Hunter

Chapter 15

Chaney had parked his car a few blocks away, near a corner. As he walked toward it, he kept wondering what in the hell that article had to do with anything. He knew it was important but it didn't make any sense. Whatever beast was captured in those pictures was long dead. But clearly it meant something to the good doctor. Maybe it would mean something to Gina.

A couple, arm in arm, passed him.

Chaney nodded, hands in pockets, and continued strolling. He passed a group of older guys playing basketball, engaged in trash talk. He laughed, remembering the days.

The city was slowly coming alive with those who tended to wake up at night, like vampires. Already, in the few minutes he'd been walking, it had grown more congested. Not bustling by any means, but not as dead as it had been in late afternoon.

Two guys off to the side were doing what appeared to be a drug deal. Chaney glanced at them, grunted, let it go.

The pieces were beginning to fit together — the creature, the killing team, the betrayal. The one thing that didn't fit was the death of Rebecca Tanus. She had discovered something important about this creature's genetic structure. But what would be so important about DNA that it would justify murder? He just couldn't understand a professional hit that—

Shadow—

Something happening—

React!

Chaney went for his gun without seeing an enemy and sensed what was coming a second before it hit. He knew what it was by feel, by the glimpse of gray and steel beyond his head. A pipe. He went down — arm dead — and they were on him but his arm wouldn't work and the Sig .45—a black matte weapon useless on cement — was at his feet as he rolled to avoid a second blow.

The pipe, crashing down beside his ear in the hands of a huge black man, sent fragments of cement across his face and Chaney kicked up, trying for the groin. But the man was an experienced fighter and blocked the kick with his thigh as the second man swung another pipe, glancing the steel off Chaney's cheek before it crashed across his chest, doubling him in breathless shock.

For a moment Chaney knew nothing, no breath, not even pain, though he knew he was hurt bad, and then the bigger one grabbed his shirt, Lifting him half from the ground as he stretched his arm back, pipe tight in a square fist.

Chaney didn't have time to be afraid of the glaring eyes and the rage. At the moment the swing began he withdrew the concealed .38 from his ankle and, like a boxer throwing an uppercut, brought it up under the man's chin and fired. At the shot the second man jumped back and Chaney swung fast, still breathless, targeting. The attacker leaped and ran.

"Don't!" Chaney shouted.

The man ran faster and Chaney took careful aim with the last of his control, pulled the trigger. It hit dead-center in the spine and for a suspended slow-motion moment the man was bowed in the air, arms outstretched to nothing before he landed on his feet, took another step, staggering, and fell to the sidewalk facedown.

For a second Chaney lay back, pulling, pulling for breath, and finally caught one, paying for it with a sharp pain in his ribs. Struggling, he rolled to his side, then crawled to his knees, breathing slowly, painfully, trying to concentrate.

He crept over the dead black man and reclaimed his Sig, put it back in his hip holster. But he held the revolver as he rose — he didn't know why — and walked to his car. He didn't notice that the basketball court was empty or that the streets had suddenly become deserted as he fired the engine and pulled away.

He couldn't wait for police, couldn't go to a hospital, couldn't make himself visible or vulnerable again. They had anticipated this move, he suddenly realized, holding a hand across his chest, sweating and trembling.

He groaned as he turned a corner, and knew he'd be caught if police spotted the car because he wasn't in condition to out-drive anyone. He had to ditch it, but he was too injured to steal another one. His mind raced, searching for…

He saw a familiar street sign and hung a sharp left, praying that nothing was coming, but he had to move fast because he could feel something coming on, something that would put him out. He knew he was only awake because of shock and fear and adrenaline, but that would wear off quickly enough and he would crash hard. He had to reach a safe house, a place where he could hide.

Fighting fiercely to stay conscious, he drove toward Brick's.

Gina Gilbert, hair stringy and plastered with sweat from working nonstop for the last forty-eight hours, stared at the electron microscope monitor. The screen was littered with the strands of the DNA sample that she was working her way through.

As she identified even the most basic characteristics, like eye color or pigmentation, she would move on, searching for something unusual. She knew, in general, what she was searching for, but it was difficult to discern.

What she sensed was that this seemingly endless DNA strand contained something that would reveal the secret of this creature's identity. She didn't know what it would be, but she was certain she would recognize it when she saw it. She turned a large black dial and the screen flickered, revealing another molecule.

Empty boxes of Chinese and Italian food — take-outs — littered the table behind her. She folded her arms across her chest and watched, studying the movement, counting the electrons and calculating their molecular weight.

It was something unknown — part of the alien DNA. She leaned forward again and studied the strands, and saw that it had enhanced transmitters, or reflectors, that sped the production of proteins.

She smiled.

"So," she whispered, "now I got you."

It took another hour to analyze the proteins. She compared them to those from a gorilla, a tiger, and finally from Homo sapiens. But she found no corresponding genetic formation. Then she went back to the readout and repeated the entire procedure step by step, counting the molecules, verifying the enhancers that connected the molecule to the more familiar human DNA. And again, the results were the same.

There was an unknown protein — some kind of powerful mind-influencing chemical — generated from the strand segment. She knew it would take hours and hours to discover what protein or enzyme was being generated, what effect it had upon the creature, and what secrets it might provide to the beast's identity. But that didn't bother her. She had all night. She felt a wave of sadness at the thought, remembering…

Rebecca had no time at all.

"God Almighty!" Brick shouted as Chaney, bloodied and sweating, collapsed through the back door.

Brick, who had answered the door eating a meatloaf sandwich, pulled Chaney into the kitchen and rolled him over. Even before he examined Chaney to determine his injury, Brick tore the Sig from Chaney's hip holster and leveled it at the open door. Enraged, the big ex-marshal searched left and right, gun leading and all the slack taken from the trigger, but he saw nothing.

Turning on the floodlights, he shut the door hard, threw the deadbolt, and bent, feeling over Chaney's chest.

Groaning, Chaney coughed, spoke with difficulty. "They… after the search… they were waiting."

Brick muttered a stream of obscenities, lifting Chaney by the arm. He held the Sig in his free hand as they stumbled across the kitchen. "Good thing Edna's out of town this weekend," he muttered. "She'd be going nuts seeing you like this. Come on, let's get you down into the basement. Don't you worry 'bout nothin', kid. I got ya and I got what ya need. Yeah, of Brick's gonna fix his boy up."

Together they stumbled down the stairs and Brick laid him on a cot. Then he unfolded a large green Special Forces emergency surgical kit. He tore open a packet with his teeth, gave Chaney two blue pills and water, then felt his chest.

"You got some hematoma there in the ribs, boy," he grunted. "Somebody whacked you good with a bat, or pipe. Can't tell. Doesn't matter. You're hurt."

"A pipe. Two of them. They're dead."

"I ain't sheddin' no tears," Brick said as he helped Chaney out of his coat and shirt.

Chaney sank back and Brick gently felt the ribs. "Man, you got some swelling here, kinda high. Probably just cracked 'cause I don't feel no break. Hurts bad enough, though. Cracked hurts as bad as broke, no lie." Quickly he felt Chaney's neck and shoulder. "You got some bleeding, here," he added. "I'll fix that up."

"You got the house locked up?"

"Always."

In short order, Brick cleaned and bandaged Chaney's shoulder and face. It was an efficient, professional job and Brick's hands moved with surprising tenderness. Finally Chaney felt the painkillers kicking in, the pain fading so softly he could barely feel it diminishing. But it was leaving, and it made him feel stronger. Still, he knew it was a deception; he wasn't stronger, so he didn't move.

His breath was regular, measured, and he tried to replay the scene in his mind, cursing himself for his carelessness. He had been so distracted by his theories and discovery that he had failed to remember the elemental rule of a hitter: they almost always waited for you to come to them, and he had walked right into it.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself.

"Did you recognize either of them?"

"No."

"Sure you got 'em?"

"Yeah." Chaney rubbed his bandaged face. "I got 'em."

"Good," Brick muttered, removing a syringe from his case. He inserted the needle into a small vial of Lidocaine. Then he removed it and inserted the needle under Chaney's arm. With the painkillers, Chaney hardly felt the sting. Closing his eyes, he floated on the drugs and the fatigue from the fight.

He felt like his mind was returning from panic and stress overload.

"A little something to kill your side while I sew up this gash." Brick removed a curved needle with black thread dangling from it. In his other hand he held forceps. Then, deftly and without hesitation, he began an efficient, circular movement with the forceps as he inserted the needle in Chaney's side and withdrew it, tying a quick knot every two seconds. In less than thirty seconds it was over and Brick snipped off the thread, laying the instruments to the side.

Brick nudged him until he opened his eyes. "You're gonna be all right, kid. You got a couple burst blood vessels in the skin, some bruised or cracked ribs, and a three-inch cut in your side that I stitched up. But you came out pretty good, considering."

Chaney didn't say anything, closing his eyes again, as Brick rose and^ walked swiftly to the vault. In seconds he had opened the gigantic steel door and walked inside.

He heard Brick moving equipment, shuffling, then the familiar sound of a rifle chambered. Almost instantly Brick emerged carrying an AK-47, a large thirty-round clip inserted in the port. Three more full magazines were in his hand, and a Colt 1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol was stuck in his belt, pressing against his gut. He came straight to Chaney and bent.

"You're safe down here," he grunted, a bit breathless. "Ain't but one way in or out. I'll be upstairs watching for 'em. Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning."

Chaney attempted to rise. "My gun…"

"Right beside you." Brick gestured. "Right here. But don't reach for it unless you hear shooting upstairs. Those are morphine tablets I gave you. Pretty strong ones, too. I don't want you holding that Sig while you're high unless you have to. But if things get that bad, if they get past me, then there ain't no wrong you can do. Just shoot whatever comes down the stairs and keep shooting 'til you're empty. You still got the clips on your belt. Understand what I'm saying? If they get past me, it's Dodge City as far as I'm concerned."

Nodding with the last of his control and strength, Chaney closed his eyes. "Yeah, Brick, I got it. I…" He felt sleep coming over him, soft and comforting. "I got it."

Without another word Brick rose and Chaney heard him hurrying up the stairs. Somewhere, far off, he heard a series of thumps, Brick running across the ceiling above him, and knew the old marshal was making certain that the house was completely secure. Chaney glanced to the side, made sure the Sig was within reach, and as he passed into unconsciousness he suddenly remembered Gina Gilbert, and knew she would be next…

He began to rise, to warn her.

Collapsed back.

Despite his exhaustion, Hunter felt himself stiffen as the Blackhawk swept in over the last knoll separating a windswept field from the surrounding forest. And as he sighted the facility from high, he knew instantly that this one was not like the rest.

White cement walls enclosed a four-acre facility that vaguely resembled a squared fortress. The roof was a forest of antennas and satellite dishes and wiring and cooling equipment — an impressive piece of architecture for the middle of nowhere. He noticed at least a hundred fifty-five-gallon drums, perhaps holding coolant, to the side of the building beside a wide set of double steel doors, and three enormous ten-thousand-gallon fuel tanks beside the back fence.

There were no windows; only large steel doors guarded by two sentries with M-16's at port arms. He scanned the brightly illuminated compound further and saw light transport vehicles and at least fifty military personnel. He estimated there would be at least a third more inside.

The chopper set down on a pad and a team of EMTs met them, instantly entering the bay as the team members slipped out. In seconds they had loaded Professor Tipler on a gurney and were rolling him into the complex, already checking his vitals.

Though he was almost too weak to stand, Hunter refused to show fatigue or weakness. He frowned as he saw Maddox approaching. "What about the rest of the team?" Maddox asked, incredulous.

Takakura's tone was not friendly.

"Dead," he said simply.

Maddox paused. His shock was apparent as his eyes moved from Hunter to Takakura, then to the rest of the team. "All of them?"

Takakura walked past him without reply.

As the rest fell in silently behind Takakura, Hunter waited. Then he walked over to Maddox, staring into his eyes.

"I'm gonna talk to you in the morning," Hunter said menacingly.

Maddox glanced down at Ghost. The wolf was fixed on him with mesmerizing intensity. "Of course," he managed. "This is… Good Lord!.. A great tragedy!" He managed to recover. "But then not as bad as I feared. When we failed to make contact with you, I had assumed you were all casualties. At least some of you have survived." He looked at Hunter. "And the creature?"

"We don't know."

Maddox glanced toward the fence. "I see."

Closing on him slightly, Hunter whispered, "Let me tell you something, Maddox. You see those men at the fence?"

"Certainly, yes."

"Well, get them inside that fence and close that gate. Pump up the voltage as high as it'll go and break out every dog you've got. Keep 'em moving night and day. And take your men off those M-16's and put 'em on whatever elephant guns you've got. You have some M-60's around here?"

"We have two positioned on the roof."

"Put all of 'em up there. As many as you got. Snipers, too. 'Cause I think that that bastard is comin' this way and right now you've got nothing that can stop it. It's gonna hit that fence at a dead run, take the charge, and tear its way through. Or it's gonna just leap clean over it."

Maddox was incredulous. "That's a twelve-foot electrical fence, Hunter."

"Maddox," Hunter growled, "that thing could leap that fence with you in its teeth. Do as I say and you and your men might live."

"You are certain of this?"

Bending over him, Hunter stared him hard in the eye.

Maddox recoiled and nodded. "I'll follow your… advice."

Feeling exhaustion claiming him, Hunter walked toward the infirmary. Ghost fell in beside him.

Maddox called after him, "You probably know this creature better than anyone!"

Luther, Hunter thought.

"You could say that," he said.

Dr. Arthur Hamilton, bent in concentration over a microscope, raised his head as a white-shirted lab technician approached. Neither friendly nor indulgent, the doctor's tone indicated that he wished not to be disturbed.

"What is it?" he murmured.

"They're here, Doctor."

Hamilton absorbed it with the greatest calm.

"I see," he answered. "Very well. I will deal with them when they are rested and fed." His demeanor was that used when dealing with animals. "See to it that they are airlifted on the first helicopter returning to the air-base. Their mission is officially over."

"Sir, they're pretty badly beaten up," the technician said, with a hint of fear. "I don't think they're in condition for flight just now. And they seem…well, angry. The old man, the professor, he's just regaining consciousness. His heart—"

"Yes, yes, I'm certain they had a difficult time." Hamilton rose up straighter on his chair. "But nevertheless, their job here is done. This afternoon the NSA, which retains full authority and command, issued the ruling. Therefore they have no further authorization to remain on the base. In the morning, when they are prepared, I want all of them transferred." He did not blink. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"Good. Now, if you please…"

He bent over the microscope.

The technician turned without a word and walked out of the laboratory. As he vanished, Dr. Strait, having witnessed the conversation, approached and stood in silence.

"Yes, Emma?" he said, still intent over the microscope.

"We have it," she said.

Her voice was oddly cautious.

Hamilton raised his face, a flush rising in his cheeks. His mouth was open a moment as he stared at her. "You have isolated the gene which allows the immunity, the longevity, and separated it from the transmitters which promote cellular domination and absorption?"

She nodded faintly. "Yes."

Hamilton was instantly on his feet as she handed him a printout. Then he scanned the pages, flipping them rapidly, reading just as rapidly until, finally, he lowered the pages to his side and raised a fist before his eyes. He slowly turned, staring at the ancient man suspended in the electromagnetic matrix, and he smiled.

"At last," he whispered. "To be… immortal."

Silently he gazed. Finally he turned back. "How long before we can isolate the genomes and prepare buffers for human DNA?"

"Perhaps by tomorrow night. But we'll need… human test subjects. We'll need to be sure that the serum doesn't kill outright or cause another severe mutation."

Hamilton's face froze. "Test subjects," he said softly, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

Above them was the first subbasement, filled with equipment. And above that, the ground floor: the commissary, the barracks and offices.

And the infirmary.

A grim frown became a satisfied smile.

"I believe I know just where to find them," he said.

Hunter was so exhausted that he had trouble thinking coherently. His entire body felt like a mass of contusions, strains, sprains, and twisted joints.

He had been hurt and exhausted before, but rarely anything like this. He revolved his head, moving it slowly, but it didn't do anything except cause him more pain and make him worry that he had somehow permanently crippled himself. He figured that he'd know soon enough; they were all being examined by the medical team.

Tipler was in ICU on an IV and a number of medications. He was still unconscious but Hunter knew the old man stood a much better chance here than in the mountains. He wasn't as worried as he had been, even feeling some sense of relief that they had been given a brief respite from the ordeal.

He would finish this hunt, but he would be better armed on the next expedition. What weapons he would carry had dominated most of his thinking since they had landed, but he hadn't decided. There was time for that later.

A doctor removed the blood-pressure cuff and listened to Hunter's heart. Very military looking with short-cut black hair and a smooth-shaven face, the physician was in his early thirties. He spoke precisely and confidently: "You have the innate constitution of an ox, Mr. Hunter. Your heartbeat is strong, your blood pressure is perfect, and your pulse is close to normal. You are extremely fit. Perhaps the strongest man I've ever examined. But you're also badly traumatized and dehydrated. Even for someone as strong as you, your body is on the verge of collapse."

He took some time examining the sharp incisions on Hunter's chest. "Hmm, that one's deep," he said. "What did this? A bear? I've never seen a bone scar like this."

"Something like that," Hunter mumbled, rubbing his head. "A bit more hostile."

The physician raised his eyes at the enigmatic remark, turned to the table. "Well, there's no infection. Your medic did a good job cleaning out the wound. So I've given you a tetanus shot and something to stave off any alternate infections. And it wouldn't hurt to have a couple of stitches. It's swollen, but not yet healing."

"Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere."

He performed the antibiotic injections easily and quickly, then prepped a needle with Lidocaine.

"Forget the painkiller," Hunter remarked absently. "Just stitch it up. I can find what I need later, if it hurts that much."

The physician stared at him. "Are you sure you don't want something for the sewing? This will not be pleasant."

"Most things aren't. Just sew it up."

A slight moment of hesitation, and the physician made an expression of "whatever you say" and began. Hunter felt the prick, the needle drawn through flesh, and the stinging of the thread as it was quickly tied off and cut. After five minutes it was over and the doctor dropped the needle and unused silk into a trashcan.

"Took twelve in your chest," he said. "You were lucky it wasn't an inch higher. It could have severed an artery." He wrinkled his brow. "I'd say you were lucky on that one. Lucky or good. Doesn't make much difference. You'll be fine in a few days but I'll need to see you in the morning. Same as all your friends."

Hunter nodded and looked around, wondering how long it'd been since he was in an emergency room; figured it was three years ago when he broke three ribs in a fall. It was a quick trip, in and out, and he had gone back to the search.

Hampered by the pain and lack of mobility, he had nevertheless eventually found the lost party, a hunter who had become lost in a January cold. When Hunter finally found his dead body, he saw that the man still had a backpack of food, a fully loaded rifle, and enough ammunition for a week. A tragedy.

The man had possessed everything he needed to weather out a week in the cold. But he had panicked and, eventually, after burning up precious energy stumbling blindly through the woods, had simply sat down and fallen asleep in the sub-zero temperature.

Hunter had seen it on many occasions — strong men who could have survived for weeks if they had used their tools and remained calm. Yet upon fearing that they were lost, they committed themselves to a senseless stampede that left them too exhausted and shocked to do the very few simple things that would have preserved their lives in even the harshest conditions.

Thoughts like that often gave Hunter pause because he sometimes forgot — so native were his skills to him — that some people simply had no concept of wilderness survival.

Hunter rarely measured his skills against anyone; it was not in his nature to compare himself at all. But in rare moments he appreciated the skills that allowed him, with nothing but his knife, to survive anywhere for weeks or months or years.

Part of it was skill and knowledge, and part of it was years of conditioning, but there was more — a certain hardiness of spirit or soul that reinforced his will in times of physical suffering or fear. It was that part of himself that didn't rely upon intelligence or mind for strength or direction — an ability to allow his lower mind to compensate for whatever his higher mind could not provide, carrying him past the point where most would surrender to pain or cold or hunger and, quite simply, die.

He had seen the phenomenon at work within himself before, and knew that he had the ability to live almost as an animal — hunting, tracking, and killing with that ferocious mind-set of surviving no matter the amount of physical and mental suffering he must endure. It was a certain purity of being — a surrendering to the most basic animal instinct and force of will — and he could turn it on or off, almost like a light switch.

The drawback was, quite simply, that when he gave himself to it he also gave himself to an utterly cold ruthlessness that could be somewhat unsettling.

It made him remember what the creature… what Luther… had spoken of. And he knew that, despite the lies surrounding what the beast had said, there was a grain of truth to it.

Deep inside the heart of man, there did lay a great darkness. Something to be feared even by man himself. It was the place where darkness reigned. Where killing was no more emotional than eating. Where a man could submerge his soul in the blackest sin and feel no guilt at all. Where life was nothing more than the satisfaction of what he desired, and the fulfillment of that desire. It was a place where ruthless strength fed dark desires — the heart of the beast.

Now the dark heart of man had been given indestructible, superhuman form, and was loose in mankind. And Hunter knew he would have to kill it.

And to kill it, he feared he'd have to become it, to release that darkness inside himself.

Hunter didn't want to think about it. When the time came, he knew what he would become. He just hoped it wouldn't be so difficult for him to shut it down when, and if, he destroyed it.

He did know that if he gave himself to the animal within, he would have to be alone. Because no one could keep up with him if he went into it. He would move with astonishing speed, easily covering fifty miles in a day and killing as he moved, eating the meat raw and still moving, killing again, hunting, always hunting — the animal within him selecting the most perilous and difficult of paths as his gray eyes read the faintest faded track.

Athletically, he would be a human tiger — jumping, running for hours, or descending from boulder to boulder in sinuous leaps that never seemed to pause as he hit one granite slab only to descend terrifically to another before he struck the ground to continue running.

Until now, he had been holding back because they couldn't have remained at his side if he had traveled with even half of his true ability. But the time had come to unleash a little of his true strength, and they would have to remain behind unless they were ready to follow in a helicopter.

He glanced up to see Ghost lying atop a heavy stack of blankets. Violating regulations, the medical personnel had wisely decided it was more prudent to allow the wolf a quiet corner in the ICU than a space in the hallway.

From Ghost's quick notice of the faintest sound or movement, it was clear that he remained alert. His ears stood straight, quick to catch the faintest rustle of cloth, and his obsidian eyes carefully followed the actions of everyone in the room.

Bobbi Jo emerged barefoot from an isolated trauma room wearing a dark-blue surgical shirt and pants. Her hair was stringy and matted, and she rubbed her eyes sleepily as she walked slowly to Hunter. He watched with a faint smile as she sat down beside him on the table. Gently, she reached over and touched the stitches in his chest.

She laughed. "A good job. Tidy. I guess you'll have to add those to your list."

Hunter laughed with her. "I don't keep track anymore. Gave up on it a long time ago. Ran out of fingers and toes."

"Oh, come on, Hunter." She smiled. "Even though you've been frozen, starved, cut, smashed, knocked off cliffs, mauled by wild animals, and sewn back together with all your body parts in the wrong place, you've still got a few good years left. I asked the doc and he showed me your warranty card."

He found himself laughing — rare for him — and glad she was so close. After a moment of enjoying her presence, he asked, "So, what'd they tell you? You come out of it in pretty good shape?"

"Oh, I'm kinda beat up." She shrugged. "They told me I'm dehydrated. I've got a torn muscle in my shoulder. But it's not a rotator cuff, so it won't need surgery. Then, oh, I've got a mild concussion and I've lost twenty percent of the hearing in my right ear. They say it's probably only temporary. Got a ton of contusions, too many to count, and about three bruised ribs." She smiled and winked. "But they gave me some great painkillers." A pause. "Then my right shoulder has a bad bone bruise from not having the Barrett set tight enough on that shot beside the creek. But other than that, I'm just fine and dandy."

Laughing, Hunter shook his head. "Yeah, seems like you came out all right. What about the professor?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "They told me he's not in a coma, but he's unconscious. I guess we'll know by tomorrow. They say he can't be moved."

"No," Hunter rumbled, "I'm sure of that. And I ain't leaving, either, 'til he can be moved. I guess the rest of them are all right."

"Oh, yeah. Taylor is already gone. Said he was hungry. Wilkenson is still in there, they're working on some bruises. He got a flash burn from the explosion in the cave. And Takakura… well, you know Takakura. He's the curse of doctors everywhere."

With a smile, Hunter said, "Yeah, he's tough. He'll be okay. Guess all we do now is sit and heal up a little. Get some rest."

Silent, she stared at him intently.

"You're going after it, aren't you?" she asked finally.

He said nothing.

She shook her head. "Don't do it, Hunter. Just let it be. I know how you feel. I feel the same. But if you go out there, alone, it will kill you. And you know that."

"Maybe," he replied, stoic. "Maybe not. But if it's not stopped, it's gonna keep on killing. And who's next? Some old woman? Some kid? A village?" He stared at her. "You know it's not gonna stop. Not ever. It's gonna kill until someone stops it."

""It doesn't have to be you."

"So who's it gonna be?" Hunter held the moment with his conviction. "You? You know you can't track it. Not like I can. The army? They've already tried. So who's left?" The silence lasted. "There's nobody, darlin'. Nobody but me."

She didn't say anything, staring into space. Then: "You won't come back."

It was said with a professional warrior's objectivity, but there was an imploring look on her face.

Hunter grunted. He slowly lifted a hand and flexed it, testing its strength. He was hurt bad, but he could continue. Yet he somehow felt that he'd lost something of himself in this hunt — he had had some deep, untapped reserve of endurance or ultimate physical might that, once spent, might be gone forever. Some challenges took away a measure of what you were, and the body could never replenish it.

"Probably," he replied finally. "But I don't have a choice. If I walk away from this…life won't be anything but regrets and ghosts and guilt."

Watching him steadily, she said, "And you couldn't live like that."

"Couldn't be called living," he grunted. Then he shrugged. "Seems like it's always like this. Seems like there's always someone who can do some… special thing. They have a skill. A talent. And they find themselves in a place where this ability is needed. And something deep down tells you what you have to do. That you were meant to be here, to do what has to be done." He shook his head. "Like I said, an old story. But true, I think."

She didn't blink. "I understand," she said at last. "And, I thought I'd let you know, I'm going with you."

"No, you're definitely not coming with me."

"Why not? This is still a military operation."

"Not for me." Hunter rose, loosening a shoulder. "I'm done with the military. They're lying to you. To me. To everybody. They always were."

"Think I can't keep up with you?" she asked.

He smiled lightly, touched her cheek softly. "No offense."

A pause.

"You're not gonna hold back this time, are you? You're not gonna let us catch up to you?"

"It's the only way," he said softly, gazing out the window at the spot-lit night of the compound. "I have to run it to ground."

"And when you do? What are you gonna do when you corner it or it corners you? Just the two of you alone in those mountains? How are you gonna kill what can't be killed?"

"Anything can be killed," he said, sullen, and his face darkened as his suddenly cold blue eyes seemed to behold something beyond the compound. "Anything."