Read Online The White Mountain by Ernie Lindsey - Free Book Online Page B

go out and find whatever he was looking for. 
There were days, weeks even, where he’d lain in wait, crosshairs at the ready,
for the perfect shot—those were some tedious times, but he’d known what to
expect.  He had always been the aggressor, the bird of prey, circling high
above and unseen, biding his time until the perfect moment to strike presented
itself.
    Now, however, he was the
mouse in the field, burrowed in deep.  Alert, but not skittish.
    The prey with deadly aim.
    He missed Alice and Jesse,
wishing that he’d never agreed to participate in this secret contest that had
been held for the past one hundred and fifty years.  Fame and glory would never
be a prize that the winner could enjoy.
    The money.  It had always
been about the money.
    Ten men.  Ten million dollars
to the survivor.
    As long as you eliminated
everyone else in your round and then bested the winner of the previous
competition. 
    From what Enigma had told
them, Ares had won in 1976, and no one had topped him since.
    He recalled sitting impatiently
with the other contestants that day. 
    Six Americans:  Randall (The
White Mountain), Blockade, Yankee Doodle, The Devil Himself, Krakatoa, and Old
Yeller.
    One East European (country
unknown):  Shallow Grave.
    One Asian:  Geisha.
    One German:  Mein Kampf.
    One Englishman:  Powder Keg.
    The room had been a dark,
empty space, lit by a single overhead light, with metal folding chairs and a
dais up front.  Enigma stood behind it in his dark-rimmed glasses and pink,
collared shirt.  White-knuckled hands gripping the podium like he was trying to
keep it from getting away.
    The ten of them sat with
their arms crossed, maintaining wary, disenchanted gazes.  It reminded Randall
of a mission briefing.
    Enigma opened with a joke in
that high-pitched, German accent.  “Who’s the best person to call when you’re
standing in a room with ten of the world’s deadliest men?”
    A deep silence solidified
their collective lack of interest.  All business, no room for frivolity.
    “A taxi driver.”
    Only Old Yeller offered a
sympathy chuckle.
    “All right then,” Enigma
said, “let’s get on with it, shall we?  I assume you all had a chance to get
acquainted with your competition.  I’m sure you’ll find your packets of
information extremely helpful.  And if not, no matter.  Nine of you will not
survive this—and given the results of the previous contests dating back to the
administration of your President Ford, it’s very likely that all ten of you
will be dead within a couple of months.”
    Krakatoa interrupted him with
that hearty, barrel-chested voice that sounded like a bass speaker emanating
from inside a fifty-gallon oil drum.  “Who the hell are you?”
    “Me?  I am not important. 
Simply the gatekeeper of this little—how do you call it?  Soiree?  But, if you
must assign me a moniker...you can call me Enigma.”
    Krakatoa crossed his arms,
relaxed into his chair, grinned, and said, “I think I’ll call you Turdball.”
    “Very well then.  Your
sentiment is noted, sir.  Now, if you’ll allow me to proceed.”
    “Have at it, Turdball.  I
ain’t stopping you.”
    Enigma cleared his throat.  “As
I have explained to each of you individually, this is an engagement dating back
to your American Civil War.  A group of men, hardened by battle and the
atrocities of war, found themselves incapable of returning to their normal
lives.  Lost, and with no place to go, they somehow found each other and
commiserated in their miseries and a thirst for blood that could not be
quenched.”
    Yankee Doodle stood up from
his chair and said, “One question.”
    “Hold all ques—”
    “The hell is a German bucket
of latrine nuggets giving us a history lesson for?  Ain’t you and Mein Kampf
over here a few countries away from giving ol’ Hitler a hummer?” 
    Mein Kampf ignored him, and
Enigma smiled as if he’d been complimented.
    “Hold all questions, please. 
And if