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  SOULSTORM

  By Chet Williamson

  Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital Edition

  Copyright 2010 by Chet Williamson & Macabre Ink Digital Publications

  Copy-edited, formatted, and checked for accuracy against the original paperback edition by David Dodd

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your vendor of choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS BOOKS BY CHET WILLIAMSON

  Ash Wednesday – e-BOOK

  Ash Wednesday – Unabridged Audiobook – narrated by the author.

  Lowland Rider – e-BOOK

  Lowland Rider – Unabridged Audiobook – narrated by the author.

  COMING SOON!

  Soulstorm – unabridged Audiobook

  Dreamthorp – e-BOOK

  Prologue

  These were the swift to harry;

  These were the keen-scented;

  These were the souls of blood.

  —Ezra Pound, "The Return"

  Within The Pines it waited, not with the patience of men, but of stone. And as it waited, it dreamed, not knowing if its dreams would ever live as it did.

  It dreamed of men, of the time when men had come, and of the time men would come again, though it could not say if such a time would ever be.

  As it dreamed, it ached with need—the need for dream to become reality. But this time would be different. This time need would be tempered with wisdom. This time the dream would live. All it needed was for men to come again.

  Men and the needs of men.

  And at last men came, moving through its dwelling like beetles crawling through an empty skull; and in the presence of men the dreams screamed for release and were let slip once, twice, and then held in check. For the time was not right. These men had not come to stay. But from their words it learned that other men would come soon, others who would stay, who would have no choice but to remain and dream the dreams, do the deeds.

  It waited now, not with the patience of stone, but of the damp gray moss that clings to it.

  ~*~

  Manhattan 12/14

  "Did you hit him or didn't you?"

  The captain was angrier than Wickstrom had ever seen him. He was standing, leaning forward over his shabby gray desk like a school principal confronting a restroom smoker.

  "Well?"

  "Yeah," Wickstrom said. "Yeah, Cap. I hit him."

  The captain sighed, and most of the redness left his face as he let his fat body fall back into the worn leather chair. "What's the matter with you, Kelly? You're a goddamn good cop, but you'd be a helluva lot better if you weren't so hot under the collar."

  "I'm sorry, Cap . . ."

  "Sorry, yeah. Great."

  "I read him his rights . . ."

  "I know you read him his lousy . . ."

  "But then he took a punch at me."

  "Then subdue him, for crissake, don't break his nose!" The captain shook his head in frustration as Wickstrom looked down at his hands in his lap. They were big hands, fleshy but sharp-knuckled.

  "I didn't mean to hit him so hard."

  "You didn't mean to hit your wife so hard either, did you?"

  As soon as Wickstrom looked up, hurt and angry, the captain was sorry he'd said it. "My ex-wife," Wickstrom corrected him.

  "Yeah." The captain nodded. "Yeah." They glared at each other until the captain spoke again. "You know what this means?"

  "I'm out. Right?"

  "You don't seem too upset about it."

  "It was gonna happen sooner or later."

  "I tried, Kelly. I mean I really tried."

  "I know."

  "You haven't made it easy. First that pimp, then that foreign kid, now this spic…"

  "Cap, the pimp pulled a knife on me, this Garcia guy tried to tap me out, and that French kid, who you damn well know was packing enough snow to make the whole city fly, was so stoned himself that he put up a hell of a fight!"

  "You didn't have to blind him."

  "I didn't try!” Wickstrom roared. “It was a lucky punch!”

  “You don’t mean that,” the captain said after a moment of silence.

  “No.”

  “Because if I thought you did, I’d have your ass in a sling so deep, you’d be bumping bedrock.” He pushed back his chair and put his polished black shoes on the desktop. “There’s going to be a hearing next week.”

  “What if I just resign now?”

  “It’d be better,” the captain said, nodding. “For everybody.”

  Wickstrom gave a twisted smile. “Will that satisfy the spic? Or will he want to press charges too?”

  “He won’t. I’ll see he doesn’t.”

  Wickstrom stood up, took off his badge, and set it and his ID on the captain’s desk. “Thanks for that much.”

  “I’m sorry, Kelly. I really am.” He stood and shook Wickstrom’s hand. “Good luck, huh?”

  Wickstrom smiled. “I sure as hell could use a little.”

  ~*~

  Rio de Janeiro 3/11

  George McNeely sat in the waiting lounge at the airport. A tall thin young man in his early twenties sat beside him, flipping through a Portuguese edition of Playboy. When the young man came to the centerfold, he surreptitiously unfolded it.

  "Great interview this month, eh?" McNeely asked.

  The young man laughed. "Been a long time, George. Be nice to get some States pussy again. Jesus, I'm sick of south."

  McNeely inhaled deeply, wishing he hadn't quit smoking. "Hamilton's recruiting for the Mideast."

  "No shit? Which?"

  "I forget the name. Another emirate that needs a show of force."

  The young man shook his head. "Christ. Show of force. That's all we were supposed to do for Fernandez."

  "Yes. Well, sometimes mercs have to do what they're paid for. Thank God those times are few and far between. A man could get killed."

  "Like Welsh," the young man said. "Or Tony or Skip.”

  “Or Fernandez," McNeely said with a small smile. They sat in silence for a while, and then the young man spoke. "Was it true, George?"

  McNeely raised an eyebrow.

  "You know what I mean. Did you start it because you knew he'd take the first shot?"

  "I suspected we were advancing into an ambush, fired, and killed, you'll recall, a sniper. There were more. It was simply Fernandez's misfortune to be walking point."

  "The other guys said that the rebels wouldn't have bothered us, that they'd've let us pass without firing."

  McNeely turned his eyes directly on the young man, who shuddered at their cold grayness. "Do you believe that?"

  The young man steeled himself and nodded.

  "You're smart," said McNeely. "So did I." He kept looking at the young man, who stared back like a bird fascinated by a snake. "We were there to kill rebels, right? Well, those little bastards in the trees were rebels. And we killed every single one."

  "But Fernandez . . ."

  "Yes. Fernandez and Tony and Welsh and Mecklin and Skip. I remember. They were soldiers. Sometimes soldiers get killed." He looked away from the young man, out to where the plane was taking on baggage. "It was stupid, though. You're young. Don't ever make a mistake like that. Don't ever hate any son of a bitch that much. And if you do, slit his throat in the middle of the night." He gave a short laugh, the self-consciousness of which surprised the young man. "It's finished me."

  "What?
What do you mean?"

  "Hamilton wouldn't take me for the Mideast. Heard I wasn't safe anymore. Heard I got people killed."

  Instructions to board the flight to New York came on the P.A. system, and McNeely stood up. "Take care. Stay away from people like me, huh?" He held out his hand and the young man took it.

  "That's bullshit, George. You're still the best."

  "Not bad with an AK-47, maybe. I don't know about the rest."

  The young man grinned. "Jesus, I'm gonna miss that gun."

  "Sell it?"

  "Yeah. Got eighteen hundred. How about you?”

  “It's in my luggage."

  "In your luggage? You're taking it to the States?"

  McNeely shrugged. "An unemployed merc's got to find something to do in his fatherland. And something to do it with. "

  "How you gonna get it through customs?"

  "They never check me at customs."

  "But what if they do?"

  "Then I suppose I'll have to kill most of them, save a few for hostages, and steal a plane. Good hunting." George McNeely picked up his flight bag and started for the gate.

  ~*~

  Manhattan 3/27

  Seth Cummings looked at the picture of his wife for a long time before he took it down from the wall. But finally he lifted it off the hanger and placed it gently in the suitcase beside his pipe rack, desk set, and other memorabilia of his ten years at Stahr, Incorporated. Then he closed it and snapped the latches shut. He sat down behind the oak desk one final time and looked across the wide office out the window to the harbor beyond, where Stahr freighters sat side by side like a gleaming row of cities.

  God damn Vern Warren, he thought bitterly. God damn that son of a bitch to burning hell forever. Ten years. Ten years of his life wiped out in a day. In a way, Seth Cummings was disappointed in himself. He'd never thought to find anyone more ruthless than he was.

  But was Warren really ruthless, Cummings thought, or wasn't it more a stupid antagonism combined with dumb luck? Cummings hadn't been ready for such a blunt frontal attack. He'd been looking for something more Machiavellian, more . . . civilized. A dagger in the ribs, poison in the glass. But instead, he'd received a conk from a shillelagh.

  Dirty photos. Jesus, but what he wouldn't have given for those negatives. All Warren had had to do was ask.

  He'd have given him money, all his influence in the company . . .

  And I'd have ruined the bastard first chance I got. Of course it was stupid to pound old man Stahr's daughter, but she'd asked for it, hadn't she? So he'd drilled her right on the floor of the conservatory, never suspecting that Vern Warren or his hireling—he'd never learned who—was behind the nearest arras with a brand new Nikon. A few glossies in the right hands, and Cummings was out of his vice-presidency, out of the business world, and out of his marriage, which made Cummings angriest of all. What's more. Warren had impounded Cummings's files as company property, and no doubt had tidily squirreled away for himself all the deep dark secrets Cummings had accumulated during his cometary decade at Stahr.

  Maybe he deserved it, he told himself. He'd been a nasty son of a bitch for a long time, ruined several careers—maybe his sins were finding him out. . . .

  And that was bullshit. He'd been stupid, he'd been weak, he'd thought with his cock instead of his brain, and he'd gotten what he deserved.

  His office door opened, and Vern Warren walked in. There was a broad smile on his broad jock's face. "Taking off, huh?" he said.

  "Yep." Cummings smiled back even more broadly. He was damned if he was going to give Warren the satisfaction of seeing him miserable. "Time to move on to greener pastures."

  "Well, we'll sure miss you, old buddy. Got any hot prospects for the future?"

  Cummings stood up and walked over to Warren. "Just one prospect," he said quietly. "Revenge. You know what that is, don't you, Vern?"

  Warren's smile faded. "You threatening me, Seth?"

  "No. I'm telling you." At five foot eight Cummings had to look up several inches at Warren's face, but it was the taller man who paled. Cummings kept smiling his soft smile. "I'm not going to hurt you, Vern. I'm going to ruin you. I'm going to take everything you have, everything you ever loved. I'm going to make you so poor that shit'll taste like caviar."

  He picked up his suitcase and walked to the door, the gentle smile still in place.

  "Be seeing you, Vern."

  ~*~

  Manhattan 9/12

  David Neville did not stop chinning when Simon Renault entered the exercise room. He merely grunted, and continued to count until he reached thirty. Then he dropped from the bar, stretched, and sat in one of several canvas chairs.

  "You're in very good shape," Renault observed.

  "Outward appearances can be deceiving. Have you gotten the information then?"

  "I have." Renault hefted his briefcase and looked about for a table on which to place it. There was none.

  "Not here," Neville said, springing to his feet. "The solarium, I think. It should be lovely today."

  Renault followed the younger man out of the room, down a short hall, and into the sunroom. Lush plants were everywhere except for a twenty-foot circular area against the far windows, which they reached by a wide aisle. Shorter paths broke off through the greenery for the convenience of Neville's gardener. The morning was sunny and Renault was dazzled, as always, by the wonders of the room. The wide variety of blooms, the blueness of the sky all around, and the rich humidity never failed to make him feel as though he were in some exotic jungle rather than the middle of New York City. He noticed with pleasure that the solarium was further graced by the presence of Neville's wife, sitting in a white kimono and reading the Times, a silver service of coffee on a tray by her side.

  "Good morning, Madame," Renault said heartily.

  She looked up in surprise. "Simon! How nice to see you." Renault thought her smile made the room even warmer.

  "I'm sorry, Gabrielle," said Neville. "I forgot to tell you Simon was coming over this morning."

  "Simon is always welcome," she said, standing and taking her husband's arm. They looked so perfect together, Renault thought, almost as though they were brother and sister rather than husband and wife. They shared the same classic Gallic features, the same midnight black hair, olive complexion, the same aura of health and vitality. . . . Outward appearances can be deceiving, Neville had said. It was, Renault thought sadly, so very true.

  "So," said Neville, "let's see what you've got." He took the newspaper and the cups from off the serving table, making room for Simon Renault's briefcase. From the case Renault took three dossiers, which he handed to Neville.

  "Shall I leave, David?" asked Gabrielle.

  "No. Please stay. It's about The Pines. About the men who will meet us there."

  "Who may meet you there," Renault connected him. "We cannot kidnap them, you know."

  Neville flipped through the dossiers. They were quite thick. "Can you tell me briefly? I'll read these later."

  "Of course," Renault said. "I believe they are all ready for a contact. Mr. Wickstrom has been trying to get a P.I. license for months now. Unsuccessfully, need I add. It appears his savings are nearly depleted, as he's pawned several items from his apartment. Mr. Cummings is also living on savings, but it seems that alimony payments may lower his standard of living in the near future. He has not been able to find employment commensurate with his abilities. As for Mr. McNeely, he can find no mercenary contracts whatsoever. He has let it be known that he is available for 'solo jobs,' by which it is meant he would accept assassination assignments. However, it appears that his reputation has sunk considerably and as yet he has no customers for his services."

  "How is he financially?" Neville asked.

  "Quite sound. He has substantial accounts in several foreign as well as American banks. His net worth is somewhere north of half a million."

  "But you think he'll accept our offer anyway?" Neville poured coffee for Renault and hi
mself, and refilled Gabrielle's cup.

  Renault nodded. "Mr. McNeely lives for adventure. He is one of a dying breed. I think our main problem with him will be to make The Pines sound . . . challenging enough.

  No, for him the payment will be secondary, though nothing to scoff at."

  "If Mr. McNeely is such a man as you describe, Simon," said Gabrielle, "I can't imagine how we could keep him away from The Pines." She started to butter a croissant. "When are you planning to contact them?"

  "As soon as possible," Neville said. "We'll offer them retainers to remain at liberty until the house is fitted. How long will it be, Simon?"

  "Monckton reports that it should be ready in another few weeks. Say, the beginning of October. That is, if there are no more delays."

  Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. "Delays?"

  "Last week," said Renault, "one of the workmen fell off the balcony."

  "Oh, dear God . . ."

  "The damned fool went off alone," said Neville. "How can you warn them enough? They may not even be safe in numbers."

  Renault shook his massive head. "He didn't make a sound when he fell. They knew it had happened only when some of them entered the Great Hall and found him lying there."

  "Did any of them resign?" asked Gabrielle.

  "No," said Renault. "They know nothing about the house. Except, of course, that they should never leave the sight of their work partner. An eccentric whim of the owner, they were told. They don't complain, particularly not at the salaries they're being paid."

  Neville took a bite of croissant, then asked, "Where does the work stand?"

  "The house has been refurbished to your specifications, and the fire chamber is completed. The work on the shutters has begun. After that, only the ventilation and the release system remain."

  "Tell Monckton," said Neville, "that it must be finished and stocked by the first of October. That is when we will arrive."

  Renault gave a nervous laugh. "But if there are unexpected delays . . . would it not be better to arrive mid-October? A few weeks contingency?"

  "Simon, I have no time for unexpected delays. You know that. Tell Monckton October first, no later. And prepare the letters to our three . . . colleagues today. I leave the wording to you. You know what is necessary."