Hunter

Chapter 10

Staring intently at the topographical map with Takakura sweating and glowering beside him, Hunter tried to find an easily negotiable route to the research station, located on the south side of the White Mountains, a massive range over thirty miles long and completely impossible to clear in time to help the professor.

His brow hardening, Hunter looked at Takakura, and the Japanese just shook his head, still breathing hard from the last hard knoll they'd had to clamber across carrying the stretcher.

This was obviously not good country for a man to get injured, nor one in which to portage a man out. The terrain was becoming increasingly difficult and rough-cut, and the map indicated that it was about to become even more severe.

As a team, they would have had only moderate difficulty clearing the north ridge of the mountains bordering Fossil Creek, a misnamed river that ran the length of the range. But with a wounded man in uncertain condition this was no longer a strike mission; it was a rescue mission.

They couldn't scale, couldn't push the pace at double time when they mercifully reached a rare level area. So far, the longest level path had been about a hundred yards and ended in a long descent that a strong man could negotiate with caution, but only with the greatest difficulty while carrying a wounded man.

Takakura turned his head. "Riley!"

In a moment Riley was bent beside them, wearily propped on his rifle. Hunter had liked the guy from the first, but had not found a good opportunity to talk to him.

Takakura's tone allowed no room for failure. "We will negotiate this bluff ahead to lower the professor and move for this area known as Windy Gap, which is the only pass through the mountains. Can you rig a harness for which to accomplish this?"

Riley glanced at the map. "That's a one-hundred-foot vertical drop, but yes, I can manage it."

"Good." The Japanese folded the map and rose sharply.

Hunter saw what he meant, knew it was possible. Then he looked up to see Bobbi Jo attentively medicating the old professor through the rough-rigged IV and stood as Takakura continued.

"There is no time to waste. We must move quickly, Hunter," he turned into him. "Are you confident that you and your wolf can detect the presence of the beast, should he approach again?"

Hunter's response was solid. "It hasn't deceived us yet. But it's learning. You can't be sure what it will do next. Confidence can be dangerous."

"How do you know that it is learning?"

"It used to stalk, now it waits in ambush." He paused. "There's other things bothering me about that, too. But we can talk about it later. Right now it's enough to assume that it probably can't move without Ghost hearing it. On balance… I'd say that, one way or another, either Ghost or I can pick it up. But it's not a guarantee."

Takakura said nothing for a long moment, then turned to Bobbi Jo. "You will take point behind Hunter," he said. "You possess the only weapon which can wound it." He walked away. "Buck and Riley will carry the professor for now. Let's move."

Hunter never ceased to be amazed at Takakura's determination and complexity. On the one hand, the Japanese was patient and courteous and enduring far beyond the rest; on the other he could be as severe as a feudal lord declaring war. But Hunter had come to genuinely respect him; it was enough.

Bobbi Jo seemed to be finally showing the strain of carrying the heavy Barrett and its ammunition. Her face was flushed, perspiration running in rivulets down her neck through a sea of sweat, and her depressed shoulder showed where the strap, though padded, was cutting through her vest. As Hunter walked past her, he asked casually, "Want me to carry that for a while? It's a heavy piece of artillery. And you've carried it all day through some pretty bad terrain."

To his surprise and without blinking she said, "Don't mind at all. It's yours. Here." And gave it to him. Simple as that.

When she let the weapon go, Hunter was shocked. It weighed at least thirty pounds. He couldn't believe she'd carried this weight for so long without ever revealing the effort it took. He put the strap over his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable point of contact, as she worked the action on the Marlin, ejecting a cartridge from the port and then injecting it back into the magazine. Obviously she needed no instruction in how to work his weapon.

She swept back hair from her head, speaking quickly and pointing to the weapon. "There's a round already chambered. This is the safety. It's a semiauto .50 caliber. You already found out that it kicks some, but be ready. You've got five shots but I'll get to you before that.” A pause. “Hopefully."

He looked up. "Why hopefully?"

Shaking sweat from her forehead, she smiled, " 'Cause I've got the extra clips."

"Oh."

"Let's move!" Takakura repeated, looking more warlike with every step the expedition put behind them. Hunter took point, with Ghost ranging to his left and right, searching, searching, and always ready. Hunter tried to estimate how quickly they could negotiate the expanse between them and the research station before they once again might be forced to try and kill what might indeed be un-killable.

Chaney answered the fax, reading it from the screen of the portable laptop. As ever, he was impressed with the modern technology available to modern law-enforcement personnel.

Without shame or concern he considered himself a computer idiot, but he knew enough about technology to remain functional. From the old school, though, he still preferred the old-fashioned snitch and a good fast attack stratagem. However he was not so cowboy-minded that he didn't appreciate fingertip access to information.

Chaney studied the Executive Order displayed on the gray-blue monitor. It was dated one week ago and had authorized the search team in the Alaskan wilderness. And one name in particular attracted his attention: Dr. Angus Tipler, executive director of the Tipler Institute.

Chaney had just learned that Tipler was the country's leading authority on crypto-zoology and ecosystems reputedly on the verge of destruction. In fact, that entire institute seemed dedicated to the preservation of endangered species and environments. Thoughtfully, Chaney studied it. What was this old man doing on what was supposed to be a military mission? Then he saw an obscure mention of the inclusion of a civilian "scout." He focused on the name: Nathaniel Hunter.

Hell, he thought, the army had plenty of scouts; it was a highly recruited MOS. Why would this team need a civilian scout? Did the military not have people who could handle this job? Or was Hunter recruited because he was an expert in the topography, the nature of the wilderness? Was there something more to it?

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 semiauto 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 pointed 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.

"Goddamn!" 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 semiauto 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 his 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.

"Taylor and I will carry the professor," the commander said, allowing no room for contest. "Hunter and Ghost will lead. Bobbi Jo, you will be back-up and Riley will be guard. Beware, Riley! It has struck once from behind. It may again. We go! Now!"

In seconds they were moving more quickly, almost at a trot, though Hunter somehow didn't expect an encounter soon. He didn't know why, exactly; perhaps it was just his forest sense. But he had seen the creature's reaction up close when Bobbi Jo hit it with the Barrett and he had somehow sensed its surprise, as if it still could not believe these pitiful weapons could hurt it.

They reached the bluff quickly and Taylor was the first to rappel down. Takakura was second in order to back up Taylor at the base and then they rigged the professor, who was easily lowered to the bottom. Next, the three of them rappelled down, one after the other, with Riley last.

"What about the rope?" Takakura said. "We may need it. It is still tied to the tree at the top."

"That's why you brought me, Commander," Riley responded. "I lassoed it to the tree."

He pulled on one length of the doubled rope and quickly one end ascended. In seconds, the entire rope came over the summit and spiraled in a slow majestic descent over the climber. "One second," he said, again out of breath; the ordeal was wearing on them all.

That Takakura did not hurry him was a measure of his command ability. In five minutes the gear was stowed and Riley lifted the pack, holding his M-203. "I'm ready," he gasped.

Ghost ranged in front as they picked a path down a slope that bordered a creek running toward Windy Gap, a cut in the mountains. This was their only chance for getting the professor to the research center. It would be the last night alive in these mountains for all of them if they failed to succeed.

Leading, Hunter kept the Marlin ready, for whatever it was worth. When he cast a quick glance back at Bobbi Jo, he saw a vicious edge in the sniper's eyes. She was not just looking; she was hungry. She wanted it in her sights again; she had confidence in both her skill and her weapon.

Then Hunter again remembered the demonic eyes that blazed with malignant intent, heard again the enraged deafening roar hurled from the humanoid face with curved claws weaving a black web of death that he had evaded again and again by the merest margin, escaping death by the space of a breath, and he knew one more thing.

It would never cease this hunt. He was the only one that had beaten it face-to-face, the only one to challenge that dark might and escape. Yes, it would come. And it would come for him.

"I can't give it to you on a cellular," Brick growled. "Call me on a land line."

"Give me a number," Chaney said, steering the rented Ford LTD into a gas station. He was less than thirty miles from the Tipler Institute. It was the most likely place to begin.

He wrote down the number Brick gave him and hurried to the phone, knowing he could be racing against a tap. Brick answered before the first ring finished.

"It's only a piece," Brick said hoarsely, "but I found something from one of the snitches injustice. This guy knows somebody who was asking questions about logistics, the satellite support stuff for these research stations. That ain't much, but if someone is poking around, they got a reason."

"Can this be traced back to you?" Chaney asked, suspecting a possible trap. It was the oldest trick in the book; put out false information to a particular person and then wait and see if it surfaces downstream. It was one of the best methods for finding moles and leaks.

"No, this guy is solid," Brick responded. "We go back."

"Did he give you a name?"

"Yeah." He paused, and Chaney heard paper rattling. "He said the guy's name was… Dixon. Yeah, Dixon. Flashed CIA creds. He didn't mention division. But if it's dealing with this, I'd say covert ops is a good place to start. Want me to check on it?"

Chaney debated.

The Central Intelligence Agency was prevented by law from operating any facilities inside the continental United States, with the exception of a domestic office that they ran at a covert site in New York City. Both the CIA charter and presidential mandate prevented domestic activities. And whatever this would eventually turn out to be, it was definitely a domestic activity. He wasn't sure if he wanted to involve Brick any further.

"No," he said finally. "I can take it from here. I want you to smooth things over. Act pissed off and ignorant. Say you wonder why a bunch of marines got wasted because you're an ex-marine. Make like you're angry about the whole thing. They'll figure, once a marine, always a marine. Take that line. Let them know you don't care who knows you're interested, then they'll think you have nothing to hide."

He almost felt Brick nodding.

"You watch your back, kid," Brick said heavily, his voice deepening. "You're messin' with… Lord! I don't know what you're messin' with! But I know a few tricks that you don't. And I can promise you that they know you're watchin' 'em. So they're gonna be watchin' you back."

"I'll cover my six." Chaney glanced around casually at the highway. "You know me. I always do."

"Yeah. Right."

Chaney hung up and walked back to the car. From the first, he hadn't liked the feel of it. Now he liked it even less. And the questions returned to him: What were they looking for up there? Why did they need one of the world's leading crypto-zoologists, guys that specialize in identifying unknown species?

He opened the car door slowly, completely absorbed by the thought— the military and anthropologists working together in what was essentially a high-tech military hunting party. Which would mean they were, of course, hunting for…no, not a person. They wouldn't need an ecologist to hunt a—

Chaney stopped in place.

An animal?

He vaguely knew his mouth was hanging open.

Could they be hunting some kind of animal?

He mentally repeated it: an ecologist, a scout, a high-tech killing team… for an animal? Could an animal have attacked the soldiers? Would that be why they were hunting it, if that's what they were really doing? Could an animal be responsible for the destruction of the research facilities?

The thought was so outrageous, he went over the facts again, to make sure he hadn't missed a major clue. But he hadn't. And he stood for a long time in silence, trying to accept the possibility of it. He didn't even attempt to measure the absurdity of it. He didn't need to.

He tried to avoid thinking of how incredible a thought it was, concentrating on the hard clues themselves. They had found something up there, he conjectured, something that required someone to name. That explained the presence of the old man. And it was something that was moving — which meant it was alive — and that explained the need for a tracker. And it was something that they intended to kill, which explained the hit team.

Chaney was grateful that that much made good sense, despite the wild-ness of the theory. Then he continued to try to fit in what else he knew.

And someone with power wanted to conceal the operation, which explained the lies. And this agent, Dixon, had reportedly been asking questions about the team's satellite linkups, and that was the factor Chaney couldn't figure. Why ask about communications satellites unless… unless… How would you sabotage an attack team?

The answer was easy.

By cutting off their support. By shoving them into traffic and abandoning them.

Chaney frowned. If this thing — an animal, if his theory was correct— could wipe out two platoons of marines, it could easily wipe out a small attack team. But what could do that? What kind of animal could kill all those men in an attack? And why, if you wanted it dead, would you cut off your killing team?

Things just didn't add up.

What could be so important at these sites that they would go to such extremes to conceal? And who would have any motivation to sabotage the operation? And finally, and even more important, who would have the power?

Slowly, turning it over and over, he pulled out from the gas station.

He was even more careful as he exited the ramp, moving north toward the Institute. Maybe he would find the answers there, he thought. But he doubted it. He had a feeling this was going to get a lot worse before it got better.

Hunter moved slowly down a gorge that led to a creek. He knew it would lead to an even larger creek. He wasn't consulting the topography map; he didn't have to. From here, his reckoning skills would take them to the gap, though they still had a long twenty miles ahead of them.

Ghost, the only one among them who knew no fear, roamed up the trail and down, always staying close. But Hunter knew it was to protect him, for if Ghost had chosen his preferred action, he would be tracking it even now through this frontier to battle it to the death.

Hunter watched everything, nothing. The forest was quiet, but not unnaturally so, probably due to the uncustomary presence of man in this wooded domain of beasts.

He glanced back — everyone was moving well — so he continued on at an even, measured pace. Not too quick, yet not too slow because they had to make the pass by dusk. There, he knew, they would find some kind of hamlet where they could contact the research station by phone and obtain immediate medical assistance for the professor.

Hunter estimated another five hours on the trail. And, after he released the professor into the care of the army, he would pursue this beast alone and with the means to destroy it.

It was personal now, as when Ghost refused to fall before the wrath of the alpha wolf that he had fought over the dead elk. And there was something more.

Hunter knew this beast would kill forever if it was not stopped. It was like a lion that had become a man-killer. It would return to kill again and again until it was destroyed.

And this creature was even worse than any man-killer. This thing didn't kill for a reason; not food, not fear, not territory. It was simply a mindless engine of annihilation that would continue until it was destroyed.

Hunter knew that nothing like this had walked the world for 10,000 years, if ever. Nor had it long been inside these mountains. For a species this unbelievably savage would have drawn the attention of the entire planet long ago, and quite probably would have been tracked down and killed.

Hunter knew that these "research facilities" were somehow behind this monstrosity. And he decided that, yes, he would fly into the next one…and he would indeed find some answers to—

Hunter's savage instinct made him whirl.

He twisted desperately aside as the volcanic black shape — a monstrosity of roaring black and red — erupted from a crevice to hurl a clawed hand at his face. The blurring black talons brushed his leather shirt and Hunter, incredibly, hit the ground on balance, spinning back with a snarl.

Yet the blow continued on momentum and hit Bobbi Jo hard, somersaulting her cleanly in the air with the Barrett flung far. Takakura whirled, firing a full round with the MP-5, unleashing a raging clip into its chest as it staggered, striking again to blast the Japanese back.

Driven to the ground by the impact, Takakura slammed into Wilkenson and both of them hit a small slope, a tangle of arms and legs and outstretched weapons rolling hard to collide with a boulder. Moving in a blur, it was on Riley almost instantly.

Without the advantage of Kevlar this time, Riley was virtually armor-less as it swiped out, lifting him cleanly from the ground, its monstrous hand buried to the wrist in a lung.

Riley's face was open in shock for a stunned instant before blood exploded violently from his mouth and he ceased moving. Gloating, almost, it hurled the dead soldier at Taylor, rushing forward almost as quickly as the body sailed through smoking air.

The hulking commando agilely evaded Riley's dead form and quick drew a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun from his waist to fire both blasts in its face.

It staggered, and with a massive roar, returned a murderous blow that should have torn Taylor in half. But, anticipating the response, the big man had ducked, rolled, and come up quick with his shotgun blazing. He hit it a dozen times in less than three seconds and dropped a clip to speed-load another as Hunter fired.

The Marlin's roar was tremendous and the beast winced, staggering back as if Taylor's assault had stunned it. Then Bobbi Jo fired a quick shot that disintegrated a small tree beside it.

For a split second, they had the advantage of distance and acquisition and took full advantage of it, laying a field of fire that hit and didn't hit. Bobbi Jo clambered painfully to her knees, holding her chest. Hunter could hear nothing but the detonation of rifle fire but he saw her attempt to raise the Barrett for a shot. Grimacing at the pain of her effort, she dropped the barrel to the ground. Then, teeth gritted, she tried again.

The barrel rose.

Sensing that Bobbi Jo was about to fire, the thing leaped with superhuman speed, hitting a boulder and clearing the wide stream with a terrific bound before Hunter could raise the Marlin and fire another wild shot, knowing as his finger closed on the trigger that he had failed to lead it enough.

Vaguely it registered to him that a tree somewhere beyond it had exploded from the impact of the heavy 45.70 round, and then the creature gained the ground on the far side of the stream, running.

The entire creek bed was littered with smoking shells and casings, and waves of heat rose from the weapons in the unnatural silence that followed. Hunter could hear nothing but his own labored breath. And then he glimpsed the beast on a nearby hill, charging up the slope as if it had not been wounded at all.

Taylor roared wordlessly, viciously as he opened fire again, aiming high because the beast was well out of range.

Takakura staggered from the freezing stream and cast a single glance at Riley's dead body before whirling toward the hill where Taylor was firing. He immediately joined Taylor, firing hopelessly far and high and wide.

Wilkenson was wounded, blood pouring from his slashed arm, but he raised his rifle at the fleeing shape and pulled the trigger.

Already it was more than a half mile away.

"God Almighty," Hunter whispered. "Already…"

He raised the Marlin and fired, knowing it was impossible but joining anyway. The slug would fall at a quarter mile, probably, and now it was almost a mile away, nearing the top of the ridge.

They were not even close to hitting it as he watched the thing continue to climb, unperturbed by the vengeful rifle fire cascading over it. And he knew that in seconds it would reach the crest, over a mile distant. They didn't stand a chance of hitting it.

Then, snarling, Bobbi Jo gained her feet. Her eyes blazed red and her teeth clenched as she understood the situation. She whipped a machete from her waist and with a single vicious swipe sliced off a nearby branch, instantly slamming it into the ground.

Then she racked a heavy .50-caliber round into the Barrett sniper rifle and laid the barrel through two strong branches that formed a support. She flipped open the scope covers.

Her face grew still and cold. Then her breathing slowed and she threw a lock of hair from her eyes with an impatient toss of her head.

Hunter looked back at the ridge and saw the thing near the crest. Dimly he knew that the rest had stopped firing, finally abandoning all hope with hateful screams.

"Come on…" He heard Bobbi Jo's soft whisper. "Come on… I'm gonna reach out and touch ya…"

She waited with cold fury until it reached the peak of the far ridge. Waited until it turned. Waited until it raised monstrous taloned hands in the air and its glorious bestial roar crashed over them, hurled from the sanctity of safety.

"Good night, you monster," she whispered.

Fired.

The violent concussion hurled it backward off the ridge. Hunter stared hard but saw nothing more, then dimly heard Bobbi Jo eject the Barrett's five-round magazine, inserting another round from her vest.

Her face was empty, devoid of pleasure or pain. And Hunter sensed that the concentration and cold control required to make such an incredible shot would fade slowly.

She kicked the branch aside and shouldered the strap of the sniper rifle, turning to Takakura. "I hit it low," she said with a surgeon's detached composure. "I was trying for a head shot. But I hit low."

Takakura shook his head in saddened frustration. He cast a single glance back at Tipler, motionless now on the stretcher. "We must hurry," he breathed. "We cannot risk another encounter with the beast. We will not be so lucky next time, I think… Taylor, help me with the professor. Wilkenson, you can take rear guard."

Hunter's eyes narrowed as he watched the Japanese bend for a second, recovering. He could not imagine, for some reason, Takakura injured or revealing injury. But it seemed for a moment that he would collapse. Then he straightened, a hard frown on his chiseled face, and walked to the professor.

Mile by mile, Hunter thought, they were becoming more ragged and battle-worn. Takakura's short hair was smeared with grime and sweat and his once-impeccable uniform savagely torn by the beast's massive claw. Bobbi Jo's uniform and armor were as devastated as Takakura's, and she appeared haggard, as if the long combat was leeching the life from her. Wilkenson was still holding onto some of his superior attitude, but he too was showing distinct signs of exhaustion and wear. Even Hunter, used to savage encounters and long arduous journeys in uninhabited lands, was feeling the strain. His coat had been shredded by the boulder and the blows of those clawed hands that had only barely missed the skin beneath. Uncounted purple and bloodied contusions lined his forearms and neck, but his face wore the most punishing remembrance of the conflict: the left: side was viciously slashed with four long distinct claw marks that had torn deep furrows from his cheek downward across his chin.

Hunter spoke quietly, Ghost at his side.

"We better get moving." He held the Marlin low, feeling a fatigue that was somehow deeper than any he had ever known before. "It'll be moving ahead of us again."

"Hai." Takakura nodded and waved. "Wilkenson will be guard. We cannot afford to lose another. We will return for Riley and Buck… if we survive."

Bobbi Jo seemed to have recovered somewhat, and turned to Hunter. For the first time, he saw true fear in her eyes. Her voice was soft. "We're gonna die out here, aren't we?" she asked.

She didn't blink.

No lies, her eyes said.

Mouth tightening into a line, Hunter reached up and placed a hand on her neck. He shook his head. "No," he said, "we're not."

She smiled faintly, returned the nod.

Hunter turned: "Ghost!"

The wolf was instantly in a stance, four massive legs solid as iron, ready for any command. His eyes locked on Hunter with a world of love and devotion and fearlessness. Hunter flung out an arm down the trail: "Search!"

The wolf moved away, passing their weary forms as if they were stones. It cleared the small crest before them and hesitated, coming back, always keeping Hunter in view.

"From now on," Hunter said stoically, "we have to move as quickly as we can, Ghost will clear the trail a hundred yards at a time. We'll make the pass in less than four hours." He looked at all of them in turn. "Can all of you handle the pace?"

They agreed and Hunter reloaded the Marlin. He could hear Bobbi Jo's labored breathing from the ordeal, but knew that no one else was qualified to handle the massive Barrett; she would have to endure it. There was no easy way out. Not for any of them.

Always, Ghost roamed ahead, came back, and Hunter knew he was taking a risk with his friend. For even Ghost could be deceived if the creature was downwind and motionless. But he was thinking that the creature would assume they would continue as they had been — moving slowly, carefully, with extreme caution.

And it would surely be wounded somewhat by Bobbi Jo's dead-eye accuracy because she had hit it center-mass. Perhaps, by the time its animal mind suspected the change of tactics, they might have the distance to outrun it, even in this battle-ravaged condition.

Then, when the rest were safe, and he knew what he needed to know — as in who had betrayed them, and why — he would return to hunt it on his own terms.

It was a head he would keep.

Chaney didn't like the feel of it.

The Tipler Institute was obviously a prestigious academy for intellectual dialogue. The listing in the lobby was a virtual who's who of scientific heavyweights. Obviously, securing a tour of the privately funded facility was a much desired honor. Although the professor's photo and position were clearly displayed, Hunter's presence was conspicuously absent from the decorations.

He sensed the direct attention of a rather impatient looking young woman approaching him from a nearby hall. Displaying the full scope of his limited charm, he smiled.

"I'm Gina Gilbert," she said, crossing her arms. She didn't seem particularly impressed by his Deputy U.S. Marshal credentials. "Is there some way I can help you? I'm very busy at the moment."

"I understand." Chaney flashed his creds respectfully. "I wanted to talk with Dr. Tipler."

"He's not in the facility."

"Might I ask where I can contact him?"

"He's on an expedition and it might be a week or so before he's near a communications facility," she answered, tilting her head. "Aren't you aware of the expedition?"

Chaney debated for a split second. "Well, I heard that he was participating in some manner with the State Department," he said — without discernible hesitation, he hoped. "And, in fact, that's what I wanted to speak with him about."

"Well," she said, somewhat slower, "maybe I can assist you. What do you need to know?"

"Are you familiar with the nature of his trip?"

"Yes."

"The trip to Alaska?"

She blinked. "Yes." A pause. "What is it that you want to know, Marshal Chaney?"

Chaney enjoyed her using the "marshal." This close to Washington, he wasn't usually given the courtesy. In fact, the closer you got to the capital, the more unimpressed people became with the presence of a federal agent. Whereas in the heartland, say Oklahoma or Montana, flashing U.S. Marshal credentials would get you instant cooperation — or at least a free meal.

"I'd like to discuss Dr. Tipler's role on this expedition," Chaney continued. "If you have the time, I'd like for you to show me anything you have on it."

She was silent a moment, studying Chaney's innocent smile.

"All right, I've got a minute." She turned away. "Follow me, please, and I'll show you what we've been studying."

It had been awhile since Chaney had done any hunting, but he could tell immediately that whatever had made the plaster imprint wasn't a bear. It wasn't anything he had ever seen. And if he could believe this woman, he wasn't alone in his belief.

"And Dr. Tipler couldn't identify what manner of creature made this cast?" he asked, bending low. "I mean, isn't he the expert the experts turn to on this kind of thing?"

"He's the foremost expert in the world, Marshal," Gina said as she laid a long printout on the table. "This is the DNA printout that we mapped from a fiber taken from the bottom of the cast. It couldn't be seen with the naked eye but I spotted it on a microscope and we did the test the day before yesterday. Do you understand DNA coding at all?"

"No." Chancy shook his head. All he saw were rows upon rows of repeated letters. It meant nothing. "Can you explain it to me?"

"Not as well as Dr. Tanus."

"And that is…?"

"Rebecca Tanus. She's in charge of the Institute while Dr. Tipler is on his expedition." Gina folded the printout. "She should be back later if you want to stay around and talk to her. She'll be in Langley until then, if you want to try and reach her immediately."

Chancy tried to keep his voice low and calm. "What's Dr. Tanus doing at Langley?"

Gina obviously sensed nothing sinister about it. "Well, she went down there to deliver these findings. We could have faxed them but we don't have secure lines here. Dr. Tanus was nervous about it."

"I see." Chaney mused. "Does she have a cell phone?"

"Sure." She reached for a book as the phone rang, picked it up as she opened it. "Yes," she said, slowing her movement. "Yes, this is Gina. Can I help you?"

Chaney saw her face open little by little in obvious shock, but barely heard her almost inaudible words when she finally spoke. "Thank you," she whispered. "No. I'll take care of it."

Silently she set the phone on the hook.

Chaney knew.

"Gina?" he said quietly. "Are you all right?"

She didn't look at him.

"Dr. Tanus," she said dully. "She's dead."