Monster Hunter International

Chapter 11

That night I dreamed again. But it was not about my apparent friend, the Old Man with the poor English. Nor was it about the Cursed One and his gang of abominations. This was something different.

A lone mountain rose out of a bleak, dead forest. The side of the peak had been torn asunder in some sort of huge explosion. Trees had been shattered, stripped of their bark, or bent to the earth. Rock was charred and broken, the very foundations of the mountain had been cracked, and the face of the mighty peak had collapsed in an avalanche.

Amongst the shale and gravel was a low spot where the rubble had settled into what had once been a natural cavern or perhaps an underground structure. In the deepest depression, small bits of gravel and dust began to stir as something pushed against them from underneath, gradually and laboriously moving the weight of the earth above. Finally a dirt-encrusted hand thrust its way into the air, followed by a massively muscled arm. The torn and bloodied fingers clenched into an angry fist.

It was covered in black, swirling tattoos.

I woke up the next morning, groggy, sore, and cranky. We were staying at the bug-infested Radio City Motor Lodge in some little Georgia town that made Cazador look like a thriving metropolis. It had been the closest lodging to the dirt strip that passed for the local airport. It is hard to sleep when roaches keep skittering across your body. My understanding is that since roaches can't shift into reverse, if one of them crawls into your ear canal it can get really nasty and potentially kill you. Sleep on that.

The injured Hunters had been dispersed to seek medical care. The cargo plane had dropped off Boone's two injured men at their home city of Atlanta. Roberts' body had gone with them. The plane had then continued west, delivering Albert Lee and his fractured rib back to Alabama. Grant Jefferson had flown the plane. He had been sent back to the compound supposedly to take over and continue the Newbies' training. I figured that I probably needed some medical care as well, but Harbinger wanted to keep me around because of my dreams, and also possibly because he worried that I might murder Grant once I was left unsupervised.

So that left ten of us in coastal Georgia. Eleven if you counted our mysterious helicopter pilot, who had apparently slept in the chopper. I still had not seen the man without his face-shielding helmet, and he never seemed to speak. The experienced Hunters seemed used to the odd behavior and did not even bother to remark upon it.

There had only been three available rooms. The ladies had taken the nicest one, meaning that the toilet worked, and there weren't as many unidentifiable spots on the walls. I had bunked with Trip, Mead and Milo. Taking pity on me because of the beating I had received, they gave me one of the twin beds. Milo had seniority so he got the other. Trip had won a game of rock, paper, scissors (of course Chuck went rock) to get the couch. Mead got to sleep on the carpet with the mystery stains.

We gathered in Harbinger's room not long after dawn. A large map of Georgia had been purchased and was stuck to the wall with someone's throwing knives. Julie and Boone both had powerful laptops open and running. Boxes of our gear and munitions had been hastily piled into the corners. We had hired a flatbed to move it from the docks to here.

The group was sitting around in their shorts and T-shirts, all except for the Newbie squad who had not known to bring any clothing other than our armor. Holly had borrowed some clothing from Julie. Trip and Chuck had stolen some from somebody else. Since I was the only 4XL I stood in the corner wearing my boxer shorts and a towel for modesty. I had hosed the undead juices off of my armor. The suit was still drying in the shower.

"Pitt. This is an informal meeting. You shouldn't dress up so much," Sam told me. At least he didn't try to steal my towel and flick me with it. I could tell he was tempted.

"Okay, everybody. Here's the situation," Harbinger began, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. "We have seven very powerful vampires, possibly Masters, that landed somewhere near here, along with some other monsters of unknown type. They must have arrived sometime in the last three days. If they launched as soon as the freighter turned south down the coast they would have arrived near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, though my gut feeling's that they didn't do that. The ship dropped anchor off this coast for a reason. If they came straight to shore they would've landed in this area east of us." He put his finger on a spot of coastline. There were a lot of islands, peninsulas and inlets under that fingertip.

"If they started moving as soon as they landed, then they could be almost anywhere. They could still be on foot, or they could have secured some transportation. If they're in a vehicle then they could be in Florida, Alabama, or South Carolina by now."

"Vampires can drive?" Chuck asked blankly.

"Yes, Mead. Vampires can drive. Just not during the daylight. If they secured a truck with a trailer, it would give them a place to sleep during the daylight hours too."

"What if they split up?" Milo asked.

"They won't," I answered. Nine heads swiveled in my direction. I tried to cover myself with the towel as best as I could. I was a little self-conscious, especially with all of the thick red scar tissue on my chest and back. "They're like a protective detail. The Cursed One is their principal. They're guarding him. Wherever he goes, they go."

"Yeah, about that. I've been meaning to ask, how do we know you aren't just bloody nuts?" Priest asked. "No offense intended."

"None taken. To be honest, I don't know. But the seven coffins is a pretty good indicator."

"Fair enough," he answered.

"What about this Cursed One? Do we have anything on record about that?" Milo asked.

"Negative. I can't find anything. Lots of things with curses, but not that match this one. Nothing comes up in a search, and nothing under Lord Machado. No entries about anything wearing a suit of armor either. I've got a bunch of folks hitting the books back at the compound looking for something. There might be something in the old archives that hasn't been scanned in yet." MHI kept meticulous records of all known monster encounters, and also drew upon a massive library of information gathered from around the world. The stuff that we dealt with did not just pop up during a Google search.

"Maybe if we had a better description it might help," Julie said coldly. She was still pretty mad at me.

"Sorry, I was incorporeal at the time."

"Machado is a Portagee last name. It means ax. Like the kind that an executioner would use," Sam told us. His useful information was a bit of a surprise. His teammates regarded him strangely. The cowboy spent a lot more time busting heads than he did studying monster history. "What? I had a master chief with that last name. He thought the ax thing was pretty cool."

"We're listening to the local police bands. If we're lucky somebody will see something and call it in; if we're unlucky, somebody is going to end up as lunch. So we are also listening for any missing persons reports. This is Boone's turf so he's trying to contact some of the locals who might be first in line for information."

"First in line?" Holly queried.

"Cops, coroners, reporters. In this case, I'm going to contact hookers, pimps, and drug dealers. Also some backwoods hillfolk that I've dealt with before. When vampires feed, they will usually go after the underbelly of society. They keep off the radar that way."

"How often do they need to feed?" Trip asked.

"Unknown. The usual low-level vamps that we deal with seem to do it every chance they get, with probably a minimum of about once a month. I know that the Feds have captured a few in the past and done testing on them, even starved a few, but they don't share that kind of info with us," Julie said.

"Speaking of the Feds, I had to call them," Harbinger said sadly. He paused during the inevitable cursing long enough to light his cigarette and take a long drag. "Didn't have much choice. We're still short-handed. We have to face the fact that we might not be able to tackle all of them, especially if they're roaming together."

"What did they say?" Milo asked.

"Nothing basically. They said thanks for the tip. That was it. I think they thought I was nuts."

"We can handle them, Earl. We don't need no Feds," Sam said.

"Maybe if we catch them while they're sleeping and toss in a couple hundred pounds of C4. Facing them while they're awake? No way." There was some murmuring at that. We were a testosterone-charged, confident, well-trained team. "No offense, but I'm the only person here who has actually killed a Master. I'm one of the only people alive who has even seen one. And I was just lucky. Trust me on this one. We're good, but we ain't that good. If we find them, we wait until they hole up, and then we blow it to hell with bombs or napalm or something. Face to face, no thanks."

"Who else can we call in?" Boone asked.

Julie played with her laptop for a minute. "Closest other Hunters are Hurley's team out of Miami, but they're on a case in the Bahamas."

"Lucky bastards," Sam grunted.

"Nope, they're tracking a luska." She shuddered.

"Oh, never mind," he said quickly. I did not know what a luska was, but if Sam or Julie did not want to mess with one, neither did I.

"After that the only other MHI personnel in the south are Boone's guys, and then the Newbies and a few others at the compound. I don't think we want to call up Grandpa or Dorcas. Going out from there we have two teams in the northeast, both on cases right now in New York and Baltimore. Next closest after that is Phillips, who's currently dealing with some devil monkeys in St. Paul. Only five other teams left, and they're out west or out of the country. Every single team is working a case."

"We need to speed up the training process," Milo suggested.

"I know, I know. But it doesn't do any good to train them fast if they just get killed on their first mission. Julie, send every team a message. Give them a brief summary about what we're probably facing and tell them that if we beep them, they need to drop whatever they're doing and get here as quick as they possibly can. This case takes precedence over anything."

"Because of the danger to people?" asked Trip, always looking out for the little guy, being the team's resident good Samaritan and idealist.

"No, because the bounty on a Master vampire is fricking huge," Sam said.

"How huge are we talking about?" asked Holly. We had been told that our next bimonthly check would probably hover around $20,000 for our cut of the action from the Antoine-Henri. I couldn't wait to see what the year-end bonus looked like.

"Like we could buy Idaho kind of money."

"Back to business. Here's the plan. We break up into groups. One group stays here at base, monitors communications and checks all of the gear. Boone will take a group and start hitting up his sources."

"Priest can take a group also, he knows the same people I do. We can cover more ground that way. Some of these folks are not the kind of people that you can just get on the phone."

"Good. Final group takes the chopper. I'll head up and down the coastline looking for that little boat or where it might have possibly landed. Pitt comes with me and we will see if we can't identify anything from his dream."

"Uh… what do we do about cars?" Mead asked.

"Head into town. Buy some from the locals. Let Milo do it. He's our best scrounger. We have two suitcases full of money, so try to get something nice." And I had wondered why we had IRS troubles. We threw cash around like the Cali cartel.

"Oh, and somebody, for the love of all that is holy, buy Pitt a pair of pants."

The Hind sat on the broken tarmac, looking like a squat and angry amphibian. I jumped out of the back of the pickup, and just barely had time to grab my gear before the truck roared off and sprayed me with gravel and dust. Milo was having entirely too much fun with the jacked up 4x4 that he had just bought off of a local named, and I'm not making this up, Cooter. There were even naked lady silhouettes on the mud flaps, and a little sticker of Calvin peeing on a Ford symbol in the back window. Harbinger and I headed toward the chopper.

We were wearing normal clothing, concealing only handguns, with our more serious gear shoved into the duffel bags that both of us were lugging. The pistol that I had under my shirt had belonged to Roberts. It was a big, stainless steel, Smith amp; Wesson 4506. Not my style, but it was available, and he was not using it anymore. It sure beat being unarmed. Milo had picked me up some regular clothes at the nearest country store. The only shirt they had in my size was lime green and was emblazoned with the deep philosophy of "No Fat Chicks."

Our pilot was waiting for us. I finally got to see him without his helmet. Unfortunately he was wearing a black balaclava and tinted goggles. Harbinger waved as we approached. The pilot waved back.

"So what's the deal with the pilot?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's already eighty degrees out here and he's wearing a ski mask."

"Oh. He's just shy is all."

We stopped in front of the chopper. I held out my hand and introduced myself. The pilot tilted his head to the side and studied my hand. I gradually lowered it, and finally put it my pocket, slightly embarrassed.

"Well, he's foreign. Weird customs, you know, a bit antisocial."

"Right. Nice to meet you, Mister…?

The pilot grumbled something guttural and incomprehensible. It sounded like gibberish to me. I looked to my boss.

"It means Skull Crushing Battle Hand of Fury in his language. We call him Skippy." Harbinger seemed to be enjoying himself. "Saves on time that way."

"I was told he came with the chopper?"

"Kind of. It's a long story. I met him in Uzbekistan. His tribe came from there. MHI is kind of his tribe now. He has himself a little place just outside the compound. Skip here is one hell of a pilot, however, and keeps this bird running great too."

"You have great taste in music, Skippy," I told him slowly. "One of the bands you played, CPKM. My brother plays guitar for them."

"You… are… blood of… Mosh Pitt?" The pilot's voice was very deep, and he seemed to struggle with the unfamiliar words.

"Yes. He's my little brother. I can probably get you some backstage passes when his tour comes through town. I think they're playing Birmingham in September."

He dropped to his knees. I stepped back in surprise. Skippy prostrated himself on the ground and bowed until his balaclava was touching the asphalt. He said something else in his strange language.

"Skip, please, you're making a scene," Harbinger said as he grabbed the pilot's arm and stood him up. The airport manager was watching us through his trailer's miniblinds, and another pilot, putting fuel in his Cessna, stared at us strangely.

"Sorry, Harb Anger… I not know… that big scarface Hunter… how you say… Grzystilikz?"

"What? Royalty? Oh hell no."

"Huh?"

"He thinks you're from a royal family. Uh, equivalent to a great war chief or something like that." He shrugged. "I've never seen Skippy bow to anybody before."

"Wow. Uzbekistan really appreciates their heavy metal. No, Skippy, I'm not royalty. This is America. And I'll still get us some VIP passes, okay?"

"Great honor… great honor on my tribe." The gravel voiced pilot seemed positively giddy.

"All right, let's get in the air. We're burning daylight." Harbinger tossed his duffel bag into the crew compartment. Skippy bowed a final time, not quite as deeply as before, and then he ran for the pilot's compartment. From the horrible noise he made, I think he was trying to sing the chorus from "Hold the Pig Steady." I work with the strangest people.

We spent the next hour flying over the coast around St. Catherine's Island and then to the east of Sapelo Island. We were not having much luck. There were lots of places where a little boat could be landed, and there were a lot of boats in the area as well. But none of the spots we flew over matched the little patch of sand from my dreams.

"It's possible that the boat washed back out to sea. Weather report says the tides have been pretty low the last few days, but you never know."

"I hope not," I replied. Skippy was blasting my brother's CD loud enough to be heard over the rotor. He had one heck of a good sound system installed in this thing. Harbinger kept cringing every time the music got particularly good. There is just no accounting for taste.

"We can either head toward Brunswick or Savannah next. I would guess Brunswick, since it's smaller," Harbinger shouted over the noise, pointing at the map. "They're probably staying away from population centers."

I shook my head in the negative. "In my dream there were a lot of lights nearby. From overhead it was pretty big. I say Savannah."

"Okay, then." He keyed the intercom button. "Skippy, take us north, hug the coast. Stay low. If the ATC hails us, let me know."

"ATC?"

"Air Traffic Control. They have a real airport. Everybody else is shafting us with fines, I don't want to piss off the FAA."

"Does he even have an actual pilot's license?"

"Beats me."

"You can't fly without a license."

"Sure you can… just not officially." He shrugged and went back to looking out the window. And before I worked here, I thought that I had a bad problem with authority. I fit right into this gang of misfits.

The area was beautiful from a hundred feet and a hundred miles an hour. Homes would appear between the dark green trees, only to quickly vanish as we soared past. Miles flashed by, lots of little boats and little beaches, but not the one that we were looking for.

"Ossabaw Island," Harbinger announced.

It was difficult to tell in the daylight. Everything looked different after dark. We flew over the nature preserve, and then turned inland, back toward the intercoastal waterway. There were lots of boats in the area. Most of them appeared to be for shrimping. The chopper ate up ground fast, and we flew low over a historic fort and recreation area, but I still had not seen anything that looked right. More homes began to appear as we neared Savannah.

"Whoa. Have Skippy flip a U-turn."

Harbinger gave the order, and our pilot pulled a maneuver that left me dizzy. I searched again for the spot that had just flashed by. It was a small patch of sand, with deep swampy forest surrounding it.

"Bingo." I pointed at the small white boat. It was still grounded on the sand. "This is it."

The Hind circled the area. There was a single home set back into the trees a few hundred feet from the landing spot. It was a nice home, two stories with an attached garage, a red-shingled roof and a big chimney. It was a gorgeous piece of property. The nearest homes were a considerable distance away.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Damn sure. I can feel it in my bones."

My boss nodded and punched the intercom, cutting off a good drum solo. "Skippy, can you get us down on that beach?"

We approached the boat cautiously. The Hind tore away, heading farther out to sea to hover and wait. It was broad daylight, but after my experience with the wights, I knew that didn't mean squat. I held Jerry Robert's FAL carbine at the low ready. Earl nonchalantly cradled his Thompson.

"They ain't here."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I can smell vampires," he answered. "Plus birds are singing in the trees. If your ten-foot winged things were here, I don't think there would be birds singing or squirrels playing."

"How do you know? Maybe they really like squirrels?" I kept my weapon pointed toward the boat. Sure enough, it read Antoine-Henri. It was empty.

"More of that slime," Harbinger pointed out. "Same stuff from the shipping container. Your Cursed One was here. Boogery thing, ain't he? I hate monsters that leak all over the place."

There were no visible tracks in the sand. Any sign left by the creatures had been obliterated by wind or surf. The forest was alive with noise and light. Not at all like the night in my dream. It was good to have the final piece of physical evidence washed up here at my feet. This proved that I was not crazy. Well, maybe not that I wasn't crazy since I was standing on a beach with a battle rifle talking about vampires, but at least not certifiable.

"Let's check the house," he said.

"What if somebody's home?" I raised my rifle to accentuate my point. I had a bag of spare magazines slung over my lime green T-shirt. We did look a little odd.

"There's nobody home."

"How do you know?" The house was half a football field away through the trees.

"I don't hear anything. I don't see any lights. It's hotter than hell and the air conditioner isn't running. If they can afford that house, they can afford to run the air conditioner." I had no idea how he could tell that from this distance. From all of my years of being around loud guns and louder rock music, I could barely hear our conversation. "I want to see why this place is special. They turned that ship a couple hundred miles off course to land here, and I want to know why."

There was a small path through the thick vegetation. I tried to move silently over the packed earth, without much luck. I'm not built for stealth. Harbinger moved like a ghost. He held up his hand for us to stop. He quietly pointed at a spot on the house's roof. There had been some damage to the shingles in a few spots, and one of the corners had been broken cleanly, with the rain gutter dangling into the yard. Something heavy had landed on that roof, a few heavy things actually.

The back door was ajar. A muddy pair of boots had been set aside, as well as a fishing pole and a small plastic tackle box. A welcome mat was slightly askew on the porch.

Harbinger entered first. The door creaked on its hinges as he opened it fully. I had never done anything like this before. It was like a scene out of a bad cop movie, except we were private citizens. We were merely breaking and entering.

I leaned in close and cupped my hand over my mouth. "Are you sure nobody is home?"

"Hello! Anybody home?" he shouted. We waited. There was no response. "Happy?"

"I guess."

The back door entered into the kitchen. The interior was uncomfortably warm. My suspicion had been right; this was the home of an affluent person. All of the appliances were top-of-the-line stainless steel, and the counters were made of real marble. There were dried mud footprints on the otherwise spotless floor, several pairs of them.

The living room was much the same. The fine furniture could have been found in any upper-middle-class home in the country. There were dirty footprints running across the thick carpeting, and running up and back down the wide staircase. Huge polished bookcases lined the walls, filled with thousands of books. Most of them appeared to be history books: Ancient American archeology, Meso-American art, mound builders, Native American religion. There were stacks of magazines and scholarly periodicals, Archeology, the Smithsonian, BYU FARMS newsletter. All of them were addressed to their subscriber, Dr. Jonas Turley. I noticed that many of the books had his name on the spine. The doctor was a prolific writer.

We proceeded to the next floor. I began to touch the banister and my companion stopped me. "Don't leave fingerprints." I nodded. We had not been upstairs yet, but already we both knew that this was shortly going to be considered a crime scene by the local authorities. No need for complications.

The door to the master bedroom had been smashed into kindling. As I stepped through the wreckage, my nose was assaulted by the smell of decay and small biting flies buzzed around my head. We had found the Turleys. Tissues break down rapidly in the warm humidity of coastal Georgia.

"Do we need to cut their heads off?" I asked hesitantly. The old couple had been savaged and torn. Blood had coagulated and dried on the sheets. I tried to sound confident to the more experienced Hunter, but desecrating the bodies of old folks in their own bedroom was a lot more wrenching than doing it to a creature that had just tried to take my life.

"No. They're dead. Really dead. They ain't coming back. The vamps didn't bite them, they beat them to death. I wonder why?"

"Maybe they didn't want him coming back. Why this guy? What makes him so special?"

"I don't know. Search the place. Look for papers. Journals. A diary. Find his computer. Anything." The doctor's office had been ransacked. Pieces of ancient North and South American art had been pulled from the walls and smashed. The computer had been pulverized. Papers and books were strewn everywhere. In the far corner a small wall safe had been ripped from the studs, and the door had been torn open. The contents, a stack of fifty-dollar bills and an old. 38 special, had not been disturbed.

"This is going to take hours. There's got to be thousands of pages of notes here."

"We don't have hours. We've got company." Harbinger craned his head back and closed his eyes. "Helicopters. Lots of them. Low and fast… Feds. Damn it." He must have had freakishly good hearing. I could not hear anything other than the creaking of the floorboards. "We don't have time to meet with the Hind. No need for Skippy to get dragged into this." He pulled a radio out of his pocket and clicked the transmit button three times. The response came back with two clicks in the affirmative. Our chopper was heading back to the airport.

By the time that we reached the living room even I could hear the drumming of the multiple helicopters. There were at least four UH-60 Blackhawks, and two Apache gunships to provide cover. They surrounded the Turley home and multiple teams of black-clad men rappelled to the ground.

"Wow. Isn't this a bit of overkill?"

"That there is your tax dollars at work. Best throw your guns down in case one of the storm troopers has an itchy trigger finger." He placed his Thompson and his snub-nosed 625 on the loveseat. I carefully put Roberts' FAL and Smith on the couch. We both stepped to the center of the room, away from anything that could be considered dangerous. Harbinger placed his hands on top of his head. That seemed like a good idea so I copied him.

"Should we open the door for them?"

"Nah. The Feds are going to blow it open anyway. Best close your eyes and stick your thumbs in your ears. Open your mouth a little, that will equalize the pressure. This is gonna hurt."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but they proved to be good instructions. Almost simultaneously half of the windows in the house shattered into tinkling glass as flash-bang grenades were tossed in. The concussions were horrendous, the noise was amazing, and I was dazzled even through my closed eyes. Harbinger was laughing.

The black-suited Feds came crashing through the door, piled on top of each other, each one taking a section of room and covering it. They began to scream commands at us. I went to my knees, and kept my hands on my head. It didn't matter because somebody moved behind me, kicked me in the back with a heavy boot, forced me down, and ground my face into the carpet. My arms were jerked behind me and I was placed in handcuffs. They really cranked them on tight, biting the steel deep into my wrists. The boot was placed back on my spine, and I had no doubt that the trooper's muzzle was aimed at my head.

I stayed there, with my face shoved into the carpet, while the Feds secured the home. They entered each room by tossing in more distraction devices, clomping around, and then shouting "Clear." After a few minutes the noise died down a bit, and the radio chatter started up. A slightly scuffed, black leather wingtip stopped inches from my nose.

"Hello again, Earl. And if it isn't Owen Pitt, CPA. I warned you not to fall in with this crowd."

"Hey, Myers. How's it hanging?" I mumbled through my mouth full of high quality rug fibers. He barked an order and my arms were yanked in a vain attempt to get me up. The Fed doing the pulling couldn't dead-lift me, and I wasn't feeling particularly cooperative. Another one grasped me, and with a grunt they jerked me to my feet. I was about ten inches taller than my old friend that I had dubbed the Professor. Agent Franks stood behind him, now in his black body armor and carrying a brand new FN F2000 with grenade launcher. The stone-cold killer looked far more comfortable in his combat gear than he had been dressed up at the hospital. Myers was still in a cheap suit.

"Franks. What's up, my brother? Kill anybody interesting lately?"

"Tons."

"Good for you," I said cheerfully.

The muscular Fed read the message on my lime green attire. "Nice shirt."

"We're not doing anything illegal, Myers. We called and let you guys in on this case as soon as we knew how big it was. We're totally in our rights." Harbinger had a thin smear of blood next to his lip. Apparently one of the Feds had felt the need to help him to the ground.

"You are at a crime scene related to that case and you haven't bothered to call. That could be construed as withholding information concerning a monster menace," Myers stated in a smug and condescending manner, "which is very illegal."

"We just got here. We were meaning to call. My cell phone wasn't getting a signal," he lied.

"I bet. So tell me how exactly did you find this place?"

"We flew down the coast until we spotted the motor launch missing from the freighter. The same launch I told your people about last night."

"So you just happened to fly around until you found it? And you just picked it out of the ten thousand other boats around here."

"Pretty much."

"I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Come on, Myers. How else do you think we found this place? Do you think we have visions or magic dreams or something? Okay, I give up. You got me. We called the psychic friends network, they gave us the coordinates." My boss certainly turned into a smart-ass when dealing with federal agents.

"So what are you guys doing here?" I asked.

Myers started to answer and then caught himself. "None of your damn business."

"You got our call last night about the seven vampires and the Cursed One, and within a few hours you end up right here. That has got to be an amazing coincidence."

"Yes. Pretty amazing coincidence, Mr. Pitt."

"Ironic," Franks said, patting his Belgian assault rifle tenderly.

"Yeah, silly me. Never mind I said anything."

Myers' phone rang. He still had that annoying ring tone of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." "This is Agent Myers…" He listened for a minute, then he covered the receiver and spoke to us. "Earl, get your crew and take them home. This is no longer your affair. If I see a single Monster Hunter poking around Georgia I'll shut you down so fast your head will spin."

"I've got Hunters that live in Atlanta, Myers."

"Well, they better not be doing anything involving this case. At all. Period. I want you and your freak show back in Alabama immediately. You're lucky you caught me in a good mood. I don't want to hear about you doing anything with these seven vampires, or anything related to them. This case and everything pertaining to it is a federal matter. Got that?"

"Understood. Mind if we call a cab or something?"

"Get them out of my sight." He went back to his phone call.

We were shoved rudely out the front door. Franks stopped us on the porch long enough to undo our handcuffs. I rubbed my tender wrists. My boss leaned in close and whispered a single word.

"Stall."

I raised a single eyebrow incredulously. What the heck was I supposed to do? Talk about the weather?

"Hey, Franks?"

"What, Pitt?"

"What about our guns?"

"They're evidence."

"Evidence of what?" I had the urge to punch the morose man in the snout. He was one ripped son of a gun, he even had big veins bulging in his forehead and neck, so at least I would get a good fight out of it. Except the other forty Feds would probably shoot me. Scratch that stalling plan.

"Crime."

"What crime?"

He shrugged.

"Dude, that FAL and that 4506 belonged to the Hunter that got killed yesterday. Have a little heart. Give them back and I'll deliver them to his sons. Give them something to remember their dad by."

"No."

"Why not?" I knew that there was no way that was going to happen. The Smith was legal, but the full-auto FAL had to be the property of MHI, because it would be too illegal to own without the special paperwork and permissions. Stupid laws.

"Evidence."

"Listen, you monosyllabic moron. Let me spell this out. You can't just go around confiscating private property. There's a fourth amendment. Maybe you heard of it?"

"Did you just call me a moron?" That was possibly the longest sentence I had ever heard from him.

"Yeah, I did. I'm using my right to free speech to call you a moron. That falls under one of those other amendments."

Franks handed his FN to one of the other Feds. He tapped his radio. "This is Franks. Are there any cameras or witnesses in the immediate area? Over." He listened for a moment and then smiled.

He hit me harder than I have ever been hit before. His fist was like lightning, striking deep into my gut. The air exploded out of my lungs in a rush. I have fought in dozens of brawls and underground fights, and won most of them. I've been hit by bikers, construction workers, crack heads, karate experts, and semiprofessional boxers, and just yesterday I had been hit by a vampire. Franks must be dropping some serious 'roids, because none of the others held a candle to him.

I fell off of the porch and landed in the flowerbed. I jumped up, and turned to face him just in time to catch a hammer blow to the side of my head. I tripped backwards over the small white fence and landed on my back. Some of the other Feds stepped forward to give me a little stick time, but Franks just held his hand up to dismiss them. This was his gig.

He waited patiently for me to stand up. I dropped into a fighting stance, legs bent, arms up, hands open and loose. The pain was displaced by my anger. I was ready. "Come get some."

"Okay."

Franks moved faster than I thought possible. I blocked his first two punches, and narrowly ducked under the third. His dark face was emotionless, and his eyes were unblinking. I threw a fast jab and then a hook. He dodged them easily, and then kicked me in the chest. I was rocked backwards in shock. He followed with a spin kick, again hitting me in the stomach. I grunted as my abdominal muscles absorbed the blow.

I'm extremely fast for my size, unbelievably fast. I threw a flurry of punches, and then followed with elbow and knee strikes as the range closed. I did not manage to hit him once. Franks swatted my blows aside with bone-jarring force. He dodged under my elbow, blocked the knee, and then head-butted me in the face.

With eyes watering I dove for his waist. I had been a wrestler. If I could take him to the ground I would have a chance. He pushed off against my shoulders, avoiding my trap, and broke some of my teeth with a hook. He followed that by kicking me in the sternum. Good thing I'm padded with muscle or that one would have killed me.

"Enough!" Myers shrieked.

Franks instantly stopped. He was not even breathing hard. I was panting and bleeding. I spit a blob of blood and half of a molar on the ground. The Feds that had been watching moved aside to let Agent Myers through.

"Striking a federal agent? This is a new low even for your thugs, Earl."

"He didn't hit me. Too slow," Franks stated.

"I'll try harder next time," I gasped.

"Look forward to it."

"Get off this property now before I have you arrested," Myers ordered. Harbinger put his arm over my shoulders and led me away. We walked down the driveway, more like my boss walked and I weaved. My head was throbbing, my eyes were watering, my nose and lips were bleeding, my chest and stomach burned in pain, and I felt at least two broken teeth with my tongue. I had not gotten my ass handed to me in a one-on-one fight like that since I was fifteen.

He waited until we were well away from the helicopters and perimeter of armed guards before speaking. "Good stall. Not exactly the tactic I would have used, but letting Franks beat you up was great."

"I didn't let him."

"Good job anyway." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. I held it tightly under my nose.

"So what was the purpose of that little exercise?" I asked. "What was I stalling for?"

"I was trying to listen in on Myers' phone call. He was standing right in the living room."

"Do you have superpowers or something?"

"Nope. I just have good senses," he smiled. "And I know how to pay attention."

"So did you hear anything?"

He was quiet for a long moment as we crunched our way down the long gravel lane. "Not really. He was talking way too softly. And there were helicopters overhead."

"So I took a beating for nothing?"

"Pretty much. But it was entertaining."

We called for help and Milo retrieved us an hour later with the jacked-up Chevy. We drove south in silence. Our mission was at a dead end. The Feds were running us off. Harbinger was in a bad mood as we stopped for gas in a small town. Milo apologized, but apparently the newly purchased truck got about three miles to the gallon.

Back at the Radio City Motor Lodge, the rest of the Hunters were not particularly thrilled either. The ten of us were gathered in our improvised command center, sweltering in the humidity. I passed the time by flicking pennies at the roaches scurrying up the walls. A few of the bugs were big enough that they shrugged off the impacts and one particularly impressive specimen even latched onto the coin and kept it.

"This is bullshit!" Sam said as he kicked a hole in the sheetrock.

"If we took all of them down it would be the biggest PUFF bounty in history," Boone added. "Seven high-level bloodsuckers, and we would be set for life."

"Myers doesn't bluff. We're on thin ice as it is." Julie was the voice of reason. "We have to go home."

"I don't like it at all, people, but we ain't got much choice. We're leaving. Boone and Priest can head back to Atlanta. You can take whatever gear that don't fit in the Hind."

"I'm short handed, Earl. I'm down a man, and it's going to be a while before the other guys are healed up," he said.

"You guys earned the vacation. Spend some time with your families. Get some rest. We won't send any missions your way until your team is up and running. As for short-handed, you want some Newbies? I think we can consider these graduated from basic training."

The Atlanta team leader critically studied Chuck, Holly, Trip and me. It reminded me of when we used to pick teams in grade school. I sucked my stomach in and tried to look tough. He looked each of us in the eye individually, and nodded in satisfaction.

"Earl. I would be honored to have any of them. From what I understand each one of them did good on that freighter, and that was some hairy shit. If they can keep it together through that, they'll be just fine. I've been running with only five men, and five is a pretty small team to start with. I would take them all if you would let me." I took that as quite the compliment.

"I can't spare them. I'm going to need to spread them around. I've got other short-handed teams, and we need to put together a new team based in the intermountain west. Sam's gonna lead that one."

Sam quit angrily putting holes in the walls long enough to stammer something in surprise. I believe that he used the F word as noun, verb and adjective all in the same sentence.

"Team Haven?" he said. "No way."

"We need another team. You're the best man for the job. Congratulations," Harbinger said. The former SEAL slowly sat on one of the beds in shock. Milo patted him on the back. The rest of us voiced our congratulations. "We'll work out the logistics and the details when we get back to the compound. I've got to spread around my experienced people."

"Good for you, Sam. You'll do fine. As good as any Navy guys can be expected at least. So who do I get?" Boone said.

"I could send you Grant," Harbinger suggested.

"Only if you give me Pitt too. Grant would end up at the bottom of the Chattahoochee within a week. I could deal with that," Boone said. He grimaced as Julie slugged him hard in the arm.

"Roberts was a gunman. You need a gunman. You get Mead. I watched him shoot that SAW on that freighter and he was hell on wheels. He'll do you proud."

"Aw, shucks," said our big simple Ranger.

"Chuck, say hello to your new boss. Don't screw up."

"Yes, sir!" he shouted. Boone shook his hand, welcoming him aboard.

"Okay. Now for the rest of us, here's the deal. We're leaving, but we ain't quitting this case. We keep working our sources. We put out the word to every team, every informant, and every sewer-dwelling mutant out there. As soon as these things show up on the radar we're going to nail them. I'll call in every single Hunter in the country if necessary. Feds be damned. We started this and we're gonna finish it."

"So if we do track them down and destroy them, how do we keep from losing our charter?" Milo asked. "I mean, if we get them, won't the Feds just shut us down for nosing in on their case?"

"Not if we just 'blunder' into the seven while we're working on something else."

"Groovy."

We were dropped off at the little airport. The sun was gradually setting over the Georgia countryside and mosquitoes and little evil gnats swarmed over our bodies. The Hind was prepped, and we made our way toward it, carrying duffel bags and heavy cases. The airport manager sat in a lawn chair in front of his little rusted trailer, an old gray dog curled at his feet. He waved at us lazily.

I was at the rear of the group, lugging a heavy wooden crate filled with all manner of controlled destruction. The big guy always gets to carry the heavy stuff. Julie broke away from the others and stopped in my path.

"Owen, we need to talk for a second."

"Sure," I grunted as I set the crate on the ground.

"First off, I appreciate all of the hard work that you have done. And I really appreciate you risking your life to save me and the others. That was very brave."

"Look Julie, I'm sorry, but-" She cut me off.

"But what you did with Grant was over the line."

"You can stick up for your boyfriend all you want, but he left me behind. He left me to get killed by Darne." My cheeks flushed hotly in sudden anger. I wasn't about to be told that what I had done was wrong.

"I know. That wasn't right, but Earl will deal with it. Not you."

"Wait a second. You're mad because I stepped outside my authority, and not because I punched out your boyfriend?" I was confused.

"And you threw him into shark-infested waters, don't forget the shark part. Your temper will get you killed in this job. It only takes one stupid decision to get you or your team killed. You need to keep the emotions in check."

"Like you," I said pointedly.

"I guess." There was a long and uncomfortable pause. "Look, I just… I don't want you to get hurt. You seem to do that a lot already." She lightly touched my bruised and swollen face. Her fingertips were surprisingly gentle. "Damn. Franks really did give you a beating."

"I am sorry. I'm not sorry about hitting Grant or even the swimming with sharks part, but I'm really sorry about… you know. I don't want you mad at me." I took a deep breath. "I felt like I betrayed you, and that's what I'm sorry for."

"I'm fine, but I've got one request. Stay out of my business. What happens between me and Grant is between me and Grant. Not you, not Earl, not Milo, or Sam or anybody else who feels the need to harass me about it. I know how you guys see him, but I know him better than that. I'm sure he had a reason for what he did."

"Are you going to dump him?" I asked, suddenly hopeful. "Because he panicked and left me behind?"

"What did I just say?"

"Stay out of your business?"

"Right." She must have realized that her fingers were still on my cheek as she reflexively snatched them away. She lowered her voice to just barely over a whisper. "Owen, look… I know that… well, I know how you feel, and I-

"Brother of War Chief!" Skippy rumbled as he interrupted her. He was still covered from head to foot, the mirrored visor of his flight helmet was down, showing only my reflection. I was a little perturbed. Skip, you have lousy timing.

The pilot fell to his knees and bowed again, until his helmet hit the ground. "Hind is… she ready to fly… Noble One." His voice sounded like rocks being poured into a cement mixer. He sprang quickly to his feet.

"Noble One… no carry… he no carry." He made that horrible noise that represented his real name as he grabbed the handles of the heavy crate and bucked it up onto his knees. He clucked when I tried to take it from him. "Skip carry… Bring honor to tribe."

The black-garbed pilot waddled with the heavy load toward the waiting chopper. Julie's brown eyes were wide behind her glasses. I shrugged. It didn't make a lick of sense to me either.

"Noble One? What the hell? He's not your own personal porter, Owen," she said as she turned and stalked away. The moment was gone.

I took one last look at the sunset, swatted a mosquito, muttered something suitably profane, and followed Skippy, who was once again trying in vain to sing. It sounded particularly horrible when he tried to grumble-hum the sounds of the instruments.

"Hold pig steady… dum dum dum… ra ra ra… yeah. Pig. Pig! PIG!"