Great globs of blood left a trail in the sand, dark, obscene smear marks that led toward the faint flickering light. An agonized scream, animalistic, impossible to identify, sent chills down Kane’s spine. He’d seen men tortured and had been on the receiving end a time or two and knew that sound. Laughter rang out, then the low murmur of a voice.
“Hey, don’t die on me. It’s going to be a long night before the real entertainment gets here. You’re helping me out, suffering for a good cause and all. A little pain is good for the soul. I need something to make me feel good. My little whore of a woman is about to have another man’s baby, and I’m pissed.”
The terrible squeal came again, more animal than man. The sound made the hairs on Kane’s neck stand up. The stench was awful. Carlson was a sadistic bastard. If torturing a man—or an animal—made him feel better, something was seriously off about the man.
A part of Kane had actually felt a little sorry for him. He knew what it was like to crave Rose, to think about her night and day, to dream of her when he managed to close his eyes and nothing—no one else—was going to sate the ever-present hunger for her body. Kane knew he could have sex with hundreds of women, and none of them would ever satisfy him again. He’d accepted that premise when he’d signed on to be paired with her. Had Carlson had a choice as well? It didn’t matter now. All that mattered now was stopping the son of a bitch.
He dropped even lower, topping the slope. Rocks surrounded a small fire. A makeshift rack made of two thick sticks with a third suspended between them hung just to the left of the fire. Two coyotes hung there, still alive, panting and shuddering in pain. Blood dripped steadily into a dark, blackened pool beneath each of them. A crude arrow protruded from each body.
Carlson had obviously done this many times. Neither arrow had struck anything vital but had incapacitated the animals. A third coyote lay stretched out in front of Carlson, pinned through his body with a circular wooden stake. The animal continually tried to crawl away, only to be held back by the stake. Every movement had to be causing excruciating pain. Carlson crouched over the animal, poking at it with a knife. Several patches of fur were missing. If the animal bled too much, he cauterized the wound and waited a few minutes to start again. Clearly he was skinning the animal alive.
He poked the coyote again and laughed harshly when the creature snapped at him, the air, and finally his own leg. “I can’t have you trying to bite me, now can I?” Carlson murmured. “I wonder what will happen if I just take this one eye right here?” He plunged the tip of his knife into the flames and waited until it was glowing hot.
Sickened, Kane eased himself into a good position and put his rifle to his shoulder, finger on the trigger as he took aim. As Carlson leaned in to take the coyote’s eye, Kane shot him through the back of his neck. It was a kill shot, pure and simple, and Kane didn’t miss. He shot the coyote, putting him out of his misery, and then shot the other two that were hanging, waiting to be tortured.
He eased his body back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d run across a few sadistic men in his time, but this man had all the makings of a killer. He was practically bathing in blood. Did Whitney know? Had he delved into Carlson’s background? If he had, he would never have allowed this man to create a child with Rose. Whitney wanted soldiers. Men loyal to their country. Men willing to fight for a cause, not kill indiscriminately.
He had to cover his tracks, leave the body where it lay, so Whitney wouldn’t be able to know for certain who had killed his man. Whitney wouldn’t hear from either of them late the next evening, and he would send a team to collect Rose.
Kane took care of his rifle first, as always, and then blew sand across his tracks as he made his way back toward town. Once away from the actual camp area, he didn’t worry about his tracks. He began to run, using his steady, ground-eating pace. Fargo had a good head start on him and he would be moving fast, wanting to kidnap a woman while it was still dark and get back to camp before anyone was the wiser.
He worried about leaving Rose and the baby alone for so long while he covered the miles to the town. The sand seemed to stretch in front of him forever. He had a good sense of direction, but without a GPS or the stars, he might have had a difficult time locating the town. He expected to overtake Fargo. His entire unit was abnormally fast runners, even in full combat gear. Few could match them. He definitely should have caught up with Fargo.
The fact that he never came up on the man meant either of two things: Fargo had taken a different route, or one of his gifts was his speed. Whitney had enhanced their physical capabilities by playing around with their DNA—something that was never part of the original contract for psychic enhancement. Had he done the same to his soldiers, even knowing they were psychologically flawed?
Kane swore softly, swerving to find a dark patch of richer sand and dirt so he could crouch low and give it some thought. If Fargo had already made it into town, it would be stupid to follow him. There were too many ways the man could slip past him in such a wide-open desert. He swore again as he cast back and forth for signs that someone had followed this route into town. It was the most direct route, and he couldn’t imagine that there was any reason for Fargo to take any other.
If Fargo managed to slip past him and make his way back to the base camp, he would find Carlson and the dead coyotes. “Damn it!” he said aloud. If he’d just done what he thought was best and stayed with Rose and the baby, waiting for Carlson to make his move, he would know she was safe. As it was, he had no hope of finding Fargo in the vast desert.
The only thing left to do was to return to the base camp and hope he beat Fargo to it. Why in the hell had he ever allowed Rose to persuade him against his better judgment?
Resolutely he turned back and began to trot across the rolling sand. He’d have to stake out the camp. The unfortunate woman Fargo returned with would have to be dealt with after the fact; it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t prevent Fargo from grabbing her, but the man wouldn’t have a chance to use her unless he took the time to stop along the way. And was he going to force her to walk across the desert?
Kane stopped abruptly. No way would Fargo do that. He had to have a vehicle somewhere, which meant ... He groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. What the hell was the matter with him? Of course they had someone in town. Whitney would have sent at least one, possibly two to back them up, to watch over them. He expected them to screw up. He was documenting everything in his microworld of experimentation of the human spirit. Who was watching the watchers?