Question led to question.
What would a half-dozen top-secret CIA research stations be looking for up in Alaska, anyway? What could justify such an outrageous expenditure in an era of wholesale budget cuts? And, most important, who had authorized it? Who was responsible for their activities?
He called the operator for the number of the Tipler Institute, and recorded the address. That would be his first stop. Then he would do some background investigation on this “scout” who was leading the team. It seemed to him for a moment that he had heard of this man, Nathaniel Hunter.
Nothing seemed to come to mind, but he had read it, seen it somewhere. He made a mental note to look into him, too.
Whoever Hunter was, he had to be something pretty special. Because the army didn’t normally rely upon civilian “scouts” unless they were operating on foreign soil. And Alaska, though wild and hostile and an easy place to get yourself killed, was still ours.
Then he remembered: yes, Nathaniel Hunter, internationally respected multimillionaire and founder of the Tipler Institute. Chaney understood now why the name had not immediately meant something to him when he recalled what little he had read of Hunter. From all reports, the man preferred the deepest anonymity but was a highly demanded speaker at global events concentrated on the environment and certain ecosystems threatened by civilization.
He was also, as Chaney remembered, a rather generous philanthropist who had funded or co-funded a number of award-winning research and ecological projects—some so complex that Chaney couldn’t begin to understand them even when he had tried. Chaney also remembered reading something more obscure—news reports of Hunter somehow aiding in certain rescues. But those had been little more than brief accounts he had occasionally come across in the newspapers. At the time, they had meant nothing, but he had mentally indexed the name.
He wondered: what would this man who was famous for his environmental research projects and enormous wealth be doing wandering around Alaska with a military hit team? Now that, almost more than anything, truly didn’t fit. In fact, it seriously enhanced the enigma.
Carefully, he checked the Sig Sauer 226 9-mm semi-auto that was his service gun to ensure that a round was chambered. And he tried to ignore how uncomfortable it made him feel.
Because he had checked it already.
***
Hunter raised a fist, knelt in place.
All the others stopped where they were.
Something—something instantaneous and ghostly—had happened; something that one of his reflexes or instincts perceived but didn’t translate to his mind. He stood motionless, head down, concentrating.
As he understood.
There had been a rhythm to the chorus of birdsong, and then it had broken briefly before resuming with a slightly altered cadence.
First, he scanned for bear or elk or something else that may have intruded on the immediate vicinity. But he knew that it was wishful thinking. Even though the team was causing little noise, their combined scents would have scared away every large predatory animal within two miles.
Eyes moving slowly, left to right, Hunter eyed a leveled section of the bluff that ran alongside a series of broken black crags. His gaze roamed up, down, searching without seeing, waiting. He listened, heard nothing. Around them, higher peaks rose to touch a bright blue sky with an almost crystalline beauty, a stark contrast to the vicious battle in which they were trapped.
Hunter turned his head and looked at Takakura, who scowled in silence. Then he turned his face forward, and thought of moving, but something prevented him: Something was wrong here. Something he couldn’t place. He remembered the rule: the forest will only tell you the truth, it will never lie.
Almost in the same second, Takakura came up beside him, holding a steady and level aim at the crags. He waited for a moment, and then, “It has not attacked in the daylight yet. Why do you think it might change its tactics now?”
Hunter hesitated, frowning. Then answered, simply, “ ‘Cause I ticked it off. I hurt it bad and now it wants revenge. Tell everyone to stay a little spread ...but not much. Five feet is good. If it’s in there, I think it’ll strike from above.”
“Hai.”
He was gone and Hunter motioned for Bobbi Jo to come up. “Give me the Marlin. Time to change.”
They exchanged guns and Hunter repeated the procedure she had done, working the action and inserting the cartridge back into the magazine. He ensured that it was fully loaded with a live round in the port. Then he glanced back to see that Buck and Riley were carrying the professor. When he had their attention, he cautiously walked toward the crags. Behind him, everyone followed in silence.
He padded forward slowly, feeling the ground with each step, testing the earth as much as the air, the fowl, the wind. He had six heavy rounds in the Marlin, each hot and hard enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks, but he knew that they weren’t enough against this thing. Nothing seemed like it was enough. They had not had time to logically analyze its native ability to endure small-arms fire, Hunter knew they needed to at the first opportunity. First, though, they had to survive this gauntlet.
He only knew that, unless they caught it with a concentrated burst of fire or unless Bobbi Jo hit it point-blank dead-center with the Barrett and then Takakura took its head with the katana, they were going to be in a big, bad world of hurt. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from Hunter’s face.
Ghost, vaguely agitated, stared at the tree-line and shuffled his huge paws on rough, black volcanic rock. The big wolf seemed eager to get on with the fight, but would, as always, wait for Hunter’s shouted command.
What happened next made Hunter instantly whirl and trigger the Marlin, ready to shoot anything that moved. In the space of a breath, a terrible silence had struck the entire forest.
***
Rebecca loaded the stat sheets into her car. She was in a mood to do something about this DNA information, and if she didn’t get some cooperation fast she would be going to heads of departments that few outside the government could approach.
She had decided all of that during a sleepless night; no, she wouldn’t engage in senseless dialogue with low-level bureaucratic morons. Not when Tipler’s life was in danger.
She had an easy twenty-minute drive and then she would give this Dr. Hamilton a serious wake-up call. He could react or not. If not, or if he hadn’t notified Dr. Tipler of the discovery, she would simply leave without a word. She didn’t need the cooperation of the CIA. She had only dealt with them out of good faith.
Angling north toward Langley, she took the curve close and continued moving, enjoying the feel of the road. This was one of the few relaxing moments she’d experienced since the ordeal began.
And then it happened.
She knew.
There was a grating, sliding sound beneath her feet and the automobile lurched. She screamed at the sight of a guardrail speeding under and past her, the car somersaulting violently in the air, ceiling smashing hard and then crashing even harder before she saw stark white and lost her grip, everything lost.... She saw a horrifying steep slope almost void of green—dirt and stone that clung to a vertical face. The car slid backwards, turning again as it struck something hard. She stared wildly at the sky as it passed down and up …
Ground rushing beneath her.
***
Ghost sensed it and froze.
Hunter didn’t blink.
Slowly he turned his head to measure the wolf’s motionless stance and saw the bat-like ears standing high to catch the faintest, farthest whisper of movement, but he could see that Ghost was equally frustrated.
It was close to them, so close that Ghost could catch the almost nonexistent sound of soft grass crushed under a padded foot, and Hunter shifted his grip on the 45.70, turning his head to Bobbi Jo. She was already alert, watching him with wide eyes. Silent, he pointe
d vaguely at a forty-foot section of stone; he was fairly confident that it was somewhere in that jagged darkness. She nodded.
Instantly Takakura followed his direction and Hunter glanced past the big Japanese to see Taylor raise the shotgun from his side, staring into the surrounding dark stones.
Hunter realized that any dark hole in there would be a good place for ambush—which was a likely possibility since it had never attacked them in the day and would likely want the advantage of surprise. But that sparked another idea within him, an idea that perhaps it was hurt more than they had presumed by small-arms fire. Or maybe there was a limit to that healing ability. Impossible to say, and it bothered Hunter for only the briefest of breaths as he poised.
It was so close, somewhere in that jagged fanged mouth of up-jutting stone, that he could almost smell its breath. But it knew that they knew, and it was moving cautiously. Yet Hunter knew also that they couldn’t wait all day for it to attack.
Which didn’t leave many choices.
For certain, entering the stones to search for it was not an option. Nor was standing here forever, waiting. So he debated and then decided. Raising the Marlin slightly, he took a cautious step, glancing back narrowly to see that the others were following.
He noticed that Taylor had taken a defensive position close to Riley and Buck, who were still carrying the professor; a necessary risk since they might be able to move completely past this position if the beast hesitated too long. But also dangerous because it would take the commandos at least two seconds to drop the old man and raise weapons.
“Ghost,” Hunter whispered, but the wolf didn’t look. “Find it for me. Where is it?”
Ghost shifted his dark opaque gaze at—
Catapulting from the dark, a blurring shape tore a savage hole in foliage at the rear of the unit and struck like black lightning, a monstrous clawed hand sweeping out with the speed of a lion to hit Buck squarely, it seemed, in the chest. But Hunter saw more clearly what happened next—Buck’s head torn from his shoulders—and knew the blow had been higher; head spinning back, long bright blood vessel trailing, eyes still alive—shocked—dead.
“Damn!” Taylor roared and turned as Riley frantically tried to raise his weapon. Then it hit him squarely, a taloned hand tearing away a large section of his ballistic vest to send the commando into stones where he vanished, boots high in the air.
Then it was on top of Taylor, who was already firing the semi-auto shotgun at full-tilt. The creature staggered for an instant, then came on again, unstoppable and un-killable and hell-bent to finish them in one consuming attack. But Taylor didn’t retreat an inch, roaring defiance as he fired.
It moved so fast in the next second that Hunter wasn’t sure if Taylor was dead or alive, and then it was past the fire-scarred soldier, sweeping up the line and leaping to the side to avoid Takakura’s dead-accurate machine-gun blaze before rebounding off the stone like an ape and barreling into Wilkenson, who was blasted far from the path, his rifle sailing high.
Gunfire lit the trees like lightning and Hunter couldn’t see or hear in the blaze and chaos and screaming. He tried for a shot but Bobbi Jo was in the way so he jerk-stepped to the left, away from the stones, to fire from the hip and saw it smash into Takakura.
Firing wildly, Takakura ducked away with a desperate shout as the thing—incredibly both humanoid and beastlike and moving with the speed of a lion—lashed out. Takakura managed a last shot as he barely slid wide of the blow, and then it was on Bobbi Jo and Hunter together, smashing Bobbi Jo’s rifle contemptuously to the side as it struck her a glancing swipe in the shoulder that hammered her hard to the ground.
Hunter fired point-blank and it twisted with a howl, coming over him. And in that single, unforgettable split-second Hunter met the deep blood-red eyes that blazed with bestial hate, a fanged mouth roaring with arms extended for a murderous embrace, and he twisted, striking it savagely across the face with the butt of the Marlin.
It didn’t even seem to feel the pain, returning a backhand blow that hurled Hunter against a boulder, and then Hunter was fiercely angling and parrying to survive. With tigerish reflexes he had developed from a lifetime of deadly survival in the wild, Hunter narrowly evaded a half-dozen clawed blows that struck in one thunderous blur after another, each tearing sparks from the granite around him. Although the attack didn’t last more than two seconds, Hunter had never read an oncoming attack so quickly, had never reacted with such perfect speed, balance, and perfect grace—a twist, an angled shoulder, a desperate duck—causing the monstrous hands to miss again and again by mere fractions of an inch.
Ghost, roaring demonically with rage, descended from a leap, landing fully on the thing’s shoulder, white fangs flashing.
The next moment was chaos...Hunter seeing angry weapons raised ... Ghost rending ... the creature roaring, tearing savagely as it reached back to haul the great wolf forward ...
Hunter leaped.
As Ghost came over its shoulder, heaved by the immeasurable strength, Hunter caught the wolf from the air and twisted, continuing down and away.
“Shoot it!” he bellowed.
Three weapons erupted in a wall of flame and Hunter wrestled Ghost viciously to the ground to save him from the hail of lead that poured over them both. Then Bobbi Jo gained a knee and, raising the Barrett, managed a single thunderous shot that lit the path with five feet of flame. The beast howled, twisting away from the stunning impact of the, 50-caliber round. Hunter saw it grab at an arm but not its chest.
He made it to his knees as it twisted away and Bobbi Jo wrestled the Barrett’s recoil for a second shot. Bellowing and in obvious pain, the beast viciously smashed a wide branch cleanly asunder to gain entrance into the dense woods so close beside them.
“Get it!” Bobbi Jo exclaimed, enraged. “Get it now!”
Takakura reloaded a clip in the MP-5, his dark face glistening with sweat, electrified with rage. He was breathless and fought fiercely to regain a measure of composure.
“Did anyone wound it?” he shouted.
“”I put ten slugs straight into that thing!” Taylor snarled as he vengefully inserted another full magazine into the shotgun. “But I ain’t sure if they penetrated! I ain’t never seen nuthin’ move that fast!”
The Japanese commander said nothing, but turned and stared at Buck’s headless body lying on the path. Slowly, he walked up and stood beside it, hesitating only a moment to check on the welfare of the professor. He gazed down for a time in heavy silence, then released a deep breath.
His face, unexpressive, contained a deadly element, like dark clouds cloaking a tornado that would soon be unleashed, and once unleashed would deliver death hard and without fear. Then his lips tightened, and calmly—too calmly—he bent and searched Buck’s dead body for any evidence of the team. There was no need to search for dog-tags; they did not wear dog-tags on classified missions.
When he stood, the Japanese walked coldly toward the front of the column. And Bobbi Jo knelt beside Tipler, checking the old man’s vital signs, speaking to him gently.
Taylor, enraged to madness, kept a hot eye on everything around them. Even his bad eye seemed to glow with a rage that would be quenched only when this beast was meat on his table.
Ghost had not been injured in the brief encounter and Hunter, for the first time, realized it was remarkable that the wolf hadn’t pursued the creature into the forest. And the thought occurred to him that perhaps it was because Ghost, on a level that was his alone, was more concerned about Hunter’s welfare than he was about killing the thing.
But he also knew that if Ghost chose to leave and roam these hills, only one of them would survive. Ghost would never allow such a creature to live inside his domain. He would hunt it down to fight it, and somehow Hunter knew the wolf would die.
Bending, Hunter rested his hands on his knees, taking a breath, trying to assess h
is wounds. He knew his back had been torn and bone-bruised when he had rebounded from the boulder, and he had probably sustained a number of torn muscles.
None of the injuries would hurt now. But later, when he rested, they would stiffen. After that it would be a constant battle to stay on his feet.
He looked around, saw a number of floras that he could use for the pain, and walked over. Carefully he picked the leaves and put them immediately in his mouth, chewing them raw.
Taylor, accustomed now to Hunter’s oddities, didn’t waste a second glance. But Wilkenson seemed intrigued, eyes narrowing in the bronzed, lean face. Badly bruised by the creature’s blow, he nevertheless seemed to have recovered his composure. It was clear he wanted to ask what Hunter was up to but the tracker was so enraged by the attack and Buck’s death that the Englishman was careful to keep a safe distance.
Bitter and dry, the leaves would have been more effective if they had been boiled, but Hunter had no time. As it was, he would probably suffer cramps later from direct ingestion, but he would have to weather it. He had to head the pain off before it became so distracting that his abilities were compromised. He didn’t worry about Ghost; the wolf never seemed to care about any kind of injury.
When Takakura reached Hunter, his face was a mask of pure, almost frightening rage. Hunter stood to face him, heaved a hard breath. For a moment their eyes met, then the Japanese spoke. “We will do as we planned. We will deliver the professor to the research center.”
Hunter didn’t comment.
“Then,” Takakura added, colder, “I will join you on the final hunt. Orders or no orders, we will hunt this beast to the ends of the earth, and we will take its head.” He didn’t wait for Hunter’s acquiescence, nor did Hunter expect him to.
Takakura jerked his head to the side. “Riley! How far to the bluff?”
“Another two hundred yards,” Riley answered, still breathless and stunned. Hunter saw that his combat vest, armored with Kevlar and what appeared to be some kind of steel mesh, had been torn like tissue paper. His chest was bleeding—so, no, the beast had not missed completely. The wounds were a deep red-black in the gloom of the ridge.
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