Marcus Wynne - Warrior in the Shadows

Warrior in the Shadows

Marcus Wynne

A Tom Doherty Associates Book

New York

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

WARRIOR IN THE SHADOWS

Copyright 2002 by Marcus Wynne

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York

NY 10010

www.tor.com

www.ebookyes.com

Forge is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

eISBN 0-312-70806-8

By Marcus Wynne from Tom Doherty Associates

No Other Option

Warrior in the Shadows

Acknowledgments

I want to thank my agents, Ethan Ellenberg and Michael Psaltis of the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency and Brian Lipson of the Endeavor Talent Agency. At Tor/Forge, I want to thank my editor, Brian Callaghan; my great publicist, Elena Stokes; and the rest of the Tor/Forge crew: "Buttercup," Jennifer Marcus, Kathleen Fogarty, Linda Quinton, and Tom Doherty.

I'm indebted to the work of Percy Tresize, the great Australian artist and author whose work has brought the world of Quinkin country to life for those of us who live far away from that dark dreamland. While I've drawn on his work, any mistakes or misinterpretations are mine alone. I also owe thanks to Andrew Dineen of the Adventure Company for his help in setting up my tour of the Jowalbinna Bush Camp in Quinkin country, and to Allen and Mick, my guides to the rock art.

And of course I owe my usual great debt to my wife, Caprice. Without her support none of this would be possible.

Part 1

1.1

The man who would soon be eaten had enjoyed a superb supper. Broiled fresh scallops, with a hint of lemon and butter, a small filet mignon, a side of steamed vegetables not enough to go over the strict limit of carbohydrates allowed on his diet and a carafe of a very respectable Chilean cabernet sauvignon had left him feeling comfortably full and warm, a pleasant feeling in the chill of the late September Minneapolis night, where the hint of the bitter winter to come was still just a suggestion in the crisp cool air.

The man's name was Madison Simmons. The slightly fussy tone of his name suited him, a chubby man who seemed older than his thirty-two years, ten of which he'd spent as an international loan officer for First Bank International specializing in overseas investments in Southeast Asia and Australia. He'd been quite successful, and he was surprisingly popular with the Australian businessmen who approved of both his business seriousness and his hidden streak of fun.

While Madison enjoyed his work with the Australians, he needed time for his solitary pleasures. A bachelor who lived alone in an expensive home on the shore of Lake Harriet, his secret joy was his state-of-the-art home theater and his extensive collection of exotic pornography. His frequent visits to Southeast Asia had given him the opportunity to expand his collection into some extremely specialized areas and even, once or twice, to cast and star in a small production of his own.

He had some new videos that had been delivered to him by a discreet friend with the Australian consulate, as way of special thanks for some delicate work he had recently done. Review of those tapes would be the perfect cap to his evening.

So he walked briskly, his tailored suit coat open and flapping over the protuberance of his belly, down the wide sidewalks of Nicollet Mall to the multistory parking garage where he kept his car. There were many people out: street people jingling spare change cans, students with backpacks slung over one shoulder, couples strolling arm in arm from an early dinner.

There is a comforting buzz of background noise in a city during the hours before night becomes midnight, and Madison Simmons enjoyed those familiar sounds. He went into the corner entrance of the parking garage, paused with the caution of an urban dweller for a moment to make sure he was alone, and then went up two flights of stairs onto the level where his Lexus was parked.

"Wonk, wonk."

He stopped for a moment and looked around him, puzzled by the peculiar sound. It seemed as though it came from somewhere in the long lines of cars still parked on this level, the empty gaps between the cars like missing teeth in a grinning skull.

"Wonk, wonk."

What was that?

Madison hurried to his car, his keys jingling and ready in his hand, huddled into his overcoat, looking only straight ahead at his car gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He hit the remote unlock on his key chain and watched his car lights come on and heard the reassuring click of the doors unlocking. He paused for a moment, and looked carefully around him, even allowed himself the paranoid urge to look in the backseat of his car before he hurried in and slammed the door shut. He fumbled his keys into the ignition slot and turned them, then looked to each side and began to back out.

"Wonk, wonk."

Safely inside his car, he gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles stood out white against his skin. Must be damn kids, or some drunk lunatic who thought it would be funny to frighten him. He threw the car into gear, turned into the descending ramp, and squealed his tires as he went too fast for the descent to the exit gate, where a bored Sikh man, his red turban wound tight on his head, watched a miniature television set in the brightly lit glass booth.

Madison handed the attendant his validated parking ticket and said, "There's someone up on the third level, shouting, trying to scare people."

The Sikh man said nothing while he fed the parking ticket into a scanner on the cash register, printed out a receipt, and handed it back to Madison.

"Did you hear me? There's someone wandering around up there trying to frighten people," Madison said again.

The Sikh man smiled a smile that stopped at his eyes. "Thank you very much, sir. I will tell the security when they come through," he said. "Good night to you, sir."

Madison snatched the receipt and shoved it into the seat console beside him. The Lexus surged forward with his foot heavy on the gas. He pulled out onto Nicollet Avenue and drove away. Just outside the parking structure, there was a man dressed in black leather, sitting on one of those motorcycles you had to practically lie down full length on. He watched Madison drive by before he pulled out behind him. Madison looked in the rearview mirror, but he could barely see the man's figure through the glare of the motorcycle headlamp. The rider was wearing a black helmet that gleamed in the light.

The banker's enjoyment of his dinner seemed ruined by the sudden stabs of adrenaline in his belly; fear was not an emotion he'd experienced much in his adult years. This reminded him of the schoolyard bullies who'd tormented him as a boy when he was young and smart and hadn't learned the necessary lesson of keeping a low profile in the herd. But anger was something he knew how to use, and he stepped on the gas and reminded himself that in future he would park his car closer to the attendant's station.

He had to brake sharply as a stoplight hurried through yellow to red. The motorcycle rider pulled into the left-hand lane and stopped beside him. Madison stared straight ahead, but his peripheral vision was enough to give him some idea of what the rider looked like: black helmet with full face visor, long kinky hair in a ponytail hanging beneath the helmet and down his back, black leather jacket and snug black denim pants, heavy black boots and gloves.

The motorcycle rider looked over at Madison for a long moment. Madison continued to stare straight ahead. When the light changed, the rider raised his right hand from the throttle and waved at Madison, who finally looked at him before the rider put his hand back on the throttle and revved the motor, then accelerated forward and pulled a wheelie through the otherwise empty intersection and roared away. His red tail lamp disappeared around a turn in the next block, the bike at such a sharp angle in the turn it seemed as though the rider's leg would touch the pavement.