But Murphy seemed to be okay, and Locke was so pleased with the arrangement he had made that Capelli couldn’t bring himself to say no. “That sounds good,” he agreed. “When do you plan to leave?”
“In about fifteen minutes,” Murphy replied, as he looked up at the empty sky. “We want to put some distance between ourselves and Colby. A rendezvous is hard to resist—but they’re damned risky. The stinks nailed one near Lincoln a few months back. I hear there were hundreds of casualties.”
“I agree,” Capelli said. “We’ll be ready.”
Murphy delivered a salute with the riding crop, gave Rowdy a pat on the head, and melted into the crowd. Capelli felt the strange tingling sensation at the back of his neck, took a long fruitless look around, and wound up selling the Luger for two .38s and a pocket knife. Later, when he went to open it, he discovered that the second blade had been broken off.
As the sunlight began to fade, and the shadows lengthened, Capelli figured they were a good five or six miles east of Colby. His knees hurt, his butt was sore, and the horse he was riding seemed to know that he was a novice rider. A fact made obvious by its tendency to make a side trip whenever a clump of especially succulent grass appeared.
The pack train included six wranglers, all of whom were amused by Capelli’s lack of equestrian expertise, and never tired of poking fun at him. Besides the mounts the men were riding, the group had a spare purchased from Locke. The actual cargo, whatever it was, had been loaded onto ten mules, each of which could carry about eighty pounds. So Capelli figured the group was moving eight hundred pounds of something. Less supplies, of course. Not that it mattered to him so long as everything went smoothly.
It was clear that the wranglers not only knew what they were doing, but had been working together for quite awhile as they laagered for the night. The site consisted of a rise crowned by a sturdy rock wall and a burned-out farmhouse. There wasn’t any shelter to speak of, but the waist-high wall would offer cover if the group was attacked, and the ruins were a plentiful source of firewood.
As the camp was set up, most of the animals were unloaded and given a chance to graze under the watchful eye of a mounted wrangler. All of which struck Capelli as very professional. And after darkness had fallen the well-screened fire, an excellent dinner, and the neatly aligned tents all combined to reinforce this impression. In fact, it was almost too well run in Capelli’s estimation.
The whole thing was reminiscent of the Army. And, as he listened to the men chatter among themselves, he was struck by the frequent use of phrases like “Roger that,” “He’s on the far side of the perimeter,” and “What’s for chow?”
Of course there were lots of ex-soldiers around, and the fact that a group of them had banded together could be explained in all sorts of ways, but Capelli resolved to keep his eyes peeled nevertheless.
Locke had no such reservations, and clearly felt at ease with the wranglers, as a group of them sat around discussing the finer points of Ford flathead engines. A subject of very little interest to Capelli, who was sore after more than three hours spent in the saddle and looking forward to turning in early. And, more than that, to a full night’s sleep, since Murphy insisted that his men would take all of the two-hour watches.
So the packers were gathered around the fire when Capelli got up and slipped away. Rowdy had been gone for an hour by then, hunting probably, because that was the way he got most of his food.
Capelli wasn’t trying to walk quietly. Doing so was second nature. And that was the reason why the wrangler who was kneeling next to Locke’s open pack failed to hear him. Capelli froze as the beam from a penlight played across his client’s gear. The fire threw some light into the surrounding area, but because the runner was standing in the dense shadow cast by the farmhouse’s freestanding chimney, he was impossible to see.
Capelli’s first instinct was to draw his pistol, step forward, and challenge what appeared to be a thief. But what if the man wasn’t acting alone? What if he had orders to search the packs? Given what he’d observed earlier in the day, such a thing seemed to be all too possible. The thought sent a chill down his spine.
Putting the flashlight down in order to use both hands, the wrangler bent forward to inspect the inside of the pack. For a brief moment part of the man’s face was illuminated. Only then did Capelli recognize him as a packer named Cody, a wrangler who had been standing nearby as he sold weapons back in Colby. He wondered if there was some sort of connection.
No more than a minute had passed since Capelli had left the circle of firelight. He heard a low whistle, saw Cody kill the light and melt into the darkness. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he’d been missed and a wrangler had been sent to warn Cody.
Capelli turned back towards the fire and pretended to zip up his pants as he reentered the firelight’s soft glow. Murphy was seated on the ground and leaning on a saddle. His eyes seemed to glitter as he looked up. “It’s a nice evening, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Capelli said, agreeably, as he held his palms towards the warmth. “It is. The nights are getting colder, though.”
Capelli and Locke announced their intention to turn in about twenty minutes later. As soon as they were alone, Capelli told Locke about what he’d seen and his decision to part company with the pack train as soon as possible. They couldn’t do so that night, not with a sentry on duty at all times, but an opportunity would arise soon. Or so he hoped.
So they agreed that they would take turns sleeping with weapons at the ready just in case the wranglers attacked during the night. That was why Capelli was awake when dozens of Grims burst up out of the farmhouse’s basement, killed the sentry, and attacked the men trapped in their sleeping bags.
CHAPTER FIVE
A SHOT IN THE ARM
The President of the United States was living in a cave. Not because he wanted to, but because it wasn’t safe to live out in the open. So when the wind-up alarm clock began to ring, he was sleeping in what he jokingly referred to as the “Executive Residence.” Meaning a side room off the cavern’s main gallery, where what remained of the federal government convened daily. It was pitch black, so his first attempt to locate the obnoxious clock failed. But the second succeeded.
Most of the facility had electric power, thanks to the presence of an underground lake and the turbine generator placed in the tube through which the outflow had been forced to pass. So the lamp located next to his sleeping platform came on as he turned the switch and the limestone walls were flooded with a soft yellow glow.
That was the easy part. Then he had to steel himself for what came next. The temperature inside the caves was a constant 58 degrees Fahrenheit. That was bearable when fully dressed but felt cold as Voss rolled out of the sack.
But there was no way to escape the moment, not and get his work done, so Voss sat up and began to work his way out of the bag. Once his legs were free, he hurried to pull the robe on before making his way over to a corner where all he had to do was hold a bowl under a steady stream of water in order to collect enough for a quick sponge bath. Later, assuming he found enough time, he would shave and take a hot shower in the communal facility down on the main floor.
Voss donned an Army uniform that bore no insignia, and slipped his arms into the Magnum’s shoulder holster harness, before stepping out onto the natural balcony just outside of his quarters. A downward-slanting trail led from his quarters to the main floor below. The pathway was one person wide and most of it had been excavated by hand.