"Some Have Entertained Angels"
June 24, 2008 Across valley from Ranger Station 809, NJ 0800 hours Kihn rested. He would be doing a lot of that in these coming days and probably weeks. It seemed counter-intuitive, most of what he now did seemed so. Who would think, when running away, you would stop to rest? And on the first day, no less! And yet, that was what he was doing, and, in fact, was what he'd trained his own people to do. When you were well rested, you were most able to think, and when you were most able to think, you were most able to survive, escape, resist, and evade the enemy. So Kihn stopped, rested, and thought. He looked back, both physically and mentally, along his back trail. No activity there yet, though some might come soon. Difficult though the rout he'd chosen had been, it would not be impossible to follow. Nor had he really wanted it to be. Sure, he could have done what they expected, made a break for the Canadian border, gone to ground in the Yukon territory among people that looked, sounded, and acted like him (as far as most whites could tell), and lived happily ever after. But then he had his daughter to think about. And something else, he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something about Paige. She wanted him out of her life, but couldn't kill him, and there was that glimmer in her eye. As if she was hiding something from him still. He'd like to know what that was, and had contacts who could help him, IF he stayed where dead drops could be used. So Kihn deviated from the expectations. He'd followed the trail for a couple of miles, heading north west deeper into the park. The hounds, which no doubt were after him by now, would have picked up his scent and followed it easily up to that point. Then he'd gotten a little more complicated, veering off the path, crossing it at various angles, ahead of where he'd first left it, behind, other places. He'd run a regular maze for a little while within that half mile radius circle, and then headed off on a zigzag, again roughly to the north west and parallel to the trail. Soon, however, he'd bent back east, still zig zagging, staying on the rocks, the fallen logs, the creek beds, and other firm footing, and then south, etc. In the end he'd circumnavigated the cabin in a rough circle with an approximately three mile radius. A long trip for him, but a longer trip for anyone trying to follow his trail. Now he watched the cabin from a new, quickly improvised blind, across the highway from it. The cabin itself was approximately five miles in along the trail, from the trail head, which was, itself, a couple of miles along a narrow country road from the highway. But he had high ground and binoculars hooded from the sun, so that, hopefully, a reflection would not be seen from the lenses. There was activity, but less than he'd expected. The cleaners had been through, apparently, as well as the tracking team probably yesterday afternoon. A helicopter had landed, small one, which made the team small, probably six operatives. Paige's car was long gone of course, so, if he wanted to he'd have to steal another. Not a bad idea, since it wouldn't be expected. He went over the pros and cons in his mind in a couple of seconds, and tabled the idea. He wanted more information about the pursuit. Two more hours, and then movement up on the ridge, half way up, the bare slab of bedrock he'd crossed. It had been a quarter of a mile long, open space, most of it, which meant no cover. He'd stayed near the edge, which would be assumed, but where would his trail leave it, and which direction would he go? It was a large enough slab it would take them some time to explore it and pick up his trail again. Scent might be of some help to the dogs, but not all that much, since he'd made a point of stepping in various smelly materials along the way. He hoped he wasn't doing too much, too soon, but he was sure he'd come up with more if/when he needed to, and he hadn't been moving as quickly as he could. Nor had he set any snares or booby traps, yet. They crept out onto the rock, deliberately very cautious. They expected a counter-strike. Smart of them. They also would know that he would have avoided being in the open, though it was clearly the best place to leave minimal trail. They would skirt the edges, looking for a trail leaving the rock. And indeed, there they went, most of them marked only by the peculiar movement of the brush in one place just off the rock, while one of them crept along it edge, bent low, casting back and forth a little. He was a tracker, or acting like one. Rare among the shooters trained up by Section. He was attentive to his work, but tired. He'd been out since the beginning, but wasn't equipped for overnight, which meant he and his men had either spent it cold under the sky, or in some kind of quick improvised or natural shelter. They were in the same boat as Kihn, but didn't have to be. They could have called for extraction at any time, come back in with more gear after a few hours rest to pick up the search again. Put up road blocks, and then close the net inward till he was cornered. He could have taken the easy rout, the conventional rout, but had chosen instead to keep up the chase, alone. That told Kihn some things. This leader was the man to watch, the man that would catch him, or join him by the end, or no one would. Something about him. His build? His movement? Kihn knew him from somewhere. Who was he? Not from the taskforce, no one he knew of with them was trained in quite that way. Nor Section from when Kihn had been there, though the team was obviously Section now. Which meant someone from Kihn's former life had been taken by Section. He would have to remember who. His life could depend upon it. But if he knew the team leader, the TM might know him, which would put him at a marked disadvantage. He had to move. Slipping from the blind, making sure he had everything with him, Kihn began to move down the hill toward the highway. At first, he moved slowly, taking advantage of the brush he could find, staying as low as possible, practically slithering along between the brush so as to avoid moving it and thus giving away his position. There was the opening he'd been looking for, a mud-slide path, now with various grasses, flowers, and low brush growing into it. He tucked his arms and weapons in, crossed his legs, and rolled downward, praying the sounds would not be heard across the valley. There, he was in the ditch, well hidden from the road and the other slope by the brush. He held his breath, remaining absolutely still for several moments, listening. Nothing out of the ordinary. And he'd be gone, even if his movement had been marked, before they would get here. They might assume his method of travel and head him off, but he would avoid contact for the moment. Careful to keep his low profile he pulled the ranger's jacket and hat from his pack (they often neglected the other portions of their uniforms), and pulled them on over his LBV and weapons. They were over sized, and the untrained eye wouldn't notice what was beneath. The trained eye hopefully wouldn't be seeing him to begin with. Now it was time to catch a ride. He crawled up to the edge of the ditch, watching down the roadway. He had a good view from here, time enough to watch a vehicle, to either hide, were he to determine it to be hostile, or to step up to the road before the driver saw him, were he to determine him or her to be neutral or friendly. Maybe he should worry about his picture and description having been sent out? But no, Section didn't work that way. It raised too many questions. And what if someone did suspect? The intimidation factor would probably be sufficient, perhaps with a friendly word or two and a little grease on the palm, to keep most truckers silent. And there he was, tooling up the road, ten mph over the speed limit, keeping, somewhat, to the center of the lane. He was a little tired or distracted, but doing his job. Medium sized truck furniture transport truck. Nothing too obvious. Perfect. Kihn stepped up to the road, waited 30 seconds, counting them off, and the truck pulled around the last bend. He'd have just enough time to react and stop, without enough time to think and re-consider, as he saw the ranger planted firmly in the middle of the lane before him, hand up, pleading, commanding the stop. A squeal of breaks, a little unnecessary swerve, and the vehicle stopped a good five feet short of Kihn. He jogged, limping noticeably, up to the driver's side door. Not a threat, and the driver could always pull away if he didn't want to help the ranger out. "Hey, mister! Thanks for stopping. I just crashed my truck, deep in the ditch down there. Don't know how I made it out, broke my radio and everything. Must have had too much to drink last night. Say, mister, you think you could call someone to come get me, or something? It's a long hike to the nearest ranger station, and my knee . . ." He trailed off, seriously ashamed of himself and feeling bad to be bothering the honest, hard working trucker with his problems. "Ah, don't worry `bout it, man. I understand. Had a little now and then m'self. An' I like you guys, some of you. What th' h*** You look okay. Hop in. I'll take you in to Newton. Trains & buses there'll take you anywhere you wanna go, that is if'n tha' roads go there." "Right! Thanks a lot man." He limped around the front and climbed in the passenger's side. "You want some cash, like for gas or anything for this?" "Oh, no need. It's the same at the pump r'gardless." "Right, but just the same. I'm very grateful. Do what you want with it." There was a small picture sticking half out of a pocket on the dashboard. "Get a little something nice for the kid. I'm sure she must miss you. She's what? Ten?" A pause, as the driver smiled a little, sadly, eyes darting to the photo and back to the road. He didn't want to talk about it. "Ah, I'm sorry. Talking too much. I'll leave you alone." The use of conjunctions was uncomfortable to Kihn, didn't feel right on his tongue. Coming from the village as he had, with English as a distant second language, he'd had to make a point of learning it, getting rid of the "Indian" accent as much as possible. Perhaps he'd overdone it, usually speaking English better than most Americans, but Section had trained him to fit in when necessary. "Nah, that's okay. I don't get too much company. . ." ". . .Hey, you okay?" Kihn's eyes all but snapped open, his hand almost sliding under his jacket after the MP5 tucked up under his left arm, before he stopped himself. Still, he checked the mirrors for pursuing vehicles, the orientation of the mountains around to make sure they were still heading toward Newton. They were, and no other vehicles visible on the road. The hand held receiver remained securely in place over the driver's right shoulder, unmoved from when he'd gotten in. "I'm sorry, what was that?" "I don't mean to pry, and I got no problem giving you a ride, in any case. Don't want no trouble, and I sure ain't gonna give you none. Got my daughter to worry bout, y'know what I mean? Ain't `nuthin' like family." The man was getting nervous, and that wasn't good. Kihn made a point of resting his hands, palms downward, on his knees, on-top of his jacket. The driver didn't seem to notice, and went on talking. "But I couldn't help notisin' yer load there, you just zonked out for, like, 20 minutes on me while I was talkin' and your eyes got that look to em." Kihn watched him carefully, letting him pull himself together, trying to gage his reaction, formulate a plan. He shouldn't have fallen asleep there, but maybe it would do him good down the line. Obviously, he'd needed the rest. "I don't know what it is, or why, or even how I know, or don't know, but think, but I think you're in some kind of trouble, and I think I'm supposed to help ya. I just hope to God I'm not gonna have ta pay fer my benevolence." The driver sighed, mopped his brow with a dirty bandanna, and hunkered over the steering wheel. Was he a fellow believer? What was the protocol for these kinds of things? Back in the day, He'd heard, they'd draw the outline of a fish, in the sand, to indicate their common identity to each other. The truck was clean, so there wasn't much dust to use, and he couldn't see any paper or pen lying around, but he traced the shape on the dashboard none-the-less. Who knew? Maybe the man would recognize it. After a moment he spoke, quietly, evenly, not attempting the slang, slur, or other commonizations of speech he'd used earlier. "I understand. You do not have anything to worry about from me, and probably not from the others around here. You are right that I am in trouble, as there are violent criminals hunting me in these hills." It was true, if you thought about it. "The `load' you spoke of is primarily non-lethal, but I hope to avoid contact all together." He'd formed a plan, and it was time to move on it. "If you will just drop me before the used car dealership about two miles ahead, we should both be fine." He tried drawing the fish one more time, and this time, he thought maybe the driver noticed. Smiled a little, still nervous, but seeing and appreciating the way out. And the money was still there on the seat, not enough to be an obvious bribe, but enough to compensate for the trouble. "All right. Sounds like a plan. I'll let you off one turn before the place. And, uh, thanks fer understandin'" "Hey, thank you very much for your help. This could save my life. It will not be forgotten." The truck slowed, pulled over. His hand was on the door knob, his pack shifted onto his back, everything secured, feet beneath him, as much as possible. "And may God bless you, sir." He yanked the lever, throwing his shoulder against the door, launching himself off both of his feet, twisting horizontally, turning his left shoulder downward, catching himself partially on his left hand as he shoulder-rolled away from the direction the truck was moving and down into the ditch. It was a beautiful dismount, really, but he was already hidden in the brush, making sure no one had seen it. And it hurt. But, of course, that went with the territory. If he wanted comfort, he would have just had to tell Joshua to kill him now. Barring that, he'd just have to suck up the pain. It told him he was still alive, after all. The driver gaped at his passenger, as he threw himself from the moving vehicle. He thought that only happened in the movies, and that it would kill a person. He almost stopped, but then saw the figure scramble under some brush at the edge of the ditch, in his mirrors. The Indian/Soldier/Brother was okay. Well, that made one of his more exciting days. Maybe he could tell his daughter the story, in a couple of weeks, once this had all played out and settled down. Had that been an angel? A test? One of the least of these? Whomever the Indian had been, nothing bad had come of the encounter so far, and the money lay there, un-disturbed, on the seat beside him. Looked like enough for that nice bike his daughter had been begging him for. He should probably wait another week, though, even to get that. Leastways, that's what the guys in his Robert Ludlum novels would have said. The driver smiled to himself. He'd helped someone in need, been a part of some cloak and dagger tactics, and scored enough money to make his daughter's birthday for the first time in three years. Not a bad day. Not a bad day at all. Return