Chapter 47
Carlton “Priest” Williams was having a bad day. These last several weeks had been filled with bad days, which by his definition meant he was bored out of his skull almost the entire time. If it hadn’t been for his periodic excursions, he would have been stir-crazy long before now. The last real fun he could remember having was killing Abdul Aziz. Even disposing of the body had been entertaining, but the fight—that was exhilarating.
Aziz had been good. There was no arguing that. Better than good. He had been better than Priest himself. In a fair world, Priest would be dead and Aziz would be alive. The bitch of it was that life just wasn’t fair.
That damned Stephenson was driving him crazy, though. “Lay low. Stay cool. I’ll call you when I need you.” Give him a fucking break. The Doc's political agenda might be important to the Rho Project, but this laying low was driving Priest nuts.
Priest stretched his left hand in front of him, spreading his fingers wide on the table, palm down. In a smooth, quick motion, his right hand grabbed the SAF survival knife from its sheath, raised it high, and then brought it violently down. The blade penetrated the back of his hand, pinning it the table so that the muscles in the hand spasmed involuntarily, the fingers twitching taut before he could force them to relax.
Pain exploded in Priest's head. So exquisite, so wonderful. Not only had the blade penetrated skin and tendon, it seemed to have broken at least one small bone on its way through his hand. The blood, which should have been spurting from the wound, bubbled out around the edge of the blade, the wound closing as he watched.
A sudden yank pulled the knife from both table and hand, momentarily leaving the wide puncture wound gaping in all its ragged glory. As he watched, blood congealed into the hole, tissue and bone knitting and binding, scar tissue expanding to close the wound, then destroying itself as it was replaced by flawless, fresh skin. The whole process took less than two minutes, leaving his hand in exactly the same condition as it had been before his masochistic, sharp-trauma infliction.
You had to give the Doc credit. Whatever that gray stuff was that he had pushed through the IV tube into Priest's arm, it was liquid gold. Priest didn’t care if it was alien blood, or even alien shit. All he knew was it gave him what he wanted.
But Priest was done with this being a good boy and laying low bullshit. It was time for fun. What the Doc didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and Priest was damned sure good enough to ensure that Doc would never know. Army Ranger. Green Beret. Airborne. Jungle Expert. Pathfinder.
Priest had been through all the qualifications and served in multiple combat operations during his army time before he had been selected for Delta Force. The five years in Delta had been the best, especially the work in the backwaters along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. If it wasn’t for the damned politicians and their squeamishness about the rough stuff, he would still be there.
Bunch of candy-ass pussies. Torture? If he got a chance to work on one of those clowns on the Senate Intelligence Committee, Priest would teach them what torture was all about.
The drive from Los Alamos to the outskirts of Taos took him less than two hours. Slow to be sure, but Priest was in a slow mood. He wanted to savor the anticipation he felt. Besides, even at this pace he would be in place before five, long before the sun put in an appearance.
Just outside of town, he turned off onto a dirt road that became a park service access road, mainly used by hunters and fire crews. It took him another thirty minutes to get the four-wheel drive Dodge Ram up to the spot he had selected on his previous reconnaissance visits. He parked deep in rough woods with overhead cover that would make it impossible to see the truck from the air. Not that there was much air traffic around anyway, but Priest believed in being thorough.
Stepping out of the truck into the chill predawn air, Priest pulled on a charcoal gray sweat suit over his running shorts and T-shirt. It was nice to be able to combine his traditional morning jog with pleasure for a change.
Priest finished a set of stretching routines and then moved around to the bed of the truck. Opening the tailgate, he ran his hand along the lower right side of the bed. Finding the hidden catch, he pulled, lifting a section of the bed up and away. The false bottom hid a storage space just big enough to hold a couple of bodies snugly, if not comfortably.
Reaching into the compartment, Priest grabbed a small cloth pouch about the size of a cigarette box and stuffed it into the pocket of his sweats. Then, after one last bout of stretching, he moved rapidly along a narrow trail, barely visible by the light of the crescent moon.
It was only about half a mile to the hide position Priest had selected. In the past, someone had used this spot as a deer stand. Several expended seven-millimeter rifle shells provided ample indication that the shooter had not been particularly good at his craft.
But nobody had hunted here for several years, the expansion of subdivisions out into this canyon having pushed the hunters farther into the backcountry. What the spot did provide, though, was a perfectly concealed view of the golf cart path that wound up and along the hillside below, passing near the expensive new homes spread along the canyon.
Here the lots were at least five acres in size, and the views from the homes were magnificent. The cart path wound along the back side of a section of these homes, doubling as a jogging path, and led down to the clubhouse and then out onto the golf course.
Perfect. Priest had discovered this spot as part of his surveillance of his target. Not an assigned target. This was special. He had first seen her by chance as he filled his truck with gas at one of the quick-stop gas stations. From the moment he had seen her, he had known she would be his.
She was exquisite. Everything about her screamed upper-class elegance, from her blue BMW convertible to her long Burberry coat and shoulder-length blond hair. California Dreaming. She took his breath away.
Following her back to her house had been easy, the way the BMW stood out making it child’s play for him to stay way back in traffic, safely free from her notice. Once he had seen the house into which she pulled the blue Beamer, he had moved on. He had her.
Since that day he had made a number of trips up to the area, carefully scouting the surroundings, spending hour upon hour just watching the house from these hills, noting her habits and those of her husband.
The husband was a slight, balding man who left the house just before six each morning, his black Mercedes cruising down the winding road at an aggressive clip. Priest had seen his type often enough before. A man who got his trophy wife with his big house, fancy cars, and fat wallet.
As for Ms. California, she always started her day with a jog, except on days when the snow made it impossible to run along the cart path. Always the same routine. Exit the house as the sky lightened in the east, a brisk jog down the mile and a half to the clubhouse, once around the parking lot, and then back home.
Other joggers also used the trail, but the runners tended to be widely separated, hidden from each other for long stretches as the trail wound in and out of the woods.
Priest didn’t have to wait long. Just like clockwork, the black Mercedes pulled out and sped away, followed less than an hour later by the golden girl in her white jogging suit.
Priest scanned the cart path. There were two other joggers on the trail, both men, well ahead of his girl. As he watched, the men expanded their lead, passing directly below Priest's hiding spot and disappearing around a bend in the trail before the girl was within a quarter mile of his position.
Counting to thirty, Priest stepped out onto the cart path and began jogging slowly back toward where the golden girl would be rounding the corner at any moment. As she came into view, he jogged heavily, his breathing coming in loud, ragged gasps. Glancing up at her, he lifted his hand in a runner’s wave, meaning, “I’m too damned tired to say hi.”
She ignored him, at least until his fist rocketed out to strike her square in the stomach, driving all the air from her lungs in one loud whoosh. She doubled over, her body curling toward the fetal position as she fell, but she never hit the ground. Priest swept her body up in his powerful arm, spinning her so that she faced away from him, his other hand pulling the cloth pouch from his pocket and crushing the small glass ampoule within it in a single motion.
As the pouch pressed against her nose and mouth, all struggling ceased. Priest tossed her limp form over his shoulder and turned off the path, disappearing into the woods above the trail, only the lingering hint of chloroform leaving any indication he had ever been there.
The trip up the steep hillside and through the woods to the truck elevated his breathing only slightly. Ms. California was light, and Priest was in prime condition. It took him only seconds to lay her on the truck bed and then to bind and gag her with duct tape. While she might wake up on the long ride back to his cabin, the tight, well-padded confines of the false bottom would not allow her to make any significant noise.
Priest grinned as he slid into the driver’s seat, his heart thumping in anticipation. In less than two hours he would carry his new girl across the threshold and into his special cellar. And then he would show her why he was called Priest.