He was in a full sprint when he saw the turnoff, and had to slow down so he wouldn’t get tangled up while he turned onto the dirt path leading into the woods. It went uphill, again. The grade was steep, right up the face of the hill, not rising gently along its edge.
He ran on the left shoulder as the path twisted and banked through the trees. It seemed like a long time before he saw the parking area, but it was probably only a few minutes. The lot was still a hundred yards distant as the meandering path leveled out. Between the intervening trees and the surrounding cars he couldn’t quite make out what was happening. A couple of big, dark sedans were parked in haphazard angles in the open space before some run-down wooden buildings. Barns or something. At least half a dozen men were standing around, watching something that was out of his range of vision.
His head started to swim, so he slowed down a little, realizing that he was on the verge of total system collapse as his muscles burned the last of the energy available to them. Fortunately, he would arrive on the scene in seconds and speed was no longer of the essence. Now silence was.
He took long, deep breaths. He tried to make his steps lighter, as if he were gliding over the ground. As he approached he got a better view of what was happening. He didn’t like what he saw.
He counted fourteen men in the parking lot. He figured this Mushroom Daddy was the hippie-looking guy being held with his arms pinned behind his back by one of the thugs. Two others held Creighton, Ackroyd’s partner, while a third systematically beat him with a truncheon. Eight others stood around watching. Ray grinned. Those were odds that he could enjoy.
No one had seen or heard him yet as he came closer and closer. No one... no one... no one...
Someone finally spotted him and opened his mouth to yell as Ray launched himself into the air. He landed on the hood of a car, catapulted off, bounced back to the ground, and hit the Allumbrado as he went by. He pulled his punch, but only a little.
Seven left.
Two were standing next to each other. Ray went down, his leg shot out in a sweeping arc, and cut them to the ground. Ray rolled forward, once, and was on them. He grabbed one by his jacket collar and head-butted him into unconsciousness. The other tried to crawl away. Ray grabbed his belt and dragged him back, kicking and screaming. He wrapped a hand in his greasy hair, made a disgusted face, and slammed his head, face first, into the packed dirt of the parking lot, smashing his nose flat and stunning him like a steer in a slaughter house hit between the eyes with an ax. Ray left him choking on his own blood.
Five left.
Ray scrambled to his feet and saw that he had run out of luck. The man standing six feet from him had drawn a pistol. Well out of Ray’s reach, he smiled and aimed carefully as Ray launched himself. The gunman squeezed off two shots then lost his smile as he realized that actually he wasn’t well out of Ray’s reach. Ray’s grin turned savage as one of the shots ripped past his ear and the other tore through meat and muscle high on his right shoulder, punching a hole clean through from chest to back. Ray didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He hit the man around the waist, like back in the days before his ace turned and he was playing six-man football in high school in Montana, only now his ace had turned. He was hurt and jazzed with adrenaline and pain and less conscious of his own strength. He felt the man’s ribs crack as he slammed him hard against a car fender and the shooter screamed as internal organs pulped.
Four left.
Two stood side by side, their automatics out. For the first time Ray remembered Yeoman and he wondered how long it would take the bowman to reach the battleground. The two thugs squeezed off shots that whined off the car’s fender, ricocheting into the night. Ray knew he wasn’t strong enough to throw a car at the shooters, so he threw the only thing he had, the body he still held. They ducked, splitting apart, and Ray went in on the heels of the dead man. More shots rang out and he felt the pain of a fiery poker drilling though his left thigh and upper right chest. He drew a deep breath, his smile a death’s mask, relieved when he realized that the bullet had missed his lung. That would have been trouble. Then he was on them. He grabbed a wrist and waltzed one around so that he blocked the other’s shot. He snapped his captive’s forearm and the injured man dropped his gun, screaming. The other, his eyes wide with fear, tried to blast through his comrade. Ray, wearing his captive like a bulletproof vest, rushed the shooter, who fired and back-pedaled as fast as he could. He clicked empty and Ray hadn’t felt any more impacts. Either he was beyond feeling, or his impromptu shield had absorbed all the shots. He tossed the body away and fell on the shooter, who screamed and threw his pistol. The automatic hit Ray in the cheek, the sight slicing it and pissing Ray off even more. Ray’s hand closed on the thug’s flailing arm and he pulled him close and wrenched his shoulder out of its socket. The man screamed. For good measure Ray grabbed his other arm and pulled that one out of its socket as well. The Allumbrado fell to the ground still screaming, and Ray turned.
Two left.
They were standing next to each other, ten feet from Ray. The others, who were holding the hippie and Ackroyd’s partner, had not moved. Two left, and one was unarmed. Ray recognized him. It was the blonde asshole who had abused Angel in Vegas. Ray smiled.
But the other was holding an automatic rifle and pointing it right at Ray’s chest. He realized there was no chance of dodging automatic rifle fire from the distance of ten feet. Fired from that close it could dish out more pain and destruction than he could deal with. It would certainly incapacitate him, and then it would be simple to deliver the coup de grace. Ray had never had to regenerate from a bullet between the eyes, and he didn’t want to try it for the first time so late in his career. He knew his only hope was to keep them talking as long as he could. He leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths.
“Witness,” he said, brushing futilely at the seeping bloodstains that had utterly ruined his suit, “what brings you to these parts?”
The blonde man frowned. “You recognize me?”
“Sure.” Ray took a deep breath to slow down his hammering heart. “I saw you in Vegas, picking on girls.”
Witness laughed. It was not a jolly sound. “Yes. I remember you now. Someone told me your name. Billy Ray, isn’t it?”
Ray nodded.
“So,” Witness said thoughtfully, “the federal government is involved. We weren’t sure, but we thought it might be when your partner made off with the boy.”
“My partner?” Ray asked. Then it struck him. “Oh, Angel.”
“Is that her name?” Witness said. “She’s quite striking. I’ll enjoy it when we meet again. Well.” He thought for a moment, then he glanced at the man who’d kept Ray covered the whole time. “I don’t think he can tell us anything more. Kill him.”
Ray tensed, ready for a desperate jump, knowing it would be useless.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New Hampton: Snake-Handlers’ Commune
Jerry felt as if he’d gone a couple of rounds with Marciano in his prime or maybe Jake LaMotta, like in Raging Bull. He grimly held on to his consciousness and just as grimly tried not to puke on his shoes as Witness’s man worked him over with a sap loaded with lead pellets, stopping every now and then to ask questions about John Fortune that he couldn’t answer.
The sudden appearance of Billy Ray was like the arrival of an angel on Earth. His captors stopped beating him. Ray was a blur of motion as he charged heedlessly into a fight against impossible odds, but after a moment or two Jerry had the sudden hope that perhaps the odds weren’t all that impossible as Ray cut through his foes like, appropriately enough, an ace through nats.
His hope, however, was short-lived as Witness and the last of his otherwise unoccupied henchmen got the drop on Ray. Everyone was watching the drama, Jerry realized, even the thug who’d been holding him while his pal sapped him down. He went limp, sagging forward with all his weight, and his right arm broke free of his captor’s grip.