The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) Read online

  Milton had been here.

  Lundquist stood, his knees complaining a little, and turned back to the others. They were gathered around the outcrop.

  Lundquist was about to speak when there came a tremendous thunderclap. He looked up: the black clouds had sealed off the last square of blue sky and now rolled black and unending as far as he could see. The temperature had plunged, and then, just as he crammed his wide-brimmed hat onto his head, the rain started again.

  “All right, men,” he called out, watching as they prepared their clothes for the change in the weather. “This is where he camped last night.”

  “How’s he stayed so far ahead of us?” Michael called out.

  “Pay attention!” Lundquist called out. “The dogs have a good scent. They’ve had a good one all morning. Maybe he stayed here for less time than we thought he did, maybe he’s just ahead of us. Maybe he isn’t as badly hurt as I think he is. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What I do know is we are going to find him, and, when we do, we’re going to make him wish he didn’t drag us out in this weather.”

  “What are we doing now?”

  “We stick with it. We keep going until we find him.”

  Tom Chandler groaned.

  “What?” Lundquist said. “You want to stay? You forget what he did back in the field before we came after him? Think it’d be a good idea to wait here on your own? Don’t be so stupid.”

  Chandler looked away, chastised. Lundquist adjusted his hat, working the brim down, and nodded to Walker Price. The dogs leapt to follow the spoor again. Milton’s scent might as well have been painted on the path in fluorescent paint. He wasn’t far ahead, Lundquist knew it.

  Chapter 33

  HE KEPT RUNNING.

  A large ridge loomed up out of the trees, a sudden protrusion of sixty feet of bedrock granite that cut through the green with no obvious way around. Milton kept running towards it, pounding across the boggy trail. He heard the sound of the water from half a mile away, a shushing hiss that grew in strength the nearer he came to it. It became louder: a murmur, to a groan, to a roar. The trail cut through a stand of trees. Milton followed it, tracing a path around a gentle oxbow to the left and then to the right, and then he came to the waterfall.

  He stopped and looked up.

  He found himself in a little hollow, the river pooling in the bottom before draining away in the direction that he had come. It was verdant and fresh, with stands of ash and fir gathered on the shallow slopes. The ridge shot up ahead of him, more of a sheer cliff now that he was closer to it, blocking his way. The river rushed over the top. The falls consisted of two separate drops spaced about two hundred yards apart. The upper falls dropped about sixty feet; the lower about forty. The soft, layered, river rock was worn and sculpted, finished almost to resemble hand-rubbed pewter. It was formed into a number of channels, ledges, potholes, and other unique configurations. The river was funnelled between two sheer rocky lips and then was sent gushing out over the steep drops to crash against the rocks below.

  There was no obvious way to go on.

  Milton followed the river right up to the falls, treading carefully on the slippery, lichen-crusted stone. The ridge on either side of him was steep, too difficult to scale. He looked up. The falls offered a sheer drop into the plunge pool and the rocks that encircled it, mist and spray swirling around him.

  He turned and looked due south, out over the slopes of the hills, high above the terraces of trees below, and tried to place himself in relation to where he expected his pursuers to be. They would have started to follow him by now. He guessed that he had a lead on them, but he couldn’t guess how long that lead would last. Not long, surely. He was injured. He didn’t know the terrain, and he didn’t have a map. They would have none of those disabilities.

  Could he retrace his path and find another way around?

  And then, just audible in the quiet of the morning, he heard barking.

  They were tracking him with dogs.

  Milton allowed himself a wry smile. He had expected it, but it was hardly fair.

  Unless he was able to throw the dogs off, he knew that they would follow him relentlessly until they had him. He wondered what they were using to give them his spoor, and then he remembered his pack back in Lester Grogan’s office. He chided himself. He should have taken it with him when Lars Olsen had offered to drive him to the hospital. Apart from making it more difficult to track him, his pack had everything that he needed to stay out in the woods. Was he getting rusty? Should he have expected trouble? Leaving it behind had been negligent. In a situation like this, that could very easily be fatal.

  The dogs barked again. They made up his mind.

  He couldn’t turn back.

  The hounds would have taken Lundquist north, following his trail. They had probably reached last night’s camp by now. They would keep coming. He only had a short lead on them now. How long could he stay ahead?

  Not long.

  And if he was going to make a stand, this wasn’t the time or the place.

  He turned back to the waterfall again. He needed to put a barrier between him and them that would slow them down.

  The dogs would lead Lundquist right up here, but that would be as far as they could go.

  He would give Lundquist two choices: either leave the dogs and send his men up the cliff in pursuit or retrace his steps and find another way to ascend the ridge.

  Milton had to climb.

  HE WENT right up to the rock and laid his hands out flat, feeling the moisture, the slickness, the damp air below him reaching all the way up to his head and beyond. He shrugged the bag from his shoulder. He wouldn’t be able to climb with it safely.

  He considered his ascent. His left arm was sore and weak, and wouldn’t be much use. The rocks would be slippery and wet, too, and there were only a few decent handholds that he could identify from below. He would have to hope that he was strong enough to support himself, and that he would find enough suitable grips as he climbed up. It was a gamble. If he was too weak or if there was no suitable path, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to climb back down again.

  And he might fall.

  He took a deep breath, and bracing his hands on two suitable handholds just above him, he bore his weight. His left arm screamed with the effort, more than he was expecting, and the sudden pain dimmed his vision for a moment. He found a handhold above, and then another, and then another, slotting his feet into nooks and niches, jamming his toes onto narrow ledges.

  Thunder boomed.

  Ten feet.

  Twenty feet.

  His arm collapsed, and he lurched backwards, his feet cycling helplessly through the air. He shot out his right hand, and his fingers lashed around the roots of a sapling just up above, anchoring himself there until the pain cleared. He breathed in and out, sweat washing into his eyes, and gathered himself.

  Thirty feet.

  Halfway.

  He tried to find another foothold. The toe of his right boot jarred against the face. He angled his foot and jammed it into a crack. Then, trusting that his foot would hold, he let go of the trunk and reached his right hand up. His fingers fastened around a spur of rock, and he heaved up again. The spur was wet and slick, but his fingers found their grip, and he collected his balance again.

  Forty feet.

  He looked down and saw the pool below him. It looked even farther down now from his lofty perch, but the jagged rocks looked bigger, hungry teeth ready to devour him, distorted by the spray and the hurried glance that was all he dared risk. He remembered the climbs he had undertaken during Selection, up and down more challenging rock faces than this one.

  But, a contrary voice reminded him, you were younger then. You were in your twenties. It wasn’t raining like this. You weren’t injured. You had two good arms.

  He reached up as far as he could with his left hand and found another grip. He jerked his head around to the right and looked up again, identifying what he hoped migh
t be another suitable grip. He closed his eyes, trusted his judgment, opened his eyes, released his handhold, and pushed up. His right foot slipped off the rock and dropped down, and he fell. His right hand missed the grip. He had a split second to anticipate the pain as his left arm had to bear all of his weight, but knowing that it was coming was only a minor assistance, for the pain, the incredible depth of it, drowned him in a tide so complete that he was only barely aware of the yell of effort that was impossible to suppress. His consciousness dimmed again, but his fingers knotted around the rock and held firm, his left foot sliding down the wet rock until his ankle clashed against something raised and sharp. He swung from his left hand, his fingers beginning to slip, and scrabbled up again with his left boot, ignoring the pain in his shin and ankle until his toes were wedged in a cleft and his right hand had found a trailing vine.

  Fifty feet.

  Nearly.

  He stopped there for ten seconds, pressed against the damp rock face, breathing in deeply, the pain lighting up his left arm and all the way down the side of his body. The water boomed angrily from the plunge pool below him, spray billowing up at him. He craned his neck to the right again and saw another handhold five feet across the face and, above that, a narrow shelf that would fit his boot perfectly. He didn’t allow himself the time to question his decision. He yanked hard on the vine and pushed off with his left foot, scrambling across the face before gravity clutched at him and tore him down, his right hand brushing against the grip and missing it, his boot crashing onto the shelf. He reached up again and found the handhold, his fingers fastening around the sharp rock so tight that he cut himself, pressing gratefully against the rock again.

  He heard the dogs again, but they were louder now, much louder.

  It sounded as if they were right below him.

  The gunshot cracked out from the woods below, and the bullet winged off the rock a few inches below him.

  He had misjudged the sound of the dogs. They had been much closer than he had guessed.

  “Fire!” he heard Lundquist shout. “Bring him down!”

  Another round cracked off the rock face, breaking off sharp little fragments of flint and drawing sparks.

  He was helpless.

  He blinked sweat out of his eyes and looked straight up.

  It was easier from here. The face was pocked with small niches and nooks, and he found that he could ascend with just one arm, reaching up to secure himself before stretching out with his legs until his feet found the places to bear his weight. He quickened his ascent, salty sweat covering his face and dripping into his eyes and mouth. The water crashed and roared as if frustrated that he had managed to negotiate the climb.

  Every second that passed was another that he expected to be shot.

  Another round went just wide, slamming into the wall.

  He hauled himself up the final five feet, found another foothold halfway up, and then clambered the rest of the way, pulling himself over the lip of rock and rolling clear. He was breathing heavily, and his arm was livid with pain. He closed his eyes, catching his breath for a moment, before he slid back to the lip and risked a half-second glimpse below.

  Lundquist was down there, staring up at him. He saw Michael Callow, Thomas Chandler, and the other cop who had been at the Stanton RV. He saw another six men, counting them instinctively. Three dogs, rearing up on their hind legs, howled at him. Lundquist had his rifle raised, and he altered the aim quickly, loosing off a wild shot that flew high and wide and handsome. The other men raised their weapons and fired, but Milton was out of sight behind the lip of the cliff and safe.

  “Cease firing!” Lundquist yelled.

  The firing continued.

  “Stop!”

  The firing stopped, memorialised by the brief echoes that played out as the reports bounced back off the rock.

  “Milton!”

  He stayed where he was, on his back, taking deep gulps of air into his lungs.

  “Milton!”

  He rolled over onto his belly and shouted down, “I’m here.”

  “You can’t run from me.”

  “I’ve done all right so far.”

  “You can’t keep running.”

  “I’m not going to run, Lundquist. I told you what I was going to do. I’m going to kill all of you.”

  “No,” he yelled back. “You’re not.” His voice was ragged with sudden anger and frustration. Milton was pleased to hear that. He could be manipulated.

  “The man I killed in the field. You find his weapon?”

  “George was an idiot. Never carried spare mags. Whatever was in the gun, that was it. You’ve already fired at least one round. How many you got left? Five? Six?”

  “Climb up and find out. I’ll wait for you.”

  He crawled backwards, away from the edge.

  “You think that’s the only way up the ridge? We’ll loop around. The dogs have your scent, and we’ve quarantined the whole area. You’re trapped. You can’t run. Give up. Toss the gun and then come down after it.”

  Milton pushed up to a crouch and then stood, the blood rushing from his head. He was dizzy for a moment, bobbing down again until the weakness had passed.

  “Milton!”

  He stood and started to jog to the north, following the slope as it climbed away from the plateau.

  “Milton!”

  He picked up speed. He kept on going.

  “Milton!”

  Lundquist’s voice was lost amidst the rush and roar of the water, baffled by the rise of the cliff, but even as he ran, Milton could still hear his anger.

  Chapter 34

  SPECIAL AGENT Ellie Flowers slept for an hour at most. It was cold and uncomfortable in the shed, but it wasn’t the discomfort that kept her awake. It was the apprehension about what might happen to them when the sun came up.

  She knew that dawn would be early. It was too dark to see her watch, so she waited impatiently for the hours to pass. Arty fell asleep in his sister’s lap, snoring lightly. Ellie talked to Mallory for a little while, both of them keeping their voices low so that they didn’t disturb him. There was something about their predicament that demanded the hush of a conspiratorial approach, too. It was as if Morris Finch or Magrethe Olsen or any of the others who were involved in the plot stood on the other side of the wall, eavesdropping on their conversation.

  They spoke about what had happened to them and about what might happen next. Mallory suggested that they would be able to have a better look around the shed when it grew light. Perhaps they would find something that would enable them to cut through Ellie’s handcuffs. Then, she said, maybe the three of them would stand a chance of overpowering their captors and getting away.

  Ellie wasn’t optimistic. Mallory was barely more than a girl, and her brother, although full grown, was too easily distracted to be relied upon. And she was still cuffed.

  Their conversation had moved onto John Milton. Mallory said that she had heard Finch and Olsen talking, that Morten Lundquist was going to deal with him. On that score, Ellie had more confidence. Milton was tough and, even in the short time they had spent together she had seen that he was cunning and savvy. And he had killed two men. He was dangerous.

  Would he leave them?

  She didn’t think so.

  But then, as they fell quiet and the hours drew on, she began to doubt herself. Even if he had been able to get away, where was he now? Why would he come back? What was there to stop him from getting to safety himself? He didn’t know them, not really. He didn’t know her. The night by the lake might just have been sex to him. He didn’t owe her anything.

  Eventually she persuaded herself that their position was hopeless. Mallory must have been the same, too. Ellie knew that the girl was awake, lying quietly against the wall next to her, but she, like her, could no longer see the point in talking about something in which she invested no hope. There was no point in pretending otherwise: they were in a terrible, terrible position.

  Ev
entually, Mallory slept. Ellie heard her breathing change. She dropped off herself soon after, but the sleep didn’t last.

  Thin shafts of sunlight started to lance into the shed through tiny holes in the wall and the ceiling. Mallory had been resting against Ellie’s shoulder and she raised her head.

  Ellie moved around so that she was sitting on her right leg, got her feet beneath her and pushed so that her back slid up the wall. Her muscles were tight and sore, kept in the same position for so long, and she stretched out to try to loosen them up. She looked up at the walls and ceiling. The light was coming in from loose joins between the planks that had been assembled to form the walls. The gaps could only have been a few fractions of an inch wide at most, but when the light that they admitted was aggregated, there was a dim illumination that was enough for her to explore the space. She edged away from the wall.

  The shed was twenty paces in length and ten paces in width. There was a large lawnmower parked up against the wall in the middle of the space and, next to it, a plough that was still caked in dried mud. There were several barrels and boxes, the light too dark to make out the stencilled words that might have identified their contents. There was a strong smell emanating from them, ammonia perhaps. Fertiliser? They were on a farm, after all. She looked for tools, something that they could use to work at her cuffs or the lock on the door, but there was nothing. She walked to the wide door that they had arrived through and pushed at it with her shoulder. There was a little give in the lock, but she could feel the door butting up against something outside. She had seen the brackets out there when they had thrown them inside and guessed that the door had been locked and barred. It felt secure. She turned to look for another door, but there was none. She looked up to the ceiling for a trapdoor and saw nothing. There was nothing in the floor that might suggest a cellar.

  She sighed in frustration. It wasn’t surprising. They had taken off the cuffs on Mallory and her brother. They were hardly likely to do that if there was an easy way out of the shed. There was nothing else to do but to face facts: they were stuck.