I figured you wouldn’t mind if I called in the cavalry.”

As if on cue, Coldmoon heard the distant rumble of rotors and saw — above the treetops in the east — a line of choppers moving fast and low. A moment later, lights appeared downriver, with a rising drone of outboard engines, as a phalanx of Coast Guard patrol boats materialized out of the darkness, moving at high speed, their spotlights playing along the shore.

“That was fast,” Coldmoon said.

“I told them federal agents were engaged in a firefight, with a man down. That did the trick.” Perelman lay back, looking at Constance. “I can’t believe it — you actually went in there alone and rescued these two?”

“I only did what I said I would do,” she said simply.

“ Only ,” the chief said, shaking his head and lying back with a wince. He glanced in the direction of the river. “I hope to hell they’re bringing painkillers.”

Coldmoon watched the helicopters pass overhead. The first patrol boat made a ground landing and several men and women in body armor jumped out, their lights flashing, armed to the teeth with assault rifles, mortars, and RPGs. Its complement deployed, the boat backed away, making room for the next vessel.

“I’m going back,” said Pendergast, moving toward the troops.

“What the hell for?” Coldmoon asked. “We did our part. Let them do the mopping up.”

“I have to get Dr. Gladstone. They gave her the drug... and she amputated her own foot.”

“Oh my God...” Coldmoon swallowed. “I’m coming with you, then.”

Pendergast nodded. “Thank you.”

They joined the stream of men clambering off the boats. “This way,” Pendergast cried to them. “Follow me!” And moments later, the assembled group set off toward the glowing complex rising beyond the trees, as the choppers hovered above, fast-roping down SWAT teams and exchanging fire with the rogue troops inside the facility.

After the sound and fury of the previous night, it was a remarkably quiet group that rode in Perelman’s Explorer the following morning. Towne drove while the chief reclined in the front passenger seat, his leg in a splint. Coldmoon, Pendergast, and Constance Greene sat in the back. The storm was spent, giving way to freshly washed blue sky.

“It’s very good of you to drop us at the house,” Pendergast said, with a voice as tranquil as if they’d just been shopping at the local mall.

“Least I could do,” came the response from the front seat.

Coldmoon was too exhausted to speak. The dawn helicopter ride back from Crooked River to Fort Myers, the obligatory medical exams, the initial debriefing, and paperwork had passed in a blur. Now Perelman was driving them home, and all Coldmoon could think of was crawling into bed. As the Explorer bumped over Blind Pass Bridge onto Captiva, he thought it was as beautiful a place as he’d ever visited in his life — but he was too tired to appreciate it.

Pendergast sat beside him, as pale and still as a marble statue. Constance was on the far side. Constance — what was he to make of her now? She hadn’t spoken to him since they left the complex, and he could feel the tension radiating from her when he was around. He once again recalled her warning when he’d refused to bring her along on the rescue mission. He hoped it was only a brief expression of anger and not an actual threat. Unfortunately, it didn’t feel that way. Maybe he could convince Pendergast to talk to her — he doubted anybody else could change her mind.

As the Explorer approached the Mortlach House, the radio squawked. “Explorer One, Explorer One. P.B., acknowledge.”

With a grunt, Perelman reached forward and plucked the handset from its cradle. “Priscilla, what is it?”

“Chief Caspar wants an update. And Commander Baugh’s been calling and call—”

“Nothing until after my nap,” he interrupted, replacing the handset and turning to Towne. “Just like I predicted, all those souls who did nothing, and even the ones who screwed up, are going to crawl out into the light, eager to share in the glory. Just wait.”