Hickok knelt on the turf, scratching his head.
Geronimo, sheltered behind a nearby tree, spotted a guard about ten yards to their right, slowly walking in their direction. Another sentry was the same distance to their left, drawing nearer. He shook his head, discouraged by the setup. There was no way they would be able to take out any of the guards without being seen by some of the soldiers in the camp.
Hickok must have reached the same conclusion. He was carefully backing away, his Henry at the ready.
Geronimo dropped to his hands and knees and crawled up to the gunman. “Any more bright ideas?” he whispered.
“Where there’s a will, pard,” Hickok quipped, “there’s a way. What say I amble to the right and you take the left? Scout around a bit. See if there’s a way in. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Before Geronimo could offer an objection, Hickok, bent over at the waist, jogged to the right and vanished in the undergrowth.
Just great!
Geronimo rose and moved to the left, treading cautiously, watching for limbs in his path or objects underfoot. The darkness made a silent passage all the more difficult. One snap of a twig might apprise the sentries of his position.
The owl wanted to know who was there.
Years of training and discipline, combined with his finely honed instincts and a lifetime spent in the wild, had sharpened Geronimo’s senses to the keenest possible level. He felt the breeze on his skin and detected the pungent scent of the pine trees and the rich earth. His ears distinguished the faintest rustling of branches overhead as nervous birds stirred at his passing. He was primed for anything out of the ordinary.
Consequently, he heard the muted voices long before he spotted the speakers.
Geronimo crouched and eased forward, avoiding protruding twigs and circumventing dry bushes.
What was this?
Two men were outside the camp, beyond even the sentries, standing near the forest. From their postures and gestures, it was evident they were arguing.
Odd.
Geronimo eased onto his stomach and inched ahead. A small pine provided an ideal place of concealment only two yards from the duo. He slid under the lowest branches and strained his ears.
“…called you out here because I don’t want the men to hear what I have to say. It wouldn’t be good for morale.”
“Screw morale!” snapped the second speaker.
Geronimo twisted to his left, risking a glance upward.
The first speaker was an officer, judging by the insignia on his green uniform. He was about six feet tall, his lean frame straight as an arrow, his brown hair cropped close to his head. His hands were on his narrow hips, his angular chin protruding in a defiant posture. “The morale of my men is important to me,” he coldly informed the second speaker.
The other man snickered. “The only thing important to me, and the only thing the Doktor will care about, is whether you do as you’re told and achieve our objective. We were told to destroy the Family, and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“Don’t lecture me about my duty, Brutus!” the officer said harshly.
The second man stiffened. He was well over six feet in height, and even in the subdued light from the campfires his body emanated raw power and… something else. He was solidly built, his brown shirt and pants scarcely able to contain his rippling muscles. A sneer twisted his bestial features as he glared at the officer. His hair was black, his eyes smoldering pools of an indeterminate color. “I’ll lecture you, Captain Luther, whenever I feel like it!” he stated in a guttural growl.
Captain Luther wasn’t intimidated. “I’ll remind you for the last time, Brutus. The Doktor put me in charge of this mission, and I’ll thank you to stop giving orders to my men!”
Brutus laughed, a peculiarly ominous sound. “Are you threatening me, Luther?”
“What if I am?” Captain Luther countered.
Geronimo saw the one known as Brutus reach out with his right arm.
His huge right hand closed on the officer’s shirt, clamping down with the tremendous force of an iron vise. He raised his arm straight up, his elbow slightly bent, and lifted Captain Luther from the ground.
“Let me go!” the officer ordered, striving to pry those stony fingers from his shirt.
“Don’t ever threaten me,” Brutus warned, his tone low and grating, “I won’t tolerate being threatened. If you do it again,” he said, and paused, glaring into the officer’s eyes, “I’ll rip your heart from your chest and eat it raw.”
“Let go of me!” Captain Luther cried, enraged by the humiliating treatment he was receiving.
“As you wish,” Brutus remarked.
The hulking psychopath grinned and released his grip.
Captain Luther dropped to the grass, stumbling and almost going down on one knee. But he recovered his balance and stood erect, glowering up at Brutus, refusing to be cowed. “I am in command of this strike force,” he snapped, “and you will obey my orders or else! The Doktor sent you as an adviser—”
“The Doktor sent me to keep my eyes on you,” Brutus said, correcting the officer. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If you don’t like it, tough!”
“You can keep an eye on me all you want,” Captain Luther stated. “Just don’t let me hear of you countermanding an order of mine again!”
“I did what I thought was best,” Brutus said.
“You ordered a patrol out without my approval,” Captain Luther declared, “and knowing damn well I had already said we weren’t going to send one out!”
“We should check up on the Family,” Brutus rejoined, “and see what they’re doing.”
“They’re waiting for us to attack,” Captain Luther mentioned crisply.
“What else do you think they would be doing?”
“They could be preparing a surprise for us,” Brutus commented.
“What can they possibly do against all of us?” Captain Luther demanded.
“You never know,” Brutus said.
Captain Luther snickered. “We have two thousand men and a tank, not to mention the other goodies I brought along. By this time tomorrow night, the Home will be a pile of rubble and the Family will all be dead.”
He chortled. “I can’t wait! We’ll destroy them!”
“I hope so,” Brutus stated, “for your sake. The Doktor will be furious if we fail, and you know what he does with failures.”
“I know,” Captain Luther said, a tinge of fright in his voice.
“It’s strange we haven’t heard from the Doktor by now,” Brutus noted in a calmer voice.
“He should have contacted us,” Captain Luther agreed. “He might simply be busy with other matters.”
Geronimo was surreptitiously studying Brutus. The man’s high, sloping forehead, extremely bushy brows, and protruding lips all combined to lend a sinister aspect to his appearance. A sudden flaring of one of the nearby campfires caused Brutus to be bathed in a glow of reddish-orange light.
For a brief moment, his face was vividly illuminated.
Geronimo was riveted by the bizarre sight.
Brutus was an ogre. His eyes were unnaturally large, giving him a popeyed countenance. The tip of his nose slanted at an abrupt angle, decidedly snoutish in its shape. Two of his teeth, the incisors, extended from under his upper lip. And his skin had a queer pitted quality about it, as if its texture were as rough as the trunk of a tree.
Geronimo recognized Brutus for what he, or it, was.
One of the Doktor’s genetic deviates.
The infamous Doktor had refined a technique for altering a human embryo in a test-tube. He had perfected a method of restructuring the genetic code, of producing outlandish animalistic humans, monstrosities part human and part… thing. The Doktor had been one of the world’s leading genetic engineers. But instead of devoting his skills to the benefit of humankind, he had used his warped genius to create a corps of personal assassins with superhuman strength.