Page 78 of Circle of Death
“Where to?” I ask.
“Bayani’s vehicle is about ten miles upriver,” says Hawkeye. “Water approach is better.” That’s the last thing I hear. Tapper shoves the throttle forward and the roar of the engines shuts out everything else.
As we speed up the Hudson, I feel the wind whipping my hair back, along with the skin on my cheeks. The river is choppy. With each hard bounce, cold spray flies up over the bow. Within a minute or two, we’re all pretty much soaked. Burbank is crouching in the middle of the cockpit with his arms wrapped around his bag of electronic gear. He looks seasick. Probably sorry he came.
After a short ride up the dark river, Tapper cuts the engines and lets the boat drift forward. Hawkeye points to the cliff on the east shore. Set back from the edge, about a hundred feet up, is a huge mansion. Bigger than mine. It’s glowing from inside.
“That’s the place,” says Hawkeye.
Burbank stares at the cliff rising out of the dark water. “How the hell are we supposed to get up there?”
Hawkeye pulls a canvas bag from under the console and unzips it. I can see ropes and grappling tools inside. “How else?” he says. “We climb.”
Burbank looks at the bag, then at Hawkeye. “Maybe you,” he says. “Definitely not me.”
He’s right. Burbank is in no condition to take on a nearly vertical rock face. Once again, time to split forces. “Fine,” I tell him. “You stay in the boat with your bag of tricks. We’ll come for you if we need you. Just monitor us, okay?”
Tapper lets the boat drift toward the cliff and then pulls out a massive paddle. He hands it to Jericho. “Okay, strongman,” he says, “get us as close as you can to those rocks.”
“Without sinking the ship,” adds Hawkeye.
Jericho grabs the paddle and starts stroking through the water on the port side. I can see his muscles bulging under his shirt. Slowly, with a little help from the current, he brings us close enough for Hawkeye to jump onto a boulder at the bottom of the cliff. Tapper eases the boat anchor into the dark water. Then he and Jericho hop off.
From here, the cliff seems to be straight up. We’re totally out of sight from above—at least for now.
“Coming, boss?” asks Tapper in a low voice.
“You three go ahead,” I tell him. “I want to get a look from up top.”
Hawkeye cocks his head. “Up top?”
I shape-shift right in front of them. Right there on the boat.
“Holy shit!”is Tapper’s reaction. I’m sure he’s speaking for everybody. Ten seconds later, I’m riding the updraft alongside the cliff. My first time in this particular form. But it was the best possible choice.
Great-horned owls have fantastic night vision.
CHAPTER 95
FROM UP HERE, I can see the layout of the whole property. The house is set back in a grove of evergreens. On the river side, there’s a sloping lawn with thick hedges on two sides. A couple of limos and a few security vehicles are lined up around a circular driveway on the street side of the mansion. Strange. I expected more. Most of the guards are out front. Only a few are posted on the side facing the river, spread out on the far corners of the lawn.
Our black-hulled boat blends in with the water below, but I can clearly make out the top of Burbank’s balding head in the back. I do a few slow circles while Jericho, Tapper, and Hawkeye make their way up the rocks. They’re finding plenty of footholds. With their skills, they hardly even need the equipment. For them, it’s pretty much a free climb.
I swoop lower as all three of them reach the lip of the cliff and start moving toward the house, using the hedges for cover. One by one, Jericho grabs the sentries and sprays them with knockout gas, then rolls them into the underbrush. Now I can see the team crouching against the stone foundation of the house. They’re packed tight together, checking their weapons. Waiting for me.
Suddenly, I hear a high-pitched whir, like a very loud wasp. I feel an updraft under my wings. My heart rate explodes as I sense another predator. I turn my head.
Drone!
No time for human thought. Avian instinct takes over. I tuck in my wings and go into a dive, shooting down toward the river. I hear the whir of blades behind me. I bank right. My wingtip brushes the surface of the water. The drone stays tight behind me. I flap my wings hard to generate thrust. I hit a small thermal and ride it up. I look inland.
Maybe I can lose the drone in the trees. But as I start to head toward shore, it rises up in front of me, lights blinking. I make a move to get past, but the rotors almost clip my right wing.
I can’t evade this thing.
I have to kill it.
I bank out over the water again, looking for room to maneuver. I glide, then dive. The drone follows, matching my every move. I can feel it trying to lock on to me. I can see dart-sized missiles bristling below the rotors. Probably programmed to seek a heat center. I need to keep moving! A stall means death.
