King ordered the kid and pilot to take them to the campground. Neither argued or had any intention of doing so. The gun in Beck's hand would have been enough motivation, but the phony CIA badge— one of many badges the team carried for similar situations — flashed by King was enough to make them fear disappearing off the face of the planet.
The group held their breath as the pilot flew the chopper out of the trees at a perfect angle. A shift to the right or left would send the blades into tree trunks. A little too much height would cut into the canopy, and a downward shift would plow them into the trees rising at a steady angle in front of them. Anyone watching from above would see the helicopter emerge, almost magically, from the forest.
As they cleared the trees and rose higher, King pulled out his cell phone and activated his direct line to the only person he thought could help.
"This is Aleman. What can I do you for?"
"Ale, it's King."
"What's up?"
"We've got…" He looked at the timer on Ridley's PDA. "Eight minutes and thirty-three seconds to stop an explosion triggered by a remote signal sent from Richard Ridley's PDA."
Aleman groaned. "What did they rig?"
"There's a massive natural gas deposit beneath the valley here. He's going to light it up, destroy the whole town and kill thousands of people."
"Okay. Call me back."
King was incredulous. "What!"
"Call me back from Ridley's PDA. Hurry."
King didn't argue. This was Aleman's forte. He had no choice but to trust the man. He dialed Aleman from Ridley's PDA. But when the phone on the other end picked up, a loud squealing sound came through, like a dial-up modem. A text message appeared on the screen.
Just need a few minutes. — Lew
A flash of movement tore his eyes away from the PDA message. As he turned, the moving object coalesced into a muddy wing-tip shoe. Ridley. King moved away from the kick, but only managed to soften the blow. Ridley's heel connected with his cheek, knocking him across the cabin where he spilled onto Beck.
When King spun, he expected Ridley to press the attack, but was greeted by a gust of wind and the unhindered noise of the rotor blades cutting through air. Ridley stood at the open door, clutching the sides while his suit coat flapped violently around his waist. "I could have offered you the world."
"You would have destroyed it," King said as he righted himself.
Ridley backed out a little farther, glancing down. His face twisted with nausea from the height.
"Don't be stupid," King said.
"Death is a more becoming alternative to imprisonment. I was meant to be free." He looked at Beck. "Eternity awaits." He let go of the door frame and fell back as a smile stretched across his face.
King and Beck looked out the side, watching his body twist in the air. His face struck a horizontal pine branch tree that sent his body into a rapid head over heels flip. A second branch tore his arm away. He disappeared in a spray of blood as the pine canopy swallowed him up.
King slid away from the open door and closed it. He turned to Beck, who had already moved back inside. "I don't think that was quite the noble fall he had intended."
Beck glanced out the window as she began to reply. "Ridley was—
Oh my God!"
Beck's cry drew King to the window. The campground quad spun beneath them as the pilot circled. The scene looked hopeless. Knight was on the ground, motionless next to the wrecked Chevy Tahoe. Bishop stood alone on the quad, backing slowly away from the Hydra, whose body and heads lowered to the ground like a cat about to pounce. In seconds Bishop would be a stain on the grass. And if he happened to survive the attack thanks to his regenerative abilities, his mind would most certainly be lost. His heart sank as he thought for sure he'd have to watch his friend die gruesomely.
Then he remembered the Gatling gun.
SIXTY- THREE
Bishop swung high, bringing the blade straight down as the first Hydra head shot toward him. The razor-sharp machete cut cleanly through the snout of the Hydra's open maw. But as the injured head reared back, stitching back together, a second was already striking. A third followed seconds later.
Moving backward, Bishop swung the blade as fast as he could, hacking at the barrage of heads. The Hydra kept on healing and striking, but its low tolerance for pain kept an injured head from attacking until it was fully healed. Despite Bishop's efforts, each attack pushed him back and came closer to striking home. It was a losing fight.
As two heads struck at once from the front, Bishop swung horizontally, hoping to cut through both heads, but he failed to see a third head striking from the right. Instead of biting, it rammed his legs. Bishop fell to the side, causing the two striking heads to miss the mark, but the impact was enough to break his leg and jar the blade from his hand. The blade twisted through the air and fell into the grass, hard to see, impossible to reach.
An intense itch ate at Bishop's leg as the bone reset and mended. He could feel the sinews and veins as they stretched out to each other and bonded. He growled in annoyance and fought to stand, but the Hydra was upon him. Pain shot through his legs as jaws clamped tight around both his calves. The Hydra's hooked teeth easily pierced and clung to his flesh and bones. The head yanked him off the ground and tossed him into the air. When he landed, twenty feet away, already healing from the deep puncture wounds, the beast was upon him. This time it took him by the waist and threw him again, playing with him like a cat does a mouse.
Bishop landed hard on his side, breaking his arm. He screamed with rage as he stood again. The Hydra pounded toward him. But rather than run away or wait to be tossed again, Bishop charged with a battle cry. As he ran he took out a small throwing knife and clutched it in the hand of his freshly healed arm. It wouldn't do much damage, but it was something.
Knight pulled himself up using the Tahoe's rear door handle. He leaned against the SUV's side and watched with horror as Bishop was tossed into the air like a rag doll. As Bishop was released by the Hydra, a trail of blood followed his arc through the air, but disappeared before he landed, fully healed. He was being torn apart and put back together again, over and over, and he was taking it all without losing his mind or focus on his enemy. Not yet, anyway.
Bracing himself against the SUV, Knight limped to the back of the vehicle and threw open the rear hatch. He lifted a plastic panel, revealing a keypad, and typed in a code. A lock clicked open. He pulled the panel up and looked at the assortment of weapons, from small arms to claymore mines to heavy-hitting assault rifles, which is what he was after. He took out a spare SOPMOD M4 with attached 40mm grenade launcher, already loaded, and hobbled back around the
SUV.
When he faced the battle once more, a smell carried by the breeze struck him. It was a mix of coppery blood tinged with something foul, like fish that had been left to rot and bloat in the sun. Knight watched as the Hydra, charging at Bishop once more, slipped in the grass. Red liquid splashed around its massive paws. The field was covered in blood, both Bishop's and the Hydra's. The copper smell was Bishop's blood. The rancid smell belonged to the Hydra.
Fighting his gag reflex, Knight took aim, but what he saw next kept his trigger finger from squeezing. Bishop was charging the beast head-on like he was Superman about to stop a runaway train. It was madness.
He watched as three of the heads launched forward, jaws open. They would have torn Bishop to pieces if he hadn't slid down onto the grass like a baseball player stealing second. The momentum carried him forward as the Hydra's charge carried it over him. He slid beneath its belly, jabbed the small knife up, and carved a three-foot incision into the creature's belly. As the blade cut through the thick flesh it made a sound like paper being torn. The knife snagged on a bone and was torn from Bishop's hand. But the damage had been done.