Hunter

Chapter 14

Birdsong heralded morning long before first light, and Hunter could tell from the cadence how long until dawn. Outside, it was still dark but he knew, or felt, that the creature wouldn't be attacking again tonight.

For one reason, they had, for the first time, truly injured it, and he turned the episode over and over in his mind, trying to conclude why bladed weapons had injured it when bullets didn't. He couldn't come up with a reason; it didn't make sense.

A knife traveled with far less velocity than a bullet, struck with less impact; there was no explanation why he had been able to savage the creature's arm as he had with a blade. Finally he let it go and turned his attention to Bobbi Jo, who had at last fallen into some much needed sleep. Her head rested on his shoulder and he was careful not to move, so as not to disturb her.

Looking across the narrow corridor he could see that Taylor was wide awake, as always. The commando was lazily scrawling images in the dirt with the Bowie knife, his shotgun laid against the wall. He had loaded each clip with depleted uranium slugs for deadlier contact, and he seemed eager to get on with it.

Ghost was asleep, lying on his side, a good sign of safety. And Takakura had spent the last hour sitting in isolated silence, though Hunter occasionally saw the Japanese gazing bitterly at Wilkenson.

The SAS agent did not seem to notice the attention. And if he did, he hid it masterfully, appearing completely unperturbed. He had spent the time cleaning and oiling the modified Heckler and Koch 7.62mm fully automatic assault rifle and sat patiently without expression, glancing only occasionally at the rising chorus of morning outside the wall.

Finally Takakura stood. "It is daylight," he said in a stronger tone than he had used through the night. He looked at Hunter. "We must go outside in order to transmit a direct signal to the satellite. The phone system cannot penetrate rock."

Hunter rose, fatigue and soreness assaulting him in a wave of stiff muscles and pain. "I know."

His chest ached from the deep furrows torn by the creature s claws, and he knew he'd been lucky. He didn't know what had warned him, didn't think about it that much. It was enough that some primal instinct that he could barely comprehend had acted for him.

Now they were all staring at the wall, unmoving. Then Takakura turned to Bobbi Jo. "If the creature is waiting outside, the only chance we have is for you to shoot it point-blank with the Barrett. If one of us is in the path of the bullet, you must not hesitate. You must fire. Do you understand this? A team member, balanced against the survival of the rest of the team, must be considered expendable. There is no other way."

Expressionless, she nodded. Racked a round into the Barrett.

Hunter had no doubt that she would do it. Now, he understood that later she would pay more dearly than others with the nightmares and regrets, but the job would have been done.

It was a simple matter to remove the third log, since the second was shattered. Then they removed the fourth and hesitated.

"Remain inside the mine," Takakura said. Without waiting for a reply he took his sword in one hand and one of Taylor s shotguns in the other and slid through the narrow opening.

He vaulted softly into azure light, alert and careful, glancing above, left, right. He stood for a moment in the middle of the small clearing, but nothing happened. Finally he turned back and motioned for them to follow.

They quickly removed the remaining logs, keeping their weapons near, and Hunter helped the professor from his cot. He sat the old man on a chair they had gotten from one of the cabins. Wilkenson activated the Magellan System.

Hunter heard the movement in the trees, the wind swaying branches, the breeze rushing over the stream located at the bottom of the slope, the musical sound of water trickling from the limestone cliff, a distant chattering woodchuck, and somewhere in the far distance a moose calling for its mate.

After being shut into the mine all night, every smell was fresh and distinct: rotting vegetation, green pine, old wood, even the earth itself. He inhaled deeply, relaxing, and released the breath as Wilkenson seemed to finally make contact.

He listened intently as Wilkenson requested an emergency extraction. The reply was negative. They were instructed to move at least a quarter mile downstream where a Blackhawk personnel helicopter could airlift them back to the base.

With a faintly perturbed expression, Wilkenson closed the case and gazed somberly at a frowning Takakura. "Well," the Englishman began, "seems we are still on our own, Commander."

"As I anticipated," Takakura growled. He turned to Hunter. "You are more familiar with the terrain than anyone. Can we make it?"

"We can make it," Hunter replied, steady. "Now we know how to kill it." Moving forward without words, he began down the slope. He held the Marlin lightly, knowing it was useless. The only weapon he possessed that could penetrate the Kevlar-like skin of the creature was the Bowie knife on his waist. The problem was that in order to inflict a wound, he was bound to receive one. A wound, or death.

Roaming ten feet ahead of them, Ghost led the procession.

Hunter heard Takakura order the Englishman and Taylor to carry the ailing Tipler on the stretcher. Then he ordered Bobbi Jo to back up Hunter at point while he took rear guard, and they were moving slowly, carefully, fearfully.

In a half hour they reached the path — it seemed to require far less effort than the climb to the cliff — and moved west toward the pass. It would take two hours, he estimated, to reach the clearing where the Blackhawk could pick them up.

And until then they would remain in danger, as anyone in these accursed mountains was in danger. But Hunter had steeled himself to it; there was nothing that could surprise him or shock him now, and he somehow despised the fear, knowing it would make him weaker, slower, less instinctive and less ready.

Casting an obscure glance back to see the formation of the unit — their positioning and readiness — Hunter heard Bobbi Jo's quiet voice. It was so soft he could barely make out the words, and he knew she had spoken only to him.

"Thank you for last night," she said without overt emotion. But it was there, somewhere beneath the words, in the tone. And in the fact that she had said it at all.

He nodded without looking back, knowing she was watching him, and they continued on, Hunter leading with winter in his veins and a cold wind in his face.

Chaney had left the Tipler Institute in a scientific fog. Without question, Gina knew her discipline, though he wondered if she might not be somewhat unsettled by the death of Rebecca, and whether it could be influencing her theories.

He knew all too well how emotional content often shaped rational thinking — one reason why the Marshals Service prevented agents involved in a shooting from pursuing the suspect.

No, they were routinely reassigned to another case because supervisors feared that causes of vengeance and anger would shadow logic at the moment of apprehension. Chaney had never had a problem with it; he had a pretty broad disposition toward vengeance, so it generally worked in his favor by keeping him out of prison.

He hadn't told her it was murder, but Gina had assumed it. But, then, he hadn't corrected her when she herself used the term, so that was a confirmation of sorts. He wondered if he might not need to order some protection for her as he made his way to the car and headed it toward Washington.

The game was getting more complicated, but it was adding up quickly. He knew that the government had done something far outside the known perimeters of science and law and probably of ethics as well.

What, exactly, was hard to discern. But something had happened up there and had gotten out of control. And now they were trying to mop it up before a public relations fiasco broke loose that would make the Bay of Pigs look like a carnival.

He headed across town toward the installation at Langley, calling Brick on the cell phone to leave a coded message that he would meet him later in the day. He had one other appointment he had to keep — maybe two— before he was finished.

Somehow, he was looking forward to them.

He felt his energy building as he raced to catch up to the team, and then he saw a dark moving speck on the far side of the stream, far up the trail. He moved faster, forsaking absolute silence for speed as he raced through the forest, leaping from boulder to boulder, hurtling fallen trees and vaulting small streams with ferocious strength powered by the sustenance he had consumed.

The caribou had fallen as if struck by lightning and he had lifted his fist from its shattered skull, his taloned hand groping for a split second to withdraw a ragged portion of the brain, which he had eaten first. Then he had ripped huge chunks of meat from its flanks and consumed them voraciously, growling with primitive pleasure.

He had not taken long before he noticed his arm healing far more quickly, even the searing scarlet scar fading moment by moment until he was whole again. He could feel his body utilizing the nutrients, strengthening him, making him once again what he had been: the ultimate beast of prey.

As the sun crested fog-shrouded trees, he had consumed enough and turned, running quickly and with purpose. He had hoped to be there when they emerged from hiding, but he had been moments too late, though it had been easy to discern their tracks. As a precaution, since he had come to more deeply respect the strange man who led at the front, he had crossed the stream to avoid detection.

Yet as he closed on them, his strength rising to match his rage, he began to lose his fear degree by degree, imagining the man's blood in his mouth.

Oh, yes, the man would die, though now he might save him for last. To torment him, to torture him, to make him afraid. Through with the thought, as he placed a broad black hand on a fallen tree that he vaulted without effort, he knew the man would never be truly afraid. No, he would die as the old ones had died, fighting till the last, though they had ultimately died.

Such glory…

Days of blood, nights of cruelty and screams in the dark as they had hunted the weak ones, finding them in the shadowed forest to leap with a scream from above. He remembered the ecstasy of falling, killing before he touched the ground. And then rising slowly, so slowly, to behold their horror, to see the rest run.

Grinning, he increased his speed.

They knelt together before the cleft, and Hunter cast a tired glance at the professor, who was again sound asleep. Hunter was grateful for that. He hoped that when Tipler awoke again, they would be at the clearing where the Blackhawk would airlift them to the last surviving research station.

Takakura was studying the cleft closely. His dark eyes were narrow as he spoke. "It is the perfect place for an ambush," he said slowly. "But there is no other path we can take. The rock" — he pointed to the sheer cliff that descended like a wedge to the stream—"blocks any other line of advance. We must take our chances."

He turned to look directly at Hunter, but Hunter didn't acknowledge it. His mind was already inside the cleft, imagining the best method of negotiating that long walk in darkness. For they had lost most of their equipment in the pell-mell of the retreat, often casting off load-bearing vests in the heat of combat so they could move with greater agility and stay alive. But they could have used a major light source. All they had was Hunter's mini-light. Not enough.

Hunter stood. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll make some torches," he said. "We can't go in there without light."

Taylor pulled a machete from his waist. "I'll help you."

He followed Hunter off the trail and into the woods. In minutes they had cut branches of dry pine into sections four feet long that Hunter slivered at one end into twigs as thin as toothpicks. Then he ripped up what remained of his T-shirt into tiny ribbons, stuffing them deep into the thin splinters.

Hunter had the torches burning in ten minutes, and turned to the rest. "Okay, I think we should stay close. We know bullets don't hurt it. But a blade will, so this will be face-to-face. We don't know yet how it really reacts to fire. If it's more man than beast, the torches could hold it for a second. But it might not. Just tell me, Takakura, if you don't like anything I'm saying."

A curt shake of his head and the Japanese answered, "I disagree with nothing." He lifted his eyes to the cleft. "We must negotiate the pass. That is all. We will deal with what we must deal with."

Again, Hunter was struck by the stoicism, and he remembered what he had read about the code of Bushido: expect nothing — not victory or defeat — and live knowing only death.

Hunter shook his head silently at the thought. He understood it, and he respected it, but he had found a different path through life. Neither was superior, he thought, as he rose with two torches in each hand, passing them out, but what he had come to know as life embraced life. It wasn't life focused on death. But that, too, was part of Bushido, the way of the warrior.

The torch didn't seem as bright as he stepped into the cave.

He had been forced to move more quickly than he had thought possible to get ahead of them, for he had spied the cleft far away, emerging high on a cresting knoll to see the black ribbon stretching down from the cliff.

He had leaped right, dropping thirty feet to the ground and rising to run through the forest with enormous leaping strides until he reached their stream. There he had launched himself viciously into the air to land catlike on a dry boulder where he had continued his momentum, casting himself high into the air to gain ground on their side. Then he had moved uphill and west, passing them far on the ridge and down again, where he had entered the cavern before them.

Now he rested on a ledge, breathing heavily from the tremendous exertion but feeling his monstrous body galvanized by the flesh of the beast he had slain. He was strong, stronger by the moment, and a trembling set into his arms and legs, an anticipation of slaying them in the dark as they wandered unknowingly into his path.

From his narrow view, he had watched the man fashion the torches— the fire — and knew they would bring the fire with them.

Creeping silently back until he was well out of whatever meager light the pitiful fire would hurl in the narrow rock-walled corridor, he threw back his hideous head and laughed.

Yes, bring your fire to me… we will see who is afraid…

"Are you Dixon?"

Special Agent Dixon of the Central Intelligence Agency looked up at the sharp rap on the door, his eyes flicking down to check the valid pass and the United States Deputy Marshal credentials the man casually presented.

"I'm Dixon." He rose with the words. "I assume you're Marshal Chaney."

"I'm Chaney. I'd like to talk to you."

Dixon smiled, reaching out to shake. "Sure. Have a seat."

Chaney had already moved into the room, noticing as he shook hands that Dixon was a typical-appearing career man: white shirt, dark coat, dark tie, short-cut hair swept back, pale from too many hours under fluorescent lights, and eyes that seemed none too friendly. Chaney took a seat opposite him. He had been careful not to bring any notes, nor did he indicate that he would take any.

Reasons for that were twofold. First, Chaney wanted to scare Dixon, if he were truly involved in the subterfuge. And second, he wanted Dixon's immediate attention and respect. He had learned that other federal agents who didn't bother with recordings scared Agency people.

Chaney settled back into the chair, almost relieved at the atmosphere, though he knew he was on hostile ground.

With Gina he had been woefully, inadequately out of his league. But here, surrounded by policy and procedure, rules and regulations and the aura of secrets, clearances, and easy betrayal, he was at home. He waited for a moment, just to see what Dixon would do, measuring the man's temperament. But Dixon only leaned back and gestured casually.

"Well, Marshal," he began, in a cooperative tone, "I'm at your disposal and I'll help anyway I can. Of course, you're aware of restraints placed by Article 2453 negating any—"

"I'm aware, Mr. Dixon."

Chaney accented his response with a curt nod to indicate that he wouldn't allow the direction of his investigation to be derailed by regulations or policy. Nor would he allow his concentration to be distracted by protocol.

With Dixon, Chaney felt, it was best to play from strength.

"Ah, good." Dixon leaned forward, aggressive. "Then how can I help you?"

Chaney wanted to set the board up clean, so he didn't hesitate, didn't use a friendly tone, didn't couch anything in polite or tactful terminology. "Tell me about these so-called research stations that run under this program from the Arctic Circle," he began. "The ones where all the soldiers and personnel were injured or killed. I don't have to tell you that I'm investigating them."

Dixon opened his eyes wider and released a deep breath. He shook his head. "Frankly, Marshal, I'm as confused as anyone else. I don't know what is happening, really. All I know for certain is that the program has suffered setbacks due to the violent interference of some type of animal that is attacking our personnel."

"Yeah, I know that much." Chaney held the CIA man's eyes, watching for the slightest flicker. "What, exactly, are these stations designed to achieve?"

"Just geochronology and monitoring of tectonic plate movement." Dixon was all business. "It's a simple affair, really. Virtually every major country has some type of research station in the Arctic. Some are in international territory. Ours are on our own turf, in Alaska." He leaned back, shaking his head with more emphasis. "I can't really tell you why this bear or tiger or whatever the hell this thing is has singled out the stations. I've had people working on it. They say it might be related to radiation, or low-frequency sounds that could be attracting it, but that's all I can tell you. I'm not a scientist."

"Neither am I, Dixon," Chaney answered, purposefully dropping the "Mr." Then: "I only know that the information I've dug up so far indicates that these… facilities… are engaged in something more than seismic monitoring."

Dixon tilted his head. "Oh? And how would you reach that conclusion? Because that's certainly beyond any information that I've obtained."

"I can't reveal my sources," Chaney said, finding faint pleasure in the baiting. "But I believe the stations are engaged in some sort of biological research."

There was no hesitation at all in Dixon's reply. "Really?" He followed with a deliberate pause, as if he were seriously absorbing and considering the weight of it. "I did not know that. Just how accurate do you believe this information is, Mr. Chaney?"

"Accurate enough. It fits."

Silence.

"I see," Dixon responded at last. "So…biological research, you say. Now… of course, you know I can't move on that information unless I have corroboration."

It was the moment Chaney had been waiting for, but he didn't know it until it came. "You don't have to corroborate it. I already have. And I don't care for you moving on it, either. I'm gonna do that personally." He leaned slightly forward. "Tell me about this hunting party you have up there, Dixon. Certainly that information is not classified under the Posse Comitates threshold of' Top Secret and Above! "

"Well," Dixon responded, tapping the desk with a pencil, "I believe that they are an elite unit of specially recruited soldiers highly qualified for jungle survival and experienced at hunting both animals and men. They are all experts in small arms, veterans of combat, decorated to a man, or woman, and possessing appropriate security clearances."

It was just what Chaney had expected to hear; there had been no mention of this man named Hunter.

"What about the guide?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Nathaniel Hunter."

"Oh, yes." Dixon waved vaguely. "According to those who selected him for the mission, he is the best wilderness tracker, as they call it, in the world. Seems like he can find anything in the jungle, the forest, the desert, wherever, and capture it or kill it. I didn't have the responsibility of verifying his credentials, so I really have no idea. Nor did I select him. That was beyond my pay grade."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Oh, yes, but only for a moment. And it wasn't the type of engagement where you can make a studied analysis." Dixon's face and eyes revealed nothing. He could have been reciting a laundry list. Chaney was impressed. "But in the few moments I shared with him," Dixon continued, "I came to appreciate his understanding of these things. I had no objection to allowing him on the team. We did, after all, need someone who could hunt this bear down and kill it before it caused further damage to the program."

"You keep saying that." Chaney didn't blink.

Seemingly surprised, Dixon looked straight at him, innocent. "Saying what, Mr. Chaney?"

"Saying it was a bear."

Dixon blinked, studious. "Well, what else could it be? Unless a tiger swam the Bering Strait — unlikely — then it would have to be a bear. I have, after all, read reports on the attacks." He shook his head, a jerk. "The loss was…horrendous. Nor am I a man easily disturbed by carnage. It is my profession to remain dispassionate and unaffected by such things. They color judgment. But upon reading the descriptions of such wholesale murder, I knew that we were facing a beast of incalculable strength. As only a bear would possess. And a rather large member of its species, at that."

Chaney decided to change tack; this was going nowhere. He decided to fall back on one of Brick's oldest rules: when lying doesn't work at all, try using half the truth. Just remember to always mix it with enough lies to keep them off balance.

"Do you believe this creature might be a mutation?" he asked.

Dixon gazed at him, open and honest. "Mutation?" He let the question hang. "Well, Mr. Chaney, I believe I already told you that I don't know anything about any… mutations or experimentation… at those stations. However, I do not rule out the supposition. I have been in intelligence too long to doubt any concept, however illogical and bizarre it may seem."

"Is it bizarre?" Chaney said, deciding he wasn't going to let up. "What would be so bizarre? 'Cause these stations are perfect for it. They're isolated, easy to quarantine. The area is largely unpopulated, and far beyond executive supervision. Anything is possible in those backwoods, especially if the U.S. government is picking up the tab. Surely, Dixon, you're aware of that."

Dixon was nodding. "Yes, yes, Mr. Chaney, I am aware of the theory, and the history, of similar events. But that is not to say that I will believe it unless I have incontestable proof to present to my supervisors. They are not men…who suffer fools. And they consider anyone who makes an unconfirmed estimation of a crisis as an ignorant man — the kind of agent that is never promoted or trusted."

Chaney's eyes were focused like lasers, unblinking and sharp. "Have you investigated to see whether there were other forms of research beyond seismic monitoring occurring at these stations?"

He nodded. "Yes, according to policy our sanitation crew always performs analysis on disks, records, logs, and military reports. We operated according to the procedure, and found nothing to convince me that there were anything but legitimate tasks being performed by the personnel and their on-site supervisors."

"I want to see the records."

"That is not possible."

"I can obtain a subpoena."

"Well," Dixon replied, "you must do as you see fit, Mr. Chaney. But I assure you that those records, which are highly classified, will reveal nothing to you." He paused. "If you are insistent I can ask the director for permission, and perhaps in three or four days you can peruse the less classified sections."

Chaney knew not to go for that one. In three days they could manufacture any kind of false records about the activities of the installations. Then he remembered what Brick had said about realigning a satellite and decided instantly. He moved to the heart of the situation.

"I want to make contact with this hunting team."

"Impossible." Absolute certainty in the terse reply.

"Why?"

"Because we cannot reach them."

Dixon looked at him as if he were content to let the silence linger forever. Chaney tilted his head, almost unable to believe that the team had been totally cut off from support. But he knew it in his soul.

"What did you just say?" was all he could phrase.

"I said, Mr. Chaney, that we have lost contact with the…the hunting party… as you term them." Dixon leaned forward. "Under law I am obligated to remind you of your secrecy pact. What I'm about to tell you requires the highest clearance."

Chaney said nothing.

"We lost contact with them two days ago," Dixon continued blandly. "They advised us that they were beginning the hunt, leaving the installation. And later that day when we attempted a status check, we received no reply. This…beast…was in the area, by last reports. It is quite possible, even probable, that they are all dead." No betrayal of remorse. "We launched an air search and have yet to turn them up, even though we've used infrared and starlight scopes. So at the moment we are debating our next move."

"So, I suppose, you've fortified the last installation?"

"Absolutely. We have doubled the Ranger contingent, now at almost seventy men. We have increased voltage in the perimeter fence and reinforced external doors. Plus, we have backed up all information at the station in case of attack. Nothing that has been recorded, including an illegal underground nuclear blast performed by the Soviet Union three months ago, shall be lost in an attack."

"You don't seem too emotionally upset over the possible fate of this hunting party, Dixon." Chaney was casual. Curious.

Dixon stared at him in sullen silence for a moment. "Mr. Chaney, I am always upset when I lose an operative. But it is my job to send men on missions, and to their death, if the mission requires. Long ago I became inured to the hardships of this job. If I seem insensitive, then it's because I probably am. You can only see so many men sent to their death before you begin to develop a very thick skin. And if you can't do that, then you eventually become an alcoholic or a drug abuser or insane." He waited a moment. "I believe you understand what I'm talking about."

Silence.

Chaney rose. He nodded as he extended his hand. "I appreciate your time, Mr. Dixon," he said curtly.

"Whatever I can do, Marshal. And, if you don't mind me asking, how is the investigation coming along? I'm still rather confused why they gave it to the Marshals Service and not our own people."

Chaney smiled slightly. "Well, you know what they say," he answered, "don't ask the fox to guard the chicken coop." He walked toward the door. "Nice meeting you, Dixon. I'm sure we'll talk some more."

"So where are you off to next?" Dixon leaned back, cradling his head with his hands, utterly relaxed. He was a man who recovered quickly and completely; Chaney surmised he could conceal just as easily.

"I'm going to have a little conversation with Dr. Hamilton," he answered. "Gonna have a little skull session with him."

"Did you say Dr. Hamilton?"

Pausing, Chaney studied the face. "Yeah."

"But I thought you knew."

Chaney took a step back toward the desk that would have seemed overtly threatening if he had not stopped a good ten feet away. "Thought I knew what?"

"Dr. Hamilton isn't here."

"Where is he?"

"Well, he's gone to Alaska. He's at the last research station. I believe he said he'd be out of touch for at least a week. If not longer."

Chaney could tell from the all-too-obvious consternation and concern in Dixon's expression that, in that moment and that moment alone, the CIA man had seriously overplayed his hand. Because he was actually trying to appear helpful.

It was a strange and uncanny moment as they stood torch in hand outside the cleft, staring silently into gloom cast by giant granite slabs sliced from the mountain during the Ice Age.

Hunter bent, studying the ground, and saw the tracks of a host of animals from bear to wolverine to squirrel. Obviously, nature knew that this was the only way from this side of the cliff to the other. And if the animals, who were wiser, relied upon it, he was certain they would be forced to use it as well. Especially with the burden of carrying the professor, because they couldn't haul him in his diminished condition up that almost sheer face.

If Riley had not been so viciously slain they might have rigged something, and Hunter even now carried the rope across his chest, but he wasn't skilled enough to negotiate that climb. Also, he had failed to obtain the chocks and levers necessary for anchoring himself to the wall.

The torches burned brightly and Hunter knew they would burn for another thirty minutes before the twigs were exhausted. Hopefully, by then, they should be safe.

"I say we just make a run for it, "Taylor rumbled. "Just start running and go through it like hell, not stoppin' for nothing. Then when we get to the other side we rig a satchel of C-4 to a trip wire and let it come after us." He glanced behind them. "Let's see the mother follow that."

In a smooth motion of solid purpose, Takakura slung the MP-5 onto his back and unsheathed the katana. It was a solemn moment — the long curved blade, razor-sharp and at least a quarter-inch thick, glistening in the afternoon light. Then he inserted the black-lacquer scabbard into his belt, medieval-style, holding the sword loosely in his right hand. After a moment he looked down at Hunter, who had watched without expression.

"Only a blade can injure it," Takakura intoned. "We have learned this much. Its skin is impervious to bullets, unless they are traveling at sufficient velocity."

"Like 4,000 feet per second," said Bobbi Jo.

"Yes," he continued. "Perhaps the uranium slugs which Taylor is using can injure it. We will see. But for this I prefer the sword. If it conies to us inside the dark, and if fire fails to deter it, then we will be fighting face-to-face. In this, a sword can be superior to a rifle."

Hunter lowered his head. It was amazing to him, all at once, how much a man could consider in a single moment in time. He saw his life, what he had lived for, all he had learned, his hopes, his unfulfilled dreams, his sorrows. It seemed that all his skill, his knowledge, his understanding and wisdom had brought him to this place in time.

And he still didn't know what they faced, still didn't know how to destroy it. He only knew that he had overcome in the past simply because he had never surrendered to the pain, though he had bled with it.

Feeling a wrong kind of tired, he raised his head. He turned toward Bobbi Jo, smiled slightly, but she only looked sad. He glanced at the professor, sleeping, and nodded to himself.

It was time.

A tough man with a gentle heart…

Slowly, hiding any hint of the fear he felt, he stood and expelled a hard breath, staring at the cleft.

"Let's assume the worst," he said. "It's waiting for us in there. Assume also that it's not afraid of fire. Which it probably isn't. How, exactly, are we going to respond as a unit to an attack inside an enclosed space?"

"With any means possible," said Takakura.

"We blow the hell out of it," Taylor added.

"No." Hunter walked forward a pace and knelt, trying to feel what was there. He didn't expect success, and he wasn't disappointed. After a moment, knowing he was wasting time, he walked slowly back.

"Here's my plan," he began. "I'm gonna climb high, about twenty feet, and make my way through the higher tier of the crevice while you guys carry the professor through the passage. I'll lead, and if I sight it, I'll hit it with the rifle. It won't hurt it, but you'll know what to do. Retreat and blow the crevice behind you and then hold the position outside." He looked at Bobbi Jo. "If anything comes out or over that opening that isn't me… kill it."

She asked, "What will you be doing if we retreat?"

Hunter slung the Marlin on his back, began to free-climb the broken ridges that bordered the crevice.

"Probably fighting for my life," he said.

He gained a foothold and lifted himself with the strength of his legs to save his arms. "The main thing is to get you guys out of there before it can run you down, which it'll do quick since you're carrying the professor."

"Hunter—" She stepped forward.

He paused, looked down. Winked.

"Hey," he smiled, "you just make sure you don't miss that chopper."

Wearing attire appropriate to the landscape — khaki pants, a khaki shirt and a wide-brimmed fedora — Dr. Arthur Hamilton de-boarded a Ranger helicopter and loped, head low, from the landing pad, holding a black briefcase tightly under an arm.

Behind him a small entourage carried baggage, equipment, his parka and their own belongings.

At the edge of the pad, beyond the reach of the slowly rotating rotors and the dying whine of the engines, Colonel Maddox stood holding his hat to his head. "Nice to see you, Dr. Hamilton!" he yelled above the whir of the chopper. Then: "I can't say I'm surprised, though! I'm amazed you didn't come earlier!"

Hamilton nodded curtly and kept moving as Maddox fell in beside him. "We've done everything you ordered, Doctor! I don't know exactly why you wanted the equipment removed, but we flew it out this morning on a chopper!"

"Good!" Hamilton responded as they were finally out of the chopper's annoying range. "Did you follow all of my instructions to the letter, Colonel?"

Maddox nodded. "Right to the letter, Doctor. We shipped it by Sea Stallion to the installation in Los Angeles. Even the pilot doesn't know what he's flying."

"Good." Hamilton moved for an oversized steel door and in moments was at a sub-basement two levels below the visible facility. He inserted his chin into a small cup as a scanner read the blood vessels of his left eye, and then a steel vault opened, allowing entrance.

He was greeted by a tall woman — black-haired, thin pale face with two crescent moons of dark skin sagging beneath her eyes. She smiled as he neared and Hamilton raised his eyes to a glass tube suspended in the middle of the laboratory.

The tube, as large as a sarcophagus, floated in an electromagnetic field. It touched neither the floor nor ceiling and was filled with a liquid that allowed small air bubbles to rise to the top where they disappeared in a lace of reflective mesh. Green light cascaded down over the figure in a halo; it was an aura of holiness.

Hamilton smiled, almost reverent.

For within that liquid, equally suspended, was a thing such as the world had never seen and never imagined. Its head hung in death, hair all but gone to ten thousand years of ice, but its body preserved, almost fossilized by the intense pressure and cold of a glacier melted by an oil fire that had decimated Alaska's North Ridge.

Magnificent, terrifying, and godlike, the humanoid shape floated alone in its own dead space. Its chest was enormous, huge cords locked into the sternum like unbreakable iron cables stretching out to connect with Herculean shoulders. Its arms — heavy and thick and overly developed— ended in large powerful hands tipped with black curving claws. And its legs were equally dynamic; the legs of a hunter, of a creature that could run for days or even weeks without rest or respite only to ferociously attack and feast, and run again, leaping, climbing, attacking and attacking. Though dropped forward in death, its face was surprisingly visible on an imposing mound of neck muscle. The brow was broad and low beneath withered white hair, its nose broad also and flattened with wide nostrils. And its wide mouth, uncannily open in death, revealed fangs as long and deep-set as a tiger's. Then the primitive face ended with a square, solid chin with knotted muscles set deeply in the hinges and high in the cheeks to indicate a uniquely formidable countenance. It was the image of what Homo sapiens might have been if he had possessed the strength of a dinosaur, the mind of a man and the terrifying aspect of a tiger.

Hamilton gazed upward in awe.

"Surely… the purest of all beings." He stepped forward softly. "Surely it ruled the world like a god."

Consumed by the sight, Hamilton lowered his head, a faint smile on his lips. His voice was hushed. "And so, my dear friend Emma, have you managed to finish analysis of the sequencing?"

Dr. Emma Strait, holding a clipboard to her chest, took a slow step to stand beside him. "It was as you suspected, Doctor," she said in a low voice. "Its protein levels were clearly regulated by a long version of the genes that control dopamine and serotonin. But we also found something we hadn't expected."

Hamilton gazed expectantly. "Yes?"

"It's rather complicated, and unexpected, and we don't even understand it ourselves yet." Nervously she glanced at the suspended dead form. "There are variations — some severe — in the regulatory regions for the transporter genes. We haven't mapped the entire genome, but the reconstruction we've managed to produce allows us a hint at its makeup. The D2 Dopamine receptor gene is at least thirty times as large as modern Homo sapiens. Apparently a product of heredity. Or a mixture of heredity and environment. So you were correct in surmising that extraordinarily oversized genes regulating emotional and intellectual control faculties had been severely metamorphosed by some unknown outside influence. Possible diet, climate. It's unknown. Quite possibly we will never know unless… it's captured."

"Something we are hard at work on, I assure you," Hamilton answered. He turned back to the mummified giant. "Yes, it is as I assumed. Its genetic coding prohibited the manufacture of those very chemicals which give modern man control, consciousness, morality, and mercy. A creature that lived forcefully for itself and nothing else. A creature that by its genetic structure was incapable of caring for anything but its own self-serving goals. And look what it became. The strongest of its kind. The strongest of our kind."

Dr. Strait took a breath. "The… triggers… you could call them that… which buffer the genes are fantastically rapid in response — fifty to a hundred times more rapid than normal human DNA. We've concluded that they allowed receptors to relay impulse, reaction to hunger or threat or anger, to activate adrenaline and other proteins which in turn gave it a spectacular propensity for violence." She glanced again at the corpse, as if glad it were dead and entombed. "Something it was quite capable of even without the proteins. But its genomes made it basically a creature that moved on any impulse — any impulse at all, regardless of consequences. I don't think it was capable of understanding the concept of consequences, actually. According to the specs that we've mapped so far, all its physical attributes from cardiovascular fitness to strength ratio were at least thirty times that of Homo sapiens. And an ocular check revealed that its powers to discern color and see movement were approximately five times greater than that of modern man. It may have even possessed a type of telescopic vision, like an eagle."

Hamilton shook his head in unconcealed admiration. "And don't you see the beauty of that? Even without the mutations which eliminated serotonin and dopamine from its system, chemicals which were in some way compensated for by other unknown segments of the DNA strand to prevent compromised cerebral capacities, it was the most perfect predator of all time. As I assumed. And…," He hesitated, "was my other assumption correct as well?"

"Yes." She nodded. "The immunity segment of the strand, and remember that we haven't finished mapping it, split in quadrilateral pairs. Its mutation somehow allowed it to heal up almost instantly from wounds or disease. Its lymphatic system, which we were lucky enough to stumble upon by mistake, indicates a set of reflectors and transmitting genes that far surpass anything we have ever seen — even in sharks. It was, for all practical purposes, immune to any invading bacteria or viral agent. The genes that we tested on the computer matrix revealed that its lymphocytes and white cells suffered no delay at all in identifying an invading molecule. Even something so small as the single molecule of a virus. It's really… quite fantastic. I've never seen anything like it. None of us have."

"Nor have I," Hamilton breathed. "And now we can begin to isolate the specific genes which buffer that incredibly robust immune system. Isolate them, and bring them into the present day. Within a few years, those selected for the glory will know what it knew. A life span of hundreds of years. Immeasurable strength. A hardiness that has been so jealously claimed by a forgotten age. Soon we will have the same fearlessness at the approach of old age or disease or frailty. We shall be untouched by sickness or feebleness, and laugh as all those around us are ravaged by time. Yes… that was my dream: immortality."

Nothing was said for a moment. Then: "Dr. Hamilton," she began, "the search team… they made contact with the facility an hour ago."

Hamilton's suddenly darkened presence was chilling. He turned to her slowly. "What did you just say, Emma?"

She took a deep breath, bracing. "The search team is still alive, Doctor."

"That is impossible," he scoffed. "They have been alone in the forest for almost four days, battling the creature. No one could survive such a conflict."

"They radioed in, Doctor. They're still alive, somehow. They survived, and they're being picked up by helicopter within the hour."

"It seems my young protégé, Luther, disappointed me. Hmmph. Well…nevertheless. Until I see them alive before my eyes, I will not believe it." Hamilton barked a short laugh. "Luther, the young fool, was impetuous and paid for his arrogance. The matrix had not even been tested when he injected himself with the serum alone and unsupervised. He should have died, but he did not, and became what he has become. I consider his transformation… a blessing, of sorts."

"Will we try and help him if we capture him?"

Hamilton seemed astounded. "Help who, Doctor?" He waited to no reply. "Help Luther? That is truly amusing. No, we will not help Luther, Emma, because Luther no longer exists. Except, perhaps, in some dim half-dream within the creature's mind. Luther is gone forever. Only his body remains. Transformed. Mutated into the mightiest, the fiercest and most predatory beast to ever walk the face of the earth. And in this diluted canard age of evolution, where the true beasts have fallen to fire and ice, and expendable man is the reigning species, he will enjoy his feast."

Dr. Strait's face tightened. "Then what will the creature do?"

"It will do as it has done," Hamilton answered calmly. "It will come for the rest of the serum, for Luther used an inadequate amount for complete replication. There are other genomes which it must absorb to perfectly mirror this indestructible coding. This much, I am certain, he remembers. Though I am sure that, in shape and form and ferocity, it is almost the equal of this magnificent ancestor, and may even retain some of its memories."

"Memories, Doctor?"

"Yes, of course." Hamilton smiled. "Memory is encoded in DNA, just as the manufacturing for particular proteins that decide a propensity for violence or pleasure. There are clearly areas of the DNA strand — imperfectly decipherable to us as of yet — that grant such a faculty. And as Luther's body and mind are overwhelmed, so too I believe are his memories disappearing under the onslaught of the memories of another time, another race."

Dr. Emma Strait stepped close. "And what of the facility if Luther, I mean… the creature… comes here for the rest of the serum as it's done at the other installations?"

"Oh, we are well protected, my dear." Hamilton smiled. "I have no fear that it can penetrate this vault, and our means of communication are self-contained. If it does indeed destroy the base, just as it has done, we shall be quite safe within the vault. Even the creature's terrific strength cannot tear that twenty-ton vault from the passageway. It is only an animal, after all, though magnificent and manlike in structure." He released a deep breath. "So, we shall continue our research, and when we are quite finished, I shall allow you and all those who have labored so diligently to join the new society — a society which will never grow old, and will accumulate power century after century until we are princes on the earth. You and I, Emma, will rule nations, enjoy the feasts of kings, and live for centuries with perfect health, perfect strength. All that remains is to isolate the immune strands and the receptor genes and leave the genes regulating instantaneous replication, as Luther so foolishly did not, from the serum."

A tense moment followed, and Dr. Emma Strait responded, addressing him by his first name. "Arthur, the staff… is concerned. They don't want… well, they're worried. I know what you say, but Luther, uh, the creature, it's killed so many people and—"

"Emma, Emma." Hamilton spoke indulgently. "Rest assured that we are all quite safe. I created this. I know quite well what it is capable of accomplishing. I am as familiar with its glory as with its corruption." He smiled — a spectacular smile. "A terrifying beast it is and shall remain. But even a beast of such incalculable power must die one day. As it surely will."

Crouching in darkness, lifting the torch high, Hunter scanned the jagged, broken ledge that stretched out before him. Twenty feet above the passageway, carefully balanced on a granite slab, he saw nothing but shadows leaping before the flickering flame.

He leaned his head to the side, attempting to discern a better angle, but saw nothing more. And he tried to ignore his racing heart, the adrenaline that surged from his chest with each thunderous beat of his heart. His hands were sweating and he wiped them on his dirt-grimed pants, licking his lips.

He knew fear now, true fear, because he had stood alone on the ledge in the dark with nothing but flame and steel, and should he fight it face-to-face, Hunter knew it would be a swift end. He didn't have the advantage of a barrier, couldn't move with that fantastic speed, and would be quickly overpowered by its irresistible strength.

Thinking of the power that surged to pull him into those monstrous fangs, he shivered before turning his will, shutting down emotion. He had to concentrate; he couldn't let horror cloud his judgment however terrible the price. And after a moment of cold concentration he inched forward, trying not to reconcile himself to the fact that he was as good as dead.

He had told Takakura to wait for his signal before they entered the crevice. And Hunter was certain that they would; the commander was too cautious and professional to alter a plan once it was decided upon.

Then Hunter remembered how Taylor, in a remarkable display of friendship, had come up to him at the last minute and handed him a rectangular canvas-covered satchel about a foot long and six inches wide. Without asking permission Taylor had pointed to a looped handle on the top and said, "Pull this and you've got five seconds, buddy. It'll blow anything inside that cave to hell and gone. And once you pull it, run your butt off, 'cause there ain't no stopping it."

Shocked for a moment, Hunter had nodded, then set the satchel in his pouch, the only other thing he wore on his upper body beside Riley's rope, looped shoulder to hip.

Shadows moved weirdly before him. And with some unconscious instinct he withdrew the Bowie, holding it close as he inched cautiously forward.

His breathing, despite his iron control, was heavier and faster, making him feel almost light-headed. He released a long, slow breath and tried to keep himself from hyperventilating. Then he shook his head sharply, as if to physically throw off the chimeras dancing like vapid ghosts before his eyes.

"Come on," he whispered, "get a grip…"

Another ten feet, twenty, and still his senses revealed nothing. And despite his fear he felt a descending sense of security, perhaps because some unconscious part of him hoped that, since he hadn't been attacked so far, he wouldn't be. But his mind told him better. He knew that, if it were here, it would be waiting patiently, fearing the blade if it feared anything at all.

He made another ten feet, glancing at the torch to see another fifteen minutes remaining. Eyes flashing in the gloom he continued, searching, thrusting the torch around a corner and withdrawing it quickly, tempting an attack. It never came.

In another ten feet he would tell them to proceed.

It was a flickering shadow ahead of him that made him tense as if he'd been struck, instantly rising to his feet to place them fully across the four-foot crevice, straddling the long drop to the floor with a foot on opposite ledges.

He watched the shadow…rise?

Fall?

"What—" he began.

And knew.

Electrified with thrilling breathlessness, slowly moving only his head, Hunter turned cryptically to gaze behind.

Glowing red eyes, fangs distended, it stood gigantically less than five feet away. It smiled.

Its arms, so incredibly huge, hung almost to its knees, and Hunter noticed a difference in its face, as if it were more grotesque, more deformed with a heavier brow brooding over the baleful glare. Claws clicked as it moved its fingers in a rapid, staccato flexing that was almost too quick to follow. It seemed to laugh.

Slowly, Hunter turned toward it, saying nothing, doing nothing, prepared to drop cleanly to the floor and take his chances. And what happened next almost caused him to stagger. His eyes opened in shock as strength flowed from his form.

Fangs laughed beneath glowing, blood-red eyes.

"You cannot escape me," it growled.

In a truly foul mood, Chaney parked and walked slowly toward Brick's diner. For once, he was actually hungry as he neared the doors, but his mind was so preoccupied that he knew he couldn't eat. He had played out whatever meager hand he'd been dealt. And for the time being he didn't know what to do next. This thing was going down like nothing he had ever seen.

He didn't mind putting on his real mood for Brick; Brick wasn't affected by anything and had seen him like this before. He supposed that's why he always liked stopping in on the retired marshal when a case was going to pieces.

Chaney would stop by, complain and curse, and Brick would go on calmly cutting meatballs and filling orders and occasionally nodding to indicate that he wasn't completely ignoring him. Chaney would feel better having vented and go on his way with a beer. It was a system he liked, even if it was predictable — a danger in this profession.

He walked through the door at midafternoon to see the place fairly crowded. Without announcement — he had never announced himself— Chaney went through the swinging doors and saw Brick sitting at a desk surrounded by his uniquely personalized system of chaotic organization.

Watching over bifocals, Brick followed him as he half-collapsed in a chair. Chaney said nothing. Brick said nothing. Brick's face was bland. "I seen you look worse," he said.

"Really?" Chaney answered wearily. "When?"

"When you had that accidental discharge as a rookie and shot the front windshield out of your car."

Chaney paused. "Oh… yeah, well, that was a bad day."

"You're telling me." Brick went back to the calculator. "I'm the one who had to do all the paperwork." His fingers flew over the pad with remarkable dexterity. "So what you got besides what I gave you?"

"I'm not sure, really. This scientist, a smart gal, says that this…creature, whatever it is, is off the charts. Says she doesn't have anything to match its DNA." Chaney paused before continuing. "She said that it's got some kind of immunity to disease, injury, anything. It was weird."

Brick stopped adding, stared dead at Chaney. His gravelly voice held an equal amount of amusement and disbelief and intrigue. "You don't say?"

"Yep," Chaney answered as he opened a beer from a nearby case. "Brick, this is out of my league. I ain't no scientist. And the only person I might have nailed down has gone to Alaska. To the last research station."

"So?" Brick began adding again. "Doorstep him. He can't get away from you. I learned a long time ago that you had the tenacity of a bulldog and half the brains. Follow the mother to the ends of the earth. Make him nervous. It's called 'harassment 'til you spill your guts to me.' " He looked pleased at the number he had reached. "That's what I'd do."

That option hadn't occurred to Chaney, but the more he thought of it, the more it seemed appropriate. He did, after all, have an unlimited budget and the right to commandeer a private jet at his discretion, though there might be hell to pay with Skull afterwards.

Yet all of it kept coming back to Alaska, the research station, and the man most responsible for whatever was going on inside that facility had gone there… to hide something? To finish something?

"You might have an idea there, Brick," Chaney mused after a slow swig of warm beer.

"I know most of the games, kid. Heck, I invented a few of 'em myself. He's ducking you and you know it. Best way to rattle his cage is to show him you can't be ducked." There was a long pause. "You should go just to let that scientist fella know he can't get away. Sometimes it's the principle of the thing. But I'd do something else before I went hightailing after him."

Chaney knew what he was talking about. "A little extracurricular activity?"

"You got it."

It was a phrase Brick had invented in the old days for serving search warrants on dangerous felons.

The night before the scheduled raid, Chaney and Brick would illegally break into the suspect's house and search it for guns, weapons, anything that might endanger them in execution of the warrant the following morning. They wouldn't ask permission and wouldn't tell anyone what they'd done. And if they found a weapon they would disable it — remove the firing pin, jam it, remove the barrel, or something else equally as effective — so they didn't have to worry about being shot the next day.

It was a well-known if unconfessed practice and nobody asked questions about it. But everyone, including supervisors, expected it to be done in order to insure the safety of fellow marshals.

At the briefing before the execution of the warrant, a fellow marshal would inevitably ask Brick, "What did you do last night?" To which Brick would casually respond: "Nothing. Just a little extracurricular activity."

It wasn't a guarantee of safety, but it worked well enough. And now Chaney knew Brick was recommending that he break into Hamilton's home, glean what he could from what he could find, and leave no trace that he had been there. Chaney had already thought of it, but it helped to have someone reinforce what could be considered a wild idea. He took another sip before he spoke. "Yeah, but I don't think this guy takes his work home, Brick."

"He takes his life home, kid." Brick leaned forward on burly forearms. "Don't worry about his computer. It won't be there. Or in the files. Go to his bookcase. Study what he's got. A bunch of literature on earthquakes? Is that his interest?" He nodded hard. "Or is it something else?"

Chaney knew where the old man lived. "All right. I'll take a little look-see tonight."

"Where does he live?"

"A town house, not far from here."

Brick's square head, vaguely resembling a heavyweight boxer's, nodded with each word. "Remember, son, don't mess up the alarm, just disable and pick the lock. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken. No prints. Don't forget to fix the alarm on your way out. Any fool can break into a place. The trick is breaking in and leaving without anyone ever knowing you were there."

"Yeah, I remember." Chaney hesitated before he brought up his most disturbing thought. "How would you cut a team off from support in the field, Brick? What would be the best way of doing something like that?"

"What do you mean, 'support'?"

"Put them in a position where they couldn't call for backup."

"Well," he responded, concentrating, "I guess the easiest way would be to disable their communications equipment. Wouldn't be all that easy, since everyone is trained to fix the radio, but it could be done if you didn't have a replacement part. In fact, back in 'Nam I heard some war stories about it. They called it a high-tech frag. Guess they figured it was more creative than rolling a grenade between the lieutenant's legs while he was taking a crap."

Chaney pondered; disabling a radio was certainly easier than altering a satellite, which required NSA approval. And a realignment wasn't all that easy even with that.

He knew that a satellite occupied a stationary orbit, which means its orbit coincides with the rotational speed of the earth, keeping it in the same relative location at all times. For instance, the satellite over Alaska was forever directly over Alaska, and retro rockets had to be fired in controlled bursts to either speed or slow the satellite's trajectory. And any mistake with the rockets could destabilize its orbital distance, which could cause it to fall and disintegrate on reentry.

Chaney trusted that Dixon had asked about altering the orbit of a satellite, figured he knew which one, and may have even done it. But somehow Chaney suspected that Dixon would want things quieter. He wouldn't chance a high-risk maneuver as potentially scandalous as a re-alignment if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Whatever this was, and. Chaney knew it was something, was too unstable. They couldn't endure the attention.

Chaney set the beer down and rose. "I've got work to do. Might see you later. Or I might be out of town… way out of town, in fact."

Ponderous forearms on the table, Brick said nothing for a moment. Then: "Boy, I think you're in way over your head on this. I don't like it. Some… what did you say? Creature?"

"For lack of a better word."

"Whatever," Brick continued. "This thing is up there, and you're going up there, and you don't even know what it is, where it came from, where it's going, what it's doing. You gotta think this stuff through." He raised a hand. "Now, I know what I said. But that's in normal situations. Not in situations where some monster is running around knocking down electric fences and tearing people's heads off." He paused, shook his head. "Now, I must say, I seen a lot in my time, but that's a real unusual situation. And now you're thinking of going up to where this creature has killed all these rangers and marines which, by the way, ain't all that easy to kill. Now, I don't know and I ain't gonna try and tell you what's the smart thing to do, but if I was you I'd do a little more homework with that smart lady scientist before I went off into the wild blue."

Chaney laughed, shook his head. "You always did have a way of putting things, Brick."

"Comes with old age."

A silence.

"All right," Chaney said. "Tonight I do a little snooping. I'll see what I find. I'll make a decision after that."

Brick nodded. "You let me know."

"You bet."

"And one more thing, Chaney."

Pausing, Chaney said nothing. It was rare that Brick ever called him anything other than "kid," although he was almost forty years old. But Brick, at sixty-three, had the right in more ways than one.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"This thing up there, it's up there," Brick said slowly, in a voice he used when he was dead serious, "it ain't real. Whatever it is, I don't know. Probably nobody knows. But you don't need to be playin' no hero. You shoot it on sight. Fair ain't part of this. 'Cause it'd do the same to you."

Chaney nodded. "Brick, whatever that monster is… it could kill anyone."

Staring dead into its eyes, Hunter didn't move.

Neither attempted to retreat or close the distance.

The creature was slightly hunched, as if preparing, and even in its stillness it seemed to be drawing closer. But Hunter knew it was an illusion caused by adrenaline and fear. He had been in this situation before, so he tried to control his sudden lack of breathing caused by the shock of its words.

"Last night" — its words grated over smiling fangs—"you fought well."

Hunter braced himself, testing his foothold, and mentally measured the drop through darkness to the pathway beneath. He knew he couldn't make it unless the creature was distracted. But it was twenty times faster than he was.

He couldn't retreat, and a frontal attack was suicide. The only chance he had was that he might hit it hard, then drop, because it couldn't drop any faster than he could. But when he hit the floor he'd better come up running and use what Taylor had given him. It was a risky gamble, and probably suicidal, but he was determined to not go down without a fight. Despite all his torn, sore muscles, he didn't feel any of them at the moment.

Gathering his courage, he frowned and spoke. In his mind, somehow, he couldn't reconcile himself to the possibility that it would respond. Part of him hoped it wouldn't.

"What do you want?" he asked.

A voice like dirt shifting in a grave: "You."

Hunter was shocked that it was hesitating at all. But there was obviously an unexpected measure of intelligent cruelty buried in that primitive mind, enjoying his fear.

"How can you… how can you speak?" Hunter asked, watching it sharply as it lifted taloned hands.

"Humans," it said, laughing, and Hunter perceived that its vocal cords were never designed for this manner of articulation. "You are all… so helpless."

Shifting his foot less than an inch toward the edge of the ledge, Hunter tried to engage whatever mind it possessed. "Why did you kill those people?"

"Because they are prey. You … are prey. You have always been prey."

That left nowhere to go; Hunter tried something else.

"So where did you come from?" he asked, closely watching its eyes. "You haven't always been here. I know that much. Before you kill me, you can at least tell me that."

"From inside you."

Hunter assumed his shock must have been revealed.

It laughed, genuinely amused.

"Oh, yes," it whispered. It held up its talons. "Look at these hands. Monstrous… are they not?" Dark laughter. "What would your hands be like if you had my freedom? My strength! My power!" Silence. "Let me tell you. Then you would be like me! Yes! What do you see when you look at me? What do you see?” It nodded with a whisper, “You see yourself."

Hunter shook his head, almost brought into the conversation, though his mind was flying behind his calm countenance.

"I would never be like you."

"You are already like me," it rasped, bending as if to charge. "The beast within you… is all that I am. You think you are so noble — so righteous. But you are nothing more than me beneath what you call 'human.' ' Its laughing found expression in a grating growl. "Yes, I am what you truly are. And you know it's true… I am only what you are deep inside… what you fear you are. What you know you are."

Hunter's foot was at the edge.

"You're insane," he said, calm. "Listen… listen carefully to me: Let me take you in safely. We will not hurt you. But if you don't come with me, others will come for you. More men. More weapons. You are strong. But they will hunt you down. You can't beat the entire world. Sooner or later, they will corner you. And they will kill you. Don't be insane."

Roaring in a black and measureless mirth, it threw its head back, lost in the glory of its matchless might. "No, no…" It lowered its head, smiling malevolently. Then it exhaled, releasing an impression of terrifying power. "No…not insane…"

Hunter remembered what he had discovered at the research station, what he had suspected all along with the repeated attacks. Take a chance, he thought.

"What are you searching for?" he asked, giving no indication that he was split seconds from making a desperate attempt at escape. It stared at him a long moment, as if Hunter had abruptly distracted it from its intended thoughts.

"The other," it rumbled.

Hunter stared. "The other? The other… the other one like you?"

The red eyes dimmed. "Yes."

Silence.

"And… where is the other one like you?"

The fanged visage seemed to withdraw, somehow, within itself. The alien glow in its scarlet eyes verged on madness.

"I must find him. I must… find him."

"Why?" Hunter never expected a chance question to carry him this long.

"To be complete."

A strange, wild theory struck Hunter. "Who did this to you?" he asked, himself incredibly caught up for a split second. He stared intently with the question, as if to read the truth in its eyes. "They did this to you, didn't they? They made you into…this. You were a man, weren't you. And now…you're this."

A blazing roar of laughter caused the corded neck muscles to bulge like hot iron. Hunter saw the veins, twice as thick as a man's, pulsing fiercely with that savage blood, and then it stared upon him once more, seeming to revel in the garish moment of mirth.

"Foolish, foolish mortal," it whispered with spite. "No… they did not do this to me… I did this to me!” Its chest rumbled with a strange growl. “I had the power to become a god and so … I became God!"

Now, with true horror, Hunter understood.

"What was your name?" he asked, somehow enlivened with an even sharper revulsion. He couldn't imagine that this monstrosity, with all its viciousness and blood thirst, had once been a human being.

"My name… was Luther."

"Luther… why did you do this? You're not a god. Nobody lives forever.

Fangs parted in laughter, but it was silent. No sound, not even breath, whispered forth for a still moment.

"To become as them" it answered finally, with a short bark of laughter. "To become as god on the earth. Unkillable. Because I am the strongest. Yes, the strongest. Nothing can destroy me. And I will live forever."

It was insane.

Hunter knew he couldn't reason with it.

"So you sacrificed your humanity for this," he said, edging toward the drop. But there was a trace of contempt. And remarkably, it noticed.

It smiled, and taloned fingers clicking once in that eerie, uncanny flexing that made them flicker and relax. Although subtle, it was horrifyingly threatening.

Hunter knew he was out of time, it was about to attack. Almost because he had to know, because he knew how this would end, he said what he truly felt.

"You're an animal now, Luther. Not a god."

Hunter steadily held its contemptuous stare.

As it paused, Hunter suddenly saw Bobbi Jo, the rest, moving silently from the far end. His heart raced but he concealed his alarm. He raised his eyes, measuring; they would need fifteen seconds at a full run to clear the tunnel. He had to stall it for at least ten.

It shook its head, and Hunter could sense something volcanic building within it; a tightening of its chest, the slight rising of the enormous shoulders and an almost invisible shift of balance. It didn't come closer, but it was only seconds away.

"If you only knew the power," Luther growled, despising. "You consider yourself… human. Not… animal. But I am more human than you. I am only what you are… in the darkness. I am what you hide in the light. I did not lose my humanity. My humanity is purer, and stronger, than yours. Because I do not hide what I really am."

Bobbi Jo and the rest were almost directly beneath, and the creature seemed not to have yet noticed. He was too involved with Hunter.

"I only wanted you to know this," Luther continued, and breathed deeply, as if the intellectual labor of speech had fatigued it. "I will kill you. I will kill all of you. And I will live long. Far, far longer than men. And when your children are dead… I will still rule this world…"

Bobbi Jo and the rest passed beneath.

"Now," it said, smiling, "you die."

"One last thing!" Hunter shouted, knowing he had to demand its full attention. "I want you to know something!" It paused.

"This!" Hunter roared, cocking and firing the Marlin in a single one-handed motion.

The creature recoiled, almost as much from the blast of light as the impact. Hunter leaped into him, viciously swiping across its ribs with the Bowie and then descending into the darkness.

He kicked the wall to send himself across, striking the granite hard, and again kicked to take another four feet out of the fall by bouncing back, and then he was sliding, falling, lashing out once with the Bowie for a grip — a terrific stabbing blow that struck sparks from the granite, grinding, before he crashed numbingly hard.

He was dimly aware of torches vanishing at the far end of the tunnel— they understood, were running. Then he was on his feet, ignoring the numb feeling in his side, staggering forward knife in hand as a colossal weight crashed onto the path behind him with a vengeful roar.

Light was before Hunter, the end of the passage. He pulled the cord on the satchel: five seconds!

He heard it charging with the force of a rhino.

"Shoot it!" he screamed.

Instantly Hunter dropped and in the next heartbeat five .50-caliber rounds from the Barrett laced a destroying path down the crevice, powering above Hunter's prone form. He heard them hit with a sound like an ax being buried in flesh and then he was on his feet again, running.

Hunter threw the satchel as he exploded from the tunnel and violently grabbed Bobbi Jo around the waist.

"Everybody gel clear!" he screamed.

Holding her tight in his arms, Hunter leaped far to the side, carrying her. She screamed as they landed on a downward slope, and he kept them rolling, gaining distance.

The rest had moved as one; no questions.

An eruption of flame like a dragon's wrath thundered from the entrance. The blast flattened them to the ground grinding and rumbling, punishing.

Smoke, trembling… echoes.

The light was gone — the spectacular red-orange and crimson that Hunter had seen through closed eyes — to gray silence, a ringing stillness in deafened, superheated air. Clouds of black rolled from the tunnel.

Bobbi Jo, still holding her sniper rifle, didn't move. Suddenly concerned, Hunter bent over her, gently removing a lock of hair from her face. His voice was soft. "Hey…"

Her lips trembled. "Jesus," she whispered. "Jesus…"

Hunter smiled slowly, hand on her shoulder, before he looked over the slope of the bank, squinting into the burning smoke. The professor was far to the side, safe, and Takakura was lying atop him, covering the old man's body with his own. Wilkenson was on his back, clearly stunned, not recovering.

But Taylor was already on his feet, peering cautiously into the crevice, shotgun ready. Then he saw Hunter's concentrated frown and shook his head: nothing there.

Nodding, Hunter lifted Bobbi Jo to her knees and she raised a hand, slowly rubbing her eyes. "Oh…man," she whispered, shaking her head. "That was… way intense. I should have been a plumber… or something."

Hunter laughed lightly. "Yeah. Or something."

Looking at the roiling blue-black cleft in the cliff, she added, "Did we get it?"

Hunter's smiled faded slowly. "I don't know. Would have been hard to survive. Maybe."

"Yeah?" She struggled to her feet and walked to the top of the slope, letting the Barrett hang on the sling. She stared into the passage a moment. "How could it have survived that?"

"I don't know," Hunter answered dully, glancing at Takakura, who now knelt like a boxer waiting out a count. The Japanese shook his head angrily.

Hunter continued, "It couldn't have escaped the explosion. It was too close. Almost on top of it. But it might heal up faster than we expect. It's already healed up from what we did to it last night. I could tell that much when I saw it."

"How close did you get to it?" Taylor asked.

"Too close." Hunter picked up his Bowie from where it had fallen, wiped the blade on his grime-smeared pants. He knew they needed to move soon. For the moment, he didn't feel his wounds much — a gift of the high levels of adrenaline coursing through him. Hunter knew this pain block was part of an involuntary survival mechanism and he couldn't consciously turn it on any more than he could shut it down. He also knew it wouldn't last more than an hour or two before he would be hobbling in agony. They had to get to the Blackhawk, and quickly.

"Can the professor be moved?" he asked Takakura.

"Hai."

The stoic Japanese had gained his feet, sword held hard in his strong right hand. Then, casting a single glance at the cleft, he sheathed the awesome weapon without looking. "We have no choice. He will die if he does not receive medical attention."

Time to move.

Hunter lifted one end of the stretcher and Takakura the other, and with Taylor at point, they began moving forward. Bobbi Jo and Wilkenson were rear guard as they began their last walk through soundless black hills inhabited by the most terrible of all nightmares and fears.

He crawled, twisting and writhing on rotten leaves, coughing, gasping, dazed and breathless. He rolled down a short slope, found himself up against rock and water, his mind alive with fire and pain.

He remembered crawling on cold dirt, rising, falling, unable to cease moving because of the pain. He was blinded and he stumbled, roaring and striking in rage until he fell again, not to rise.

Now he lay in shadow, staring up without seeing until he remembered his strength. And with memory his hands closed, pain lancing his body as the claws touched boiled flesh. He screamed, and screamed again, twisting his head in rage and frustration before rolling to a knee and stumbling on, unable to remember…what?

As the hours passed he sensed a lessening of the pain, as he had vaguely expected, and as he felt the lessening he remembered more and more, but his strength was insufficient. He stumbled over a root and rolled down the hill where he now lay, breathing heavily.

His deep-born animal mind told him to rest, to drink, to wait, and, with dark, to kill and eat and heal. So he lay silent, letting his body do what it was so magnificently designed to do. And within hours, he knew, he could rise to feast again, restoring his strength.

Then he would go back, and he would kill them.

He would kill them all.

It was ridiculously easy to enter the professor's town house. Chaney walked through it, impressed by the rich mahogany desk and bookshelves in the den, the living room's light-brown leather couches.

The kitchen and dining room were full of black-lacquered hardwood and stainless steel. Chaney thought that the professor may have spent too much time in the lab.

He found an extensive amount of health food, herbs, vitamins and a full array of prescription medicines on the kitchen shelves and in the refrigerator. He moved to the bedroom.

It was even more impressive than the den, with a huge oak four-poster bed covered with a dark blue spread. He walked over to the bed, opened a drawer in the nightstand. He found a book on nutrition, a flashlight and a gun.

Brow rising slightly, he picked it up; a Smith and Wesson .38-caliber revolver with a four-inch barrel. With his gloved hands Chaney opened the cylinder, found six hollow-point rounds. He put the gun back and looked around again. Then he searched the closet, found a number of dark suits, blue, black or gray. All expensively tailored.

In a corner of the closet he found some mountaineering gear. Well-used crampons, an ice ax, expensive Gore-Tex jackets, masks, a helmet, gloves, pants, boots — enough gear for a serious expedition in the Arctic.

Moving into the den again, he examined the bookshelves. He searched by sections: philosophy, classical literature, modern literature, history separated by epoch, anthropology, archaeology, a large selection of medical journals, catalogued indexes of medical periodicals, a smaller section comprising medical and foreign language dictionaries, and finally reference manuals and biographies.

Chaney perused the wall and occasionally opened a book to glance through it, but despite the range of interest apparent here, he found nothing on biological warfare, military research or its history. He was about to walk away when something caught his eye.

He saw the slightest sliver of yellow protruding from a magazine in a binder. He removed it from the shelf: North American Anthropology, June 1975.

Chaney opened it to the yellow bookmark and studied the pictures first. They revealed a creature classified as Homotherium.

The illustration featured a skeleton of this ferocious-looking beast that looked to be equal parts man and saber-toothed tiger. It was standing on hind legs, forelegs reaching down to its knees. Its fangs, incredibly long and deep-set in the skull, were viciously distended. Alongside the skeleton was a fleshed-out and rather spectacular portrait of what it might have looked like. It seemed exquisitely designed for fighting, for predation.

Chaney was impressed.

That's what guns are for, he mused.

He read the article slowly, wondering if it related to the case. He read the caption beneath the skeletal display: "This body of a Homotherium, one of the rarest of all prehistoric predators, was discovered on Alaska's North Slope in 1974 by an Idaho archaeological team. Remarkably preserved, it was discovered beneath the body of an early relative of Homo sapiens that scientists have so far failed to classify. Experts believe the second set of bones belongs to a distant cousin of Neanderthalis sapiens, which possibly migrated from Siberia to Alaska in 12,000 B.C. across islands in the Bering Strait."

Chaney looked again at the photo of the excavation. It was still clear and had lost little detail over the years. Then he glanced at the reconstructed model of the creature and back at the skeleton as it lay in the ground. Back and forth, he studied the two photos a long time. He couldn't find a photograph of the second skeleton that had been uncovered with the tiger-like beast.

"This thing was found beneath the body of a man?" he asked aloud. "What does that mean?"

He listened to the steady drone of traffic outside the town house, kept staring at the pictures, perused them all, read the article again. His mind kept coming back to the second skeleton, which wasn't mentioned anywhere but the caption. And then something caught his eye.

The skull.

Chaney turned the magazine in his hands, as if he could get a better angle. He couldn't. He moved it directly beneath the light, angling it so there wasn't any glare, and lowered his face only inches from the page. And he noticed something intriguing.

The entire skeleton of the Homotherium, almost complete and undisturbed, was intact. Only two ribs had been broken by the pressures of the glacier. But the skull had a deformed, strange indentation to it, and splintered cracks trailed down the temporal regions as if the head had exploded from the inside. It wasn't the kind of damage that would have been caused by crushing, Chaney knew enough about pathology to determine that.

No, this was different, as if the top of the creature's skull had been struck with a sledgehammer. Although the angle of the photo wasn't perfect for analysis, it appeared that there was a fist-sized hole in the crest of the skull.

He slowly closed the magazine, vaguely disturbed, and placed it back on the shelf. He knew he would find nothing more, and moved slowly for the door. A quick look confirmed a mostly empty street. He set the knob so he wouldn't have to risk another moment resetting the deadbolt, then went outside. He was down the steps and moving in five seconds, just another person out for the evening.

It was a mystery to him, this beast and whatever had so ferociously crushed its skull. And why Hamilton had, of all his periodicals, marked that particular one. Or kept it since 1975.

But a mystery was better than nothing at all.

Remaining carefully aware of everything around him, Chaney stepped cautiously outside.

With Wilkenson guiding them via radio, the Blackhawk finally swept in over the trees slightly after dusk. Hunter had built a huge bonfire, burning logs to light up a space the size of an amphitheater, and the four-rotor chopper had no trouble landing.

Hunter turned away, watching the trail behind them as the professor was carefully loaded onto the chopper. Then Takakura was bellowing at him.

"Hunter! We go! We go! Come on!"

Hunter turned and loped toward the rest who were gathered at one of the open doors. As he reached it he grabbed Bobbi Jo's shoulder and pushed her ahead. Ghost was at his side as he leaped into the bay and one of the crew gave thumbs-up to the pilot.

They rose above trees, shifting slightly as they entered blue sky and stars and black claimed the trees beneath. As they reached altitude, Hunter released a breath but revealed no physical sign of relief as they gained speed, angling higher and higher, heading south.

One of the crew, obviously a trained medic, was administering an IV to the professor, injecting something into the tube. Hunter watched for a moment and then nodded, bowing his head. Then he reached out to ruffle Ghost's mane. But the black wolf only looked tiredly at him, and Hunter knew that Ghost, like all of them, needed food and rest.

As they left the valley behind, Hunter gazed back somberly. Still, he could not believe it: It had spoke to him…

It had spoke to him…