Free Demon Driven by John Conroe Page A

to Duclair, whose face had gone white. I could
have shot the entire team before they could react.
    * * *
    “If we’re done playing bullshit kindergarten
games, let’s get this clusterfuck underway”, I said. “The faster we
put this puppy down, the quicker I can get home. I gotta see some
people, about some bullshit orders.”
    I started to walk toward the second vehicle,
but tossed a final comment over my shoulder.
    “I call shotgun,” I said with a chuckle.
    Behind me I heard the female, Angel or
whatever, say, “That went well,” in a sarcastic tone.
    Duclair spoke to Gina, “Is he insane?”
    Gina answered her quietly in a low hiss: “You
have no idea what you’re dealing with, Briana. Why do you think
Roma insisted I be here? My full-time job is him . And he
started the day on a razor’s edge. Oh, I know, you’re playing
dominance games, trying to show him who’s boss, but all you’ve
really done is piss him off.”
    “If he’s that volatile, then I’m glad we
disarmed him,” Duclair came back.
    “Disarmed him? Listen, if he wants a gun,
he’ll just take one of yours. And there won’t be a damned thing any
of you can do about it.”
     
     
     

Chapter 10
     
    I grinned at the driver of the second SUV,
who knew something hinky had taken place, but was unsure what, and
then climbed into the front passenger seat. Three of the others
climbed in back. My senses told me they were the huge guy, the tall
guy, and the average guy. Starting to sound like the three bears,
only I ain’t no Goldilocks.
    The others distributed more or less evenly in
the other vehicles and we headed out.
    * * *
    The William H. Morse State Airport sits on
the west side of Bennington at about 800 feet above sea level.
State Route 9 traverses the village from west to east, then climbs
up into the Green Mountain National Forest, where the road reaches
elevations of 2600 to 2800 feet. Led by Vermont State Police, our
little convoy of black vehicles roared through town, breaking every
posted speed limit along the way. Of course we drew the attention
of everyone. I was real glad for the tinted windows, ’cause I was
embarrassed to be associated with Briana’s little circus.
    The road climbed quickly in elevation until
we turned onto another road, Harbour Rd.– according to the sign,
which had police vehicles blocking access. We went on for what
seemed like a mile or mile and a half till we came to a cluster of
official vehicles, which included another couple of government
SUVs. The driver pulled right into the middle and screeched to a
halt.
    Briana dismounted the lead car, striding into
the group of approaching officers and agents, and began to receive
their reports. Agents wearing FBI raid jackets were combing the
woods along the eastern side of the road, searching the ground
carefully for evidence.
    Gina had gotten out of the back of the lead
vehicle as well, but she chose to wait for me, rather than get
towed along in Duclair’s wake. The two technicians hurried into the
mix, but the strike team slowed up, obviously keeping an eye on
me.
    “How ya doing?” Gina asked in a low voice. I
didn’t think she was referring to the gun confiscation thing.
    “I’m here and I haven’t killed anyone,” I
answered.
    She didn’t take it as a joke, which was good,
’cause it was a heartfelt response.
    She nodded, pushing a strand of long brown
hair back behind her ear. I kept walking toward the little hive of
worker bees circling around the queen, Briana, and Gina fell in
beside me, not saying anything else. I was grateful for that,
because I had nothing to say and didn’t want to talk.
    Eric Adler moved up next to us, his long legs
making short work of catching up.
    “I need to introduce the team,” he said
simply, as if nothing had happened earlier.
    We stopped and turned to look where he was
pointing. The five-member team was moving up behind us, eyes wary,
tricked-out M4 rifles slung patrol style across their torsos.
    “I