Hunter

Chapter 20

Hazy lights came slowly into focus, and Dr. Arthur Hamilton stared, unknowing. He saw a white… ceiling?… Slender white rods… Fluorescent lights… Tiles… Black pinholes in chalky white…

The laboratory!

It came to him.

"What the —?" he shouted, rolling painfully to a knee and reflexively reaching for something, anything, for balance. His knee and shoe crunched fragments of broken plastic, glass, paper, and other debris. He crouched like a boxer, staring in a daze. Speechless, reviewing the situation as he could remember it before he lost consciousness, he was appalled at the carnage, understanding with raw emotion the consequences of what lay before him.

Hunter had survived!

"My God," he whispered. "My God…"

He turned toward the back of the laboratory. "Come out, you cowardly fools!" he called, not troubling to disguise his anger. "Come out before I come back there and drag you out!"

A moment of silence passed.

Then Emma Strait's black-haired head peeked timidly around the corner. A male and female assistant looked out from behind her shoulders, holding onto Emma as if she were their security. Emma's face was fearful.

Dr. Hamilton regained enough emotional control to hesitate, drawing breath. He would have to ignore the stiffness in his neck, the strange lightness in his step. Understanding that Hunter had apparently struck him across the neck, he motioned with forgiveness for Emma to step forward.

Then, to further ease her fear, he leaned back heavily on a computer terminal and rubbed his neck. And as she watched him so closely, he made a smooth display of interpreting this event as a tragic but expected occurrence. His act was polished brilliance, even without words: a madman was in their midst, and he had done this…

Not appearing so agitated as to seem unhinged, he looked back at her and nodded. "Come, Emma, we must nevertheless deal with this unfortunate situation. Nothing can be gained by securing yourselves in the bunker. Although I'm sure it was a prudent measure at the time. Yes, we are fortunate, very fortunate, to be alive."

On an impulse that he wished he could have avoided he glanced at the tube and saw that the creature's coffin was shattered by rifle fire, the body disintegrated. Nothing remained but a smoking mass of liquefied flesh and starkly visible bone. Hamilton could not conceal the bitter grimace that twisted his face. When he glanced back at Emma, she had stopped in stride.

"Oh, it is nothing, Emma." He gestured, trying to maintain a smooth manner. He tried to close his mind to the horror of all his great effort, now destroyed by this base wild man, this nobody, this tracker who would not surrender to superior forces. "I… I was simply wondering how much damage our complex had suffered in this… this gunfight… which I seemed to have missed entirely."

"You… you missed it?" she asked.

"Oh, yes." Hamilton made a great display of rubbing his neck: you must make her sympathetic. "I'm sure you and the others were secured safely in the bunker — I'm glad that I included it in the budget — but I was out here among them, trying to reason with them.

"The intruders, apparently renegades from this hunting party, surreptitiously stole in here to either injure us or acquire something. The guards caught them, and I attempted to negotiate, in order to avoid senseless injury. Then one of them — this madman called Hunter — struck me unconscious. I suppose I am fortunate to be alive." He grimaced. "Yes, I need medical attention, but now is not the time. A cursory examination will have to suffice as long as we remain under his attack."

Emma, followed closely by the rest, had cautiously moved closer to him. But Hamilton attempted to make it seem of no importance, as if saying, "Of course you would stand beside me. Why not? Have I not protected you thus far? Am I not your colleague? Your teacher?"

He gestured to indicate that he had no doubt of their loyalty. "Now we must discover if any of the data have been stolen."

Bending to indicate pain beyond what he truly felt, Hamilton continued, "Please run a file check, the times and user, to determine what has been examined in the past three hours. Then do a physical inventory of the vault, and determine if any materials have been removed."

Unmoving, they stared.

"Well, come on!" Hamilton used his authoritative tone, knowing that by now they had been properly prepared; their suspicions were dulled, their fears assuaged by his honest appearance of his own pain and shock. He added more angrily, "We have work to do!"

Swarming like worker bees who knew their responsibilities without instruction and were willing to drive themselves to death in order to fulfill their roles, the crew assumed their shattered work stations. Some of the terminals were still smoking, and the ten-man technical team immediately initiated undamaged backup systems housed in adjoining rooms.

Hamilton's last orders were all but lost in the activity as he turned to Emma.

"Please contact Mr. Dixon on the NSA satellite immediately," he instructed calmly. Then, as an afterthought: "And, just in case, have someone lock the entrance to this level. I believe it is time to secure the vault."

Hunter moved stealthily and silently, knowing the creature would be forced to track by scent in this chaos. Frowning, angry and fearless now, he'd make it work.

Hesitating beside the body of a dead soldier, he reached out and touched the man's gaping wound, feeling compassion. Then he rubbed the blood on his boots and continued moving, crossing the path of a dozen more slain soldiers, repeating the procedure, mixing his scent with the scent of the dead.

It was impossible to remain in the darkness because blazing orange light from the inferno of the tanker and disintegrating shed threw dancing diagonal shadows across the motor pool. So he kept loping, going high over the roofs of trucks and descending to the ground again.

He held the Weatherby close as he threaded a path through an army of dead men. But he saw nothing, heard nothing, sensed nothing. Then, heart flaming, he heard a low moan and whirled, searching with narrow eyes.

In the distance, perhaps thirty feet away, he saw a hand weakly raised in the air and loped easily toward it, all the while alert to any movement or sound beside or behind him.

It was a young soldier. Almost a boy.

Hunter almost groaned at the sight, and knelt beside him.

A slashing blow had torn away part of the boy's chest. Blood had matted in the wound, concealing its depth. He grasped Hunter's hand weakly, and Hunter knew he could do nothing for him. The creature's blow had torn away ribs, leaving the chest cavity exposed; it was a matter of moments.

Gasping, the boy spoke.

"Did we…get it?"

Hunter grimaced. "Yeah, soldier. You got it."

There was almost a smile, then the boy took another breath and was gone. Slowly, Hunter stood, staring down. His rage was channeled now, and he stood like a monument of judgment. It would die for this, he swore to himself. As surely as he lived, it would die.

Hunter gazed about, knowing exactly what had happened, though he had seen none of it.

It had chosen its terrain well, using their fear, and they had fallen into the trap. If he had been here, he was certain, this never would have happened. At least not on this scale. But they had allowed themselves to get caught up in the chase. Had lacked the patience to pick their terrain more carefully and wait with infinite patience until the prey was close and vulnerable. He shook his head.

Here, with shadow and light crossing like a chessboard, it had been able to move only a step before it disappeared, only to re-emerge from complete blackness to kill with a blow before moving on, vanishing again into darkness, stalking.

Such a loss…

It was a battlefield, a graveyard of dead men that might have won, but for want of his direction. He cursed himself silently as he heard a sound.

Whirling, he had the Weatherby centered.

Takakura…

The Japanese commander was holding his chest, sword in hand. And his face was slack, sweating, while he stared down over the boy, as if the soldier were somehow different from the multitude surrounding him, or if he somehow epitomized the score of dead. Then the Japanese simply shook his head, bowing wearily to lean on the hood of a Humvee.

"Come on," Hunter said, not wasting time on questions. He put his arm under Takakura s shoulder, supporting him, and they began to move.

"We've got to get inside the building before it finds us. Which it's going to do fast enough."

Takakura, a true soldier, merely frowned at his injury. He asked no questions as he stumbled alongside Hunter, his sword dragging a narrow trail in the dust. Hunter knew the Japanese was badly wounded but never asked how or where; this was no time.

A cacophony of explosions erupted in an area near the shed and Hunter froze, lifting his head. He saw blasts of gunfire and heard heated shouts from the glowing devastation. The gun blasts continued, broken only by short pauses of cursing before they resumed once more.

Hunter glimpsed a distant silhouetted figure moving back and forth and saw it raise a rifle, firing two rounds that were followed by a heated curse that carried across the compound. In the next moment the figure ran to the right and vanished.

Hunter leaned Takakura against the front grill of a troop carrier. The big truck easily supported the Japanese, although Takakura's head was bent forward in exhaustion and shock. Hunter pushed him back and spoke close to his face.

"Takakura!" Hunter pointed to the installation. "Can you make it to the building? Bobbi Jo and Brick are at the side door! All you have to do is get to the building! It's not that far! Do you understand me!"

A slow nod. "Hai."

Grimacing stoically, he pushed Hunter's hand aside and staggered forward. Hunter moved toward the place where he had seen the gunfire. He glanced back once to see Takakura moving slowly and slightly off balance, but with determination. It might take him longer to make it alone, but Hunter believed he would. And, although Takakura was easy prey in his wounded condition, Hunter didn't think that the creature was an immediate danger to him. No, he was confident that the man at the far end of the motor pool, the one firing the gun and raging at the night, had sighted the thing and was trying to finish the fight.

Hunter had a good suspicion who it was before he ever reached the liquefied remains of the tanker.

Even 150 feet away, the heat was blistering, and Hunter glanced to the far right to see Chaney raise the Weatherby against a shoulder, firing twice. Obviously getting more skilled with the double-barreled rifle, Chaney had ejected the spent rounds and inserted two more in the blink of an eye. As quickly as Chaney had performed the action, he might as well have been firing a semiautomatic.

"Chaney!" Hunter yelled from behind the protection of a Humvee. As enraged as Chaney was, Hunter was taking no chances that he might accidentally shoot him.

Chaney paused before he called out, "Hunter?"

Instantly Hunter was out from behind the Humvee running forward, searching the area where Chaney had been shooting. And they began the conversation long before they stood face-to-face, Hunter alert to everything, close shadows on the right, distant shadows beyond flame on the left. He raised an arm briefly against the tidal wave of heat pouring from the ruined tanker and shed.

"What do you have?" he shouted to Chaney above the roaring inferno.

"I near tripped over the thing!" Chaney yelled back. "Somebody finally hurt it! I don't know who! It was on the ground and I just shot it point-blank!"

Hunter knew before he even asked. "Did you kill it?"

"Hell, no!" Chaney glared at him, sweating. Hunter saw that he had used about a third of the cartridges on the bandoleer. "But I sure got it mad." He grimaced, catching his breath. "I hit it again as it got up off the ground and then it was gone! I chased it across the compound, hittin' it every chance I got! Then it vanished over here! I got a glimpse of it a second ago and sent two over there!" He pointed to the far side of the flames, shook his head. "Haven't seen it since!"

Another time Hunter might have congratulated him, but there was no time for praise. Then a voice roared from the flames on the other side of the shed.

"Hunter! I know your name! I will kill you for this!"

It was the beast.

Still alive …

Hunter debated a reply, and shouted back, "Then come and kill me! Do it now!"

"No! Not now! But soon! Soon! You think you have won but you have won nothing! Because I am more than man!"

Hunter snarled, "You're an animal, Luther! An animal! You'll always be an animal!"

"Tell me that when I eat your heart!"

Chaney shouted, "Eat this!" and fired the Weatherby blindly toward the voice before Hunter grabbed his arm.

"No!" he said. "We've got to get back to the building. It's our only chance. We can't stop him with these weapons. Come on! Let's move! We gotta get everyone into the building and wait for it to come to us!"

Frowning with anger, Chaney raised his head to search briefly over the flames before he grimaced, turning. Hunter saw that, as fired up as Chaney was with the close combat, his fever had not overridden his tactical judgment.

"All right!" He loped forward, holding the Weatherby. "Let's get back!"

Holding his heart, Professor Tipler sat on the edge of the bed, bathed in red light flooding out from the corners. The emergency lights had kicked on and he had heard the roar and clash of battle in the motor pool, the howls of wounded men, the screams of the dying.

Even from this great distance, secured within cement walls, he had discerned frantic orders, endless gunfire. And now that the gunfire had ceased, except for scattered resistance, he presumed the battle had been lost.

Standing monolithic in the gloom, Ghost filled the narrow entrance of Tipler's cubicle. True to his loyalty and love, the great black wolf had not left Tipler's side since the ordeal began. Like a great unsleeping spirit of flesh and fang cloaked in black, he fearlessly stood his ground.

Tipler smiled. He knew Ghost would never leave his side. Not until Hunter gave the word. And he wondered what would happen if he told the noble wolf to find his master. Tipler closed his eyes as the possibility entered his mind that Hunter had been killed by the beast. Again, he shook his head; so little an old man can do…

Raising his eyes, Tipler regarded the ever loyal Ghost. Perhaps, if all was lost outside, the wolf could yet escape. He knew that Ghost would easily survive in these mountains, which were his true home. Or he might find Hunter, still alive, and fight beside him. Surely, though, he was not needed here. Not any longer.

Tipler could feel a chill in his spine, an emptiness in his chest, that assured him — No, not much longer. He nodded, firm in the conviction. Then he pointed to the open door leading from the ICU.

"Go!" he shouted. "Find Hunter!"

Ghost's alertness at the words was complete. The ears were straight black angles against red light. And although Tipler could not quite see the eyes, he knew from the quick blinks that made the shining obsidian orbs fade in and out that the wolf had focused on him completely. There was a new tension in his stance.

Tipler repeated the command, shouting to fill his voice with anger.

Still, Ghost did not retreat, held his guard. But the wide wedge-shaped head tilted, confused.

"Go!" Tipler roared, and stood away from the bed. He pointed thunderously. "Go and find Hunter!"

Ghost retreated before the great enraged voice and looked at the door. Then he looked back at Tipler, clearly unsure. Tipler picked up a plate from his tray and flung it high, scattered utensils and roaring with his command. "Go, Ghost! Find Hunter! Find Hunter! Go! Go! Go!"

Ghost was halfway across the intensive care unit, standing his ground and glancing with confusion at the door, at Tipler, the door, and back again. And then Tipler's strength faded with a washing, light-headed announcement. Still standing close to the bed, he leaned and reached out, falling lightly onto his right side…

"Go, Ghost," he whispered. "Ghost…"

Ghost stood his place and watched, head tilted, until the man was utterly still. And after a moment, when the man had not moved at all, he wandered close, sniffed, and caught the scent of death. With a whine, he stepped back, still holding his place. Then, finally, with a solemn turn he moved across the antiseptic room into the red-shadowed darkness of the door, turned and was gone.

Chaney had no trouble, uninjured as he was, keeping pace with Hunter. But as they cleared the motor pool they saw Takakura struggling, only halfway across the compound. The Japanese was moving more slowly with each step and Hunter instantly angled to the side, making for him. Chaney, understanding instantly and too conditioned to the wild unpredictability of combat to waste breath on questions, followed with strong strides.

Hunter glanced to the left to see Bobbi Jo on one knee, the bipod of the Barrett resting on a crate. Her head turned as she searched everything around them, and Hunter knew the creature couldn't come upon them without her hitting it with the sniper rifle. And even if the massive round couldn't stop it, the impact would slow it down, possibly giving them time to reach the sanctuary of the complex. In any case, a little hope was better than no hope at all.

Takakura fell forward as Hunter reached him. Hunter heard heavy approaching footsteps in front and raised the Weatherby, turning the Japanese aside.

Brick.

Breath heaving, he came up with the AK-47 slung on his back. His hands, beefy fists as large as rocks, worked rhythmically over his chest as he covered the last few yards. He bent and slipped his head under Takakura's left arm. With Hunter on the right, they hoisted him and Chaney took rear guard, running backwards with the Weatherby held close across his chest.

Bobbi Jo heard a shuffle and whirled.

Her intellect instantly assured her that it couldn't have been the beast but her reflexes made her react as if it were. She stared for a long silence and then saw a creature, utterly black and moving with effortless grace, around a far corner. Pausing, it saw her and without hesitation or sound loped quickly forward.

She smiled. "Ghost…"

The wolf came up slowly and pressed his nose against her face. Bobbi Jo touched the rough black fur, smiling. Her next thought was of Hunter as Ghost swung its huge head to gaze out over the compound, and her hand closed tightly on its midnight mane.

"Ghost!" she yelled suddenly. "Stay!"

Ghost surged forward as he saw Hunter but she held him back, both hands locking around the neck as she spoke sternly, trying to push him against the building. It was desperate enough with the three of them out there; the wolf would only complicate the situation, and would probably refuse to retreat at all if it sighted the creature.

But without really even moving, Ghost brushed off her attempt, merely shifting his stance to make her slide awkwardly down his side. To him it was merely play, nothing that required conscious effort. But Bobbi Jo was struggling with all her strength and skill to control the wolf's twisting, powerful form.

Bobbi Jo's hands scraped and grasped at the body and mane, trying to find a grip that he could not easily escape when Ghost, rising suddenly on hind legs, roared with a rage and fury that sent her sprawling wildly back. She glimpsed the savagely separated white fangs, black eyes blazing in a fury beyond anything mortal, and twisted her head to the side.

She screamed as she saw the creature almost upon Hunter and Chaney, hurtling across the compound with the speed of a lion. She dove for the Barrett but knew she'd never target it at such velocity.

She screamed a warning.

And Ghost was already forty feet from the building, silently hurling its magnificent black shape forward with a speed that rivaled the beast's. Another volcanic stride and it vanished into darkness.

"Ghost!"

At Bobbi Jo's warning scream, Hunter raised his head and saw Ghost's black form racing across the compound. But the wolf wasn't directly running for him so Hunter dropped and spun, understanding instantly. The Weatherby rose as he hurled Takakura roughly back.

Chaney was slower, but not by much. Before Hunter had fired he had already turned, saw it all, understood, and the stock was at his shoulder when Hunter pulled the trigger.

The four barrels blazed as one and the creature staggered aside, hurt and slowed. It raised its face as it launched itself forward again. An explosion erupted at the door of the faraway complex and it was hurled onto its back, rolling with the wrecking-ball impact of Bobbi Jo's .50-caliber round.

It rose snarling wildly, glaring at Hunter.

Fangs displayed, it charged again.

Chaney's breech snapped shut and Hunter remembered that he hadn't reloaded. He cracked the breech, burning fingers on the spent cartridges. He speed-loaded two more cartridges as Brick targeted with the AK-47—not a damaging round but certainly more painful than the meaningless .223's — and fired, the lead bouncing off the creature's ballistic-resistant skin.

Chaney had fired both rounds and reloaded again as Hunter raised aim. And the creature still staggered forward, relentless.

Its nightmarish face twisted in pain and rage, striding through the onslaught as if the sole reason for its being was to kill and to kill more, to endlessly kill and kill and kill.

And in that surreal moment, Hunter saw it as it truly was.

The professor's words descended through his mind like a tilted water tower, the deluge disgorging everything inside with a single titanic blast. It took no time, and it was there in all its complexity.

Here, before Hunter, was the deepest, darkest mind of man; without conscience, without mercy, without pity. Untouched by compassion or regard or restraint, it was the center of what man once was before he rose above blood and mindlessness, to become man. For in those scarlet eyes and gaping fangs lay the black heart of death and murder and destruction for the sake of destruction alone, impulses felt and fulfilled for nothing other than the satisfaction; nothing to question or challenge; no reason to stay its hand when it might shed the blood it craved. It was a creation that lived — that existed — only for the physical expression of the darkness so deeply buried within man that even man feared to pry away the stone and see the horror within. As Chaney speed-loaded the Weatherby and Brick frantically dropped to a knee, exchanging a clip, Hunter stared at the epitome of human evil.

It stalked forward, a growl building within, and it sprang upon them, its terrible strength carrying it in a long twenty-foot arch. Then Hunter glimpsed the blinding streak of black racing from the side. He turned and screamed.

"Ghost! NO!"

The gigantic black wolf struck the beast in the air, and they instantly locked in a thunderstorm of blows thrown and blows returned, fang to fang, spinning through red darkness until they crashed to earth together, savagely fighting to the death.

Scattering blood with each blow they revolved through the dark. Ghost hurled himself with unimaginable force against the monstrosity to blast it away from Hunter.

Again and again the great wolf struck, tearing savage gaps in the creature's arms, chest, and neck that brought forth rivers of blood. The beast returned the same, hurling vicious swipes of its clawed hands in a devil's battle that wounded Ghost with equal violence.

It was the heart of fury, the place where savagery and rage were conquered by something greater, something even more furious. The beast hurled a clawed hand that struck Ghost's shoulder, ribs glistening white at the impact, and Ghost came off the ground like a rocket, hurling himself from the bloodied earth to hit it full force. Together, they smashed into a truck and then they hit the ground again, revolving and wrestling with fang striking fang.

Hunter didn't know he had leaped forward until Brick's massive form tackled him from behind.

Falling forward, he felt a wet collision with the earth. Then, with a roar — a roar that surged from a sacred and unknown place — Hunter volcanically pushed himself up from the ground and flung the larger man off like paper. He spun to the rest of them and said nothing, communicating only with the fire of his eyes.

Ghost and the creature raged against each other almost fifty yards away. And Hunter saw, even in the half light, white streaks in Ghost's side; ribs exposed to the night. But the wolf held his ground, his hideous growls and roars vibrating in the atmosphere.

Yet the creature was severely injured, clutching ravaged red gaps torn in its chest and neck, its forearm savaged with bone shining reddish-white in the semi-darkness. Retreating slightly, it circled, cautious now, with taloned hands threatening.

Frowning, Hunter raised the rifle and fired.

Both rounds hit true, and the creature howled in rage and pain. Then Hunter hurled the rifle aside, drawing the Bowie as he ran forward.

He never saw what happened behind him, but knew. He hadn't taken five steps when he heard a stampede of angry voices following. Even Takakura was there, all of them charging the last remaining feet to close on the creature.

Chased no longer; hounded like sheep no longer; fighting now, taking the battle to the beast, refusing to retreat and choosing the moment of their death, if need be.

Ghost leaped to attack as Hunter closed the last stride. The creature caught the wolf in the air, then hatefully hurled him aside, and Hunter hit it full force.

Lashing out quicker than the eye could follow, his knife was nothing but light in the gloom as Hunter hit it clean, deep and out again to leave a furrow through the ribs. But, quick as he had moved, he could not escape the beast’s retaliation.

It whirled in a backhand — a blow that would have killed a normal man — but Hunter saw it, turning into it with both forearms to defy the attack that struck like a mountain. The forearm met his and Hunter was flung through the night air.

Brick, four feet distant, squared off and fired both barrels of Hunter's discarded Weatherby. The double impact of the mammoth rounds made the beast bend double at the waist. A second of raging pause, and then Takakura leaped to the side, the katana flashing down — a heaving vertical strike — to catch the creature solidly across the back of the neck.

And at the impact of the blow the creature came from its bowed posture like a rocket, instantly grasping the sword and twisting to hurl both it and the Japanese far and away. They crashed painfully against a Humvee and fell to the ground.

As it turned back to Chaney and Brick, almost with contempt, Brick's feet had left the ground. His body, twisting volcanically, had spun, holding the barrels of the Weatherby in huge fists. The wide wooden stock of the rifle swung like a baseball bat to strike the bowed head with incredible force. And at the impact the sound of pulverized flesh echoed like a gunshot across the glade. But the stock shattered, leaving Brick staggering back holding a broken rifle, gazing upward into the face of the beast.

Shaking its head in contempt, it started for him.

Hunter was on his feet, roaring as he moved, and Ghost moved with him, each attacking the creature from opposite sides. Hunter saw Chaney take aim and hit the beast solidly in the head with two .454 rounds of the Weatherby. A blinding burst of white came from the side — Bobbi Jo joining us — that made Hunter reflexively bend away before he hurled himself forward and slashed at the neck.

Sensing his approach, it flung out its left arm to hurl him back hatefully. The blow caught Hunter's shoulder as it roared with rage. Then—

A Japanese cry… sword flashing, slashing across, back again… explosion before them, gray shape falling upon Hunter… Bowie slashing up to hit gray flesh, down quick, stabbing… black wolf across, white fangs lashing out… spiraling blood… explosion in his face, blinding… Bobbi Jo, Chaney… DUCK!..Clawed hand lashing viciously over his head… returning… blade moving on weight… come back to me to hit… weight and body behind the blade, slashing hard… stabbing deep… that's it… bring the blade down and put your body into the… blade stabbing deep, rising, falling with weight, rising volcanically… steel vanishing into gray, ripping away… animal roaring… Brick struck and flung… hurled through air bellowing, striking wildly at air… Chest!.. Leaping forward blade poised to strike upward now! Opening!

Roaring, Hunter uncoiled like a rattlesnake, the blade flashing before him to AHH!

Darkness.

Roars, orange flashes in the blackness, spotlights in the sky.

Lowering… so cold… to him.

Rising slowly, Bowie knife hard in a clenched fist, Hunter stood, raising his face to the strange silence as it registered that all of them, even Ghost, were motionless and prostrate on the wet ground. Brow hardening, knowing that a half-dozen helicopters were settling in the glade, Hunter gazed about curiously, fist tightening even more on the huge Bowie.

He saw nothing.

The beast was gone, though in the stillness he knew where he would find it. He raised his head wearily; he was covered in blood and it didn't matter. Enough was enough, they had come too far. He even knew who the undisclosed men in the helicopters were, and didn't care. Nothing would stop him now.

This belonged to him, not them; it had changed hands a long time ago, when they had sent him out to die. He had already destroyed the relic, and now he would destroy the living embodiment of this primordial evil.

Hunter could not accept the possibility that his colleagues were dead, and regretted hurling himself into the battle. But he had done it out of love. And that he did not regret.

As the helicopters landed and scores of black-clad soldiers leaped out, guns poised, running across the glade, Hunter knelt beside Ghost. The wolf, sensing his presence, blinked, and Hunter smiled, sitting gently on the ground beside it, stroking the thick, bloodied black fur.

The wounds torn into its muscular body were deep and terrible, but Ghost revealed no pain.

"It's gonna be all right, boy," Hunter said quietly.

Ghost blinked again, silent in his pain.

A team of soldiers, locking and loading automatic weapons, surrounded them.

At the sounds, Ghost tried to rise. But Hunter placed a hand on him, continuing to speak in soothing tones. He talked about everything, about nothing, about what they would do when they went home. And he talked until the awesome, courageous black eyes glazed over, and the huge chest fell still. Hunter waited another moment, his hand soft on the mane, stroking his friend. Then he solemnly bent his head.

A frown twisted his brow as he rose, staring darkly at the weapons, the men. He feared none of them, and never would. Death would be welcome to him now. He almost invited them to shoot. Glancing across the faces, he found no leader.

"Where's Dixon?" he growled.

"Get on the ground!" a soldier bellowed.

It took a single long second for Hunter to turn his head to the voice. His countenance was deadly.

"Make me," he said, low.

The soldier stepped back.

Orders were barked, and Hunter glanced to the side to see Chaney rising, holding a hand to his bruised forehead. And Takakura was stirring, clumsily and painfully. Bobbi Jo lay where she had fallen; she made no movement at all.

Hunter moved for her, and a cacophony of voices and orders thundered in the air; he didn't give a damn. He reached her and rolled her over gently, checking the wounds.

A large blue-red welt on her head revealed where she'd been struck. And a narrow gash — the wound of a single claw — streaked her forehead, the blood already drying. Another clawed blow had split her Kevlar vest at mid-torso. But after carefully removing it, Hunter saw that the claws had only barely touched the skin, though she bled heavily from the cuts.

Despite the shouts behind him, Hunter turned to them in a low voice. "Do you have a medic with you?"

They cared nothing for his words. Nothing for his needs.

Bellowing now with authority, they told him what to do.

He stared at all of them: if dying was this, so be it. He would obey no one and nothing until he had helped his friends. Ignoring the conflicting orders, he looked to the side to see someone obviously in charge striding through the detachment: Dixon.

Hunter squared into him.

Without expression, Dixon came up, hands clasped behind his back with a hundred rifles trained on Hunter. Smiling faintly, Hunter communicated that he knew who had true courage.

Dixon was unfazed. He spoke boldly, frankly, and with a complete lack of concern or compassion for the suffering and sacrifice that Hunter and his colleagues had endured in the last three days. It was an attitude that Hunter had expected, but even he had not anticipated such a perfect, superlative level of pure arrogance and apathy at the death of so many; deaths that could have been prevented. Bowing his head, eyes hidden in shadow, Hunter didn't reply.

"Mr. Hunter!" Dixon kept his distance with the words. "I feel that it's only right to tell you: if you do not discard your knife in the next three seconds, my men will shoot you and everyone with you stone-cold dead! You are not a soldier! I am! Believe me, I say what I mean!"

Hunter looked into his eyes. Laughed.

"Three seconds?"

"Three seconds!"

"You won't give us more?"

Dixon laughed. "You're such a fool, Hunter. I am about to count. Remember. Three seconds."

Hunter nodded vaguely, understanding. "Okay. Count."

"One… two…"

Hunter lifted a hand from behind his back and the Bowie knife at the same time. Dixon's eyes widened as he saw the only bag of HD-66, the source of all they sought, poised at the tip of the blade. The slightest movement, even by accident, would split the bag and spill the precious liquid on the ground, costing them all they had schemed and worked toward for so long.

Instantly Dixon extended his arms, his words soaring over all else as he bellowed, "Hold fire! Hold fire! Hold fire! No one is to fire! Is that clear! No one is to fire! No one is to fire!"

Confused looks were cast at the CIA agent, and Dixon stretched out his arms as angry figures rushed from the complex behind them. Hunter recognized Hamilton. The rest, he didn't know. He stared back at Dixon as they neared, his hands dead-steady despite the adrenaline surge he felt in his system.

Chaney came up beside him, staring at the troops. He shook his head as he muttered, "America's finest."

Hunter heard Takakura rise, gain balance. Then the Japanese bent to help Bobbi Jo to her feet, lifting her gently to sit her on the fender of a truck. She didn't take the Barrett with her, even in her confusion knowing it wasn't necessary. There was a pause, and then her voice cut through the tension.

"I figured it would end in something like this," she muttered.

Hamilton halted, breathing heavily, beside Dixon.

"These…these are the men," he exclaimed, pointing. "They are guilty…they are guilty of sabotage!"

Dixon never removed his eyes from Hunter.

Smiling, Hunter never removed his eyes from Dixon.

"I think the right of decision has passed to Mr. Hunter, Doctor," Dixon said with cold assessment.

Hunter looked into his face and knew that Dixon would murder them instantly if Hunter gave them the serum. Only the threat of its destruction was keeping them at bay. He lifted his chin.

"Get everyone back into the choppers," he said. "Now."

Dixon shuffled and glanced at Hamilton, who now noticed the amber-filled bag in Hunter's rigid hand. The doctor's face blanched and he extended his hand: "You took it! You stole the serum!" He swayed a moment, shaking his head. "Was it from ingenuity, Mr. Hunter?" he added with hate. "Or was it the vengeful motivation to kill this magnificent creature?" The doctor laughed. "Yes, I know. You did not expect to use it in this manner, but neither did you hesitate."

Hunter shifted his eyes from Hamilton to Dixon.

"Tell you what, Dixon," he said softly. "You've got three seconds to lay down your weapons and get out of here. Your men fly. You stay."

Shocked, Dixon blinked. "You can't be serious."

"One…"

"Back in the choppers!" Dixon whirled, cupping his mouth for volume. "Get back in the choppers! All of you get back in the choppers! Move! Move! Move!"

They hesitated.

"Two…"

"Get in the choppers!" Dixon hurled an arm out, motioning violently. He grabbed the nearest soldier and flung him toward the Blackhawks. "All of you get in the choppers now! Do it now-now-now!"

Disciplined, they dropped their rifles and ran across the short space to the choppers. Then, as a helicopter filled with unarmed soldiers, the Blackhawks lifted off one after the other until they stood alone in the glade listening to the vanishing whirring of blades in the invisible night. Angry, Hunter focused fully on Dixon.

"Well, Dixon," he said, "I guess this is what they call 'reality.' "

Dixon smirked; he had had several minutes to collect himself. In turn, he glanced at Takakura, Brick, Bobbi Jo, and Chaney. When he looked back at Hunter, he revealed a rich amusement.

"Not much of your crew is left, Hunter." He almost laughed. "You go in with seven, come back with three and now you are trapped with nowhere to go even if you wanted to escape. My men are not fools, you know. They are waiting for you to attempt escape. And then, quite simply, they will blast you out of the sky."

"That's not your problem, Dixon," Hunter responded, stone-cold, with a hint of malice. "Right now you need to be thinking about how you're gonna get out of this alive."

Dixon glared into Hunter's eyes with scorn.

"You're lost, Hunter." He shook his head. "You're just out of your league, man. How do you think you can compete with us? We know everything. We're locked into everything…"

"What are you locked into, Dixon?"

Dixon started to reply; something real. Then he dropped his hands to his sides as if he never could.

"Just… everything, Hunter."

"So this is what it comes down to, huh?" Hunter shook his head. "Hundreds of people die so a handful of the privileged can live. Doesn't sound like much of a tradeoff, Dixon. Especially for the people you pushed into traffic."

"You and I don't make those calls, Hunter."

"Who does?"

Dixon stared. His expression was honest. "I have no idea."

Having already lowered the serum to his side, Hunter held his Bowie in a loose fist. He would use both when the moment came. And the words of the old Indian returned to him, more meaningful in the last six hours than they had ever been.

He understood, now, where it was going. And he knew he would have pieced it together a long time ago, if they had only been honest. But he had been forced to discover the truth for himself beneath layer upon layer of lies and deceit and betrayals.

Somber, he turned to the forest. The far horizon was touched with a steel-gray dawn that matched his mood.

The beast was wounded, and retreating.

It knew, now, that it would never obtain the serum; whatever remained of its human mind would convince it of that. But the animal would rule as it always ruled. So it would do what an animal always did when it was wounded. It would retreat to where it could heal. It would go to its lair. And that's where Hunter would find it.

Time to finish this…

"You're not listening to me, Hunter," Dixon implored. "The best thing you can do right now is just hand over the serum. Listen, I know you destroyed the relic. So all we have left is that bag because the…the elements…whatever they're called…can't be synthesized. It has to come from the source."

"There's still him," Hunter said stoically.

Dixon paused. "Yeah, there's still that … thing."

"And what if I capture him for you?"

A laugh.

"I don't think I can authorize that, Hunter. Things are too out of control."

"It was authorized before."

"No," Dixon shook his head, "not really. That was just smoke and mirrors. You were there to make it look official.” He sighed, “We never really wanted you to find it. But we never wanted you to kill it, either. We just wanted it to look like we were doing our best. And it worked." Impressed with his own genius, Dixon nodded. "Worked pretty well, actually. Answered a ton of questions and everybody thought we were doing the right thing. We'll never catch any heat. Because we used the best tracker in the world, hired the best hunting team in the world, and you guys did all that anyone could do, so no matter who wants heads roll after this, I’m covered like a blanket." He smiled. "I'm a pro at this, Hunter."

With no hesitation Hunter drew the Bowie and smoothly slashed the serum bag, spilling the precious liquid onto the dirt. As he dropped the bag to the ground, Dr. Hamilton gaped.

Shocked, Hamilton stood in place, mutely extending arms to where Hunter had trashed his life's work.

Dixon, disappointed, shifted slightly in his stance, staring at the ground. It was a moment before he could find the appropriate words, but his tone retained an air of professional calm.

"You know, I figured you were gonna do something like that," he commented.

Hunter controlled the moment, nodded.

"And then there was one."

"Aaahhh…" Hamilton managed, arms extended in mute protest.

Dixon cast the scientist an annoyed glance before focusing again on Hunter, the team. He looked over all of them for a long moment, shaking his head in amazement. "You're really planning on taking this crew out one more time?" he asked. "Have you looked at yourself lately, dude? You're wasted! Your team is wasted! All of you, especially you, look totalled. Yeah, I know you're a tough guy, survival is an art you cultivate, all that. But you ain't gonna last three days out there. All of you belong in the hospital, man, not some jungle. And I've got more happy news for you."

Silence, as Dixon smiled.

Chancy walked up. "No," he said. "You can't be serious." He searched Dixon's face as he stopped, standing beside Hunter. "You can't tell me they're that crazy."

"Oh, yeah, they're that crazy," Dixon confirmed, casually glancing at his watch. "We've got… oh, about twenty-six minutes, I'd say."

Hunter laughed brutally; he didn't have to be told.

A moment of strange silence reigned.

Dixon was impassive, and the rest were too emotionally burned out to feel anything at all. Only in their minds did they dispassionately realize that this entire area was going to be vaporized by an air attack, erasing any traces of the research facility, the records, the dead, the creature, the earth itself.

What would remain here in half an hour would be a blasted piece of planet that would burn for days until only ashes smoldered in the midst of a strangely silent and deserted wilderness. There would be nothing for prosecutors to examine, and nothing hidden. It would be as if it had simply never existed at all. And any investigation, should it happen, would die with nothing but innuendo, suspicions, and questions easily deflected.

"The lab is two stories belowground," Chaney said. "How are they gonna blast something that's forty feet down?"

"Oh, I ain't sure," Dixon responded casually, lighting a cigarette. "I suppose they'll use a fuel-air bomb. It was the only thing strong enough to destroy underground bunkers in Iraq." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter, really. Fuel-air. Sidewinders. Dragons. Whatever. But they'll do the job right, I guarantee you. So in less than half an hour, gentlemen, and lady, this glade will be a solid sheet of glass. No experiment. No facility. No evidence. No monster. No nothing."

The CIA man maintained his casual air. Hunter knew Dixon was certain that he and the others would be airlifted out on the single remaining Blackhawk as quickly as possible. Dixon believed they wouldn't leave him behind to die.

Bobbi Jo walked past them. "I'm going to get the professor," she said to Hunter. "We have to get out of here."

Watching her lope with amazing strength — considering her injuries— across the compound, Hunter judged her strong enough for the task. He turned back to Dixon. "That was your plan all along, wasn't it?" he asked. "You were gonna perfect the serum, trap that thing in the complex, then raze the whole place. Perfect containment. Everyone is dead. You've got what you want. And there's no evidence at all that anything happened." He shook his head. "Almost the perfect plan, Dixon."

"Almost?" The agent smiled. "I'd say it was perfect, Hunter. Except for you." He cocked his head. "I must admit, I never figured you would muck things up the way you did. My fault; I underestimated you. But, well, that's what happens when you make last-minute changes to a perfect scenario. Guys like you get involved. And you think you got it all figured, but this guy, whoever, turns out to be some kind of war hero. Just won't lie down and do as he's told. And then…" He motioned around him, "you have gold-plated FUBAR."

"I die hard," Hunter said.

Dixon acknowledged it with a nod. "Obviously," he replied, spitting out a piece of tobacco. "Too hard, it seems. But I don't think you're gonna survive the firestorm that's gonna be dropped on this area in about twenty minutes."

"You still don't have the serum, Dixon."

At the mention of "serum," Hamilton groaned and closed his eyes. His hands had fallen to his sides and he stood in awful silence, head bowed in misery. Hunter ignored him.

Dixon was angry. "No, Hunter, we don't."

"Well, then" — Hunter stared at him—"I guess it all comes down to you and me. What are you gonna tell your bosses when they see how you messed this up? Think they're gonna be happy that, after this 'perfect scenario' of yours, they're out a billion-dollar facility, have to answer a congressional investigation and still don't get the serum?" He nodded. "I think Siberia is in your future, Dixon."

"Well," the agent answered calmly, "you may be right. I don't think they're gonna be too pleased at this end result."

"So what about it?"

"What about what?"

"What about letting us go after it?"

Dixon's eyes narrowed, calculating. "I must say, destroying the serum was a masterstroke, Hunter. But there are other trackers. And I'm sure we can find someone as skillful as you. Perhaps even more skilled." He spat out another piece of tobacco. "No, you're not irreplaceable, son. And when things calm down, we'll locate and capture the thing." He smiled. "Hope is not lost."

"You're deluding yourself, Dixon, and you know it. There's only one person in the world who stands a chance of finding it, and that's me. But I have to move fast." Hunter used his trump card. "If you cooperate, I'll have it for you in six hours."

Dixon laughed. "You've had a week, Hunter! How are you gonna find it in six hours?" He raised an arm to the forest. "Hell, it could be anywhere! Look around you! Look at yourself!"

Confident and smiling, Hunter stepped closer to the CIA man. "I know where it's going, Dixon," he said quietly. "I know exactly where it's going, so this won't be a track. You give me six hours, and I'll have your serum for you. But you have to give me six hours. Then you can go back and tell your boss that everything went according to plan. They're in the clear. You're in the clear. They have what they want. The evidence is destroyed. And you get kudos and a pat on the back."

Clearly it was tempting. Gazing solidly at Hunter as if to discern a lie, Dixon released a long, slow stream of smoke, rolling the cigarette in his fingers.

"Six hours?" he asked.

"Six hours."

"And then?"

"Then you have what you want," Hunter nodded. "And we go free."

Silence, minutes ticking.

"You're gonna try and do something, Hunter," Dixon said, absolute suspicion in his eyes. There was no doubt, and it disturbed him. "I don't trust you."

Hunter's smile was dim.

"Okay, Dixon, hire another hunting party." He turned and walked away. "Good luck."

"Wait."

Hunter hesitated.

"I want some insurance," Dixon said. "I want the woman to stay with me. Then I'll know you won't break our deal."

"Negative. I'm gonna need her."

"You're planning something, Hunter!" Dixon walked closer, glanced at his watch. "You think I'm not used to this? This is all I do! Of course you're planning something! You don't want that creature alive! You want to kill it! And then you want to destroy it so we'll never have the serum!" He raised his hands, as if in divine supplication. "Hunter, I have got you figured out! I've had you figured out! You're a very self-righteous kinda guy. It aggravates the hell out of me. The only thing I was wrong on was how hard it is to kill you." He blinked, utter frankness in his demeanor. "To tell you the truth, son, 'cause there's no love lost between us, I thought all you guys would be dead by day one. No offense, but that was the plan. But noooooo… you're just like the bloody Energizer bunny! You just keep going and going and going! Except that I'm not as stupid as the good doctor here. And I'm not gonna let you go after that thing unless I've got some pretty good insurance that you'll bring it back."

"Okay," Hunter replied, smiling. "You can come with us."

Stunned silence, and it lasted. But Hunter did give Dixon credit for a quick recovery.

"No way," he said.

Hunter had watched Bobbi Jo approaching, and his eyes focused hard on her as she stopped, head bowed. He didn't need her to say it, and he bowed his head, too.

The professor was dead.

Something in Hunter told him that everything, his whole life, all he would ever be, had come down to this. He had lost the only two creatures he had ever truly loved, and in the same hour. Death didn't seem so bad now. But he wouldn't go out defeated. He turned his head briefly to Chaney.

"Fire it up," he said, and grabbed Dixon by the collar, hauling him across the compound.

"Jesus, Hunter!" Dixon shouted.

For a frantic moment, suddenly reduced to using primitive physical force instead of calculated threats and the power of an invisible empire of espionage and secrets, Dixon was dumbstruck. For all his brave talk and sinister promises, he had been heaved, in the space of three seconds, into a world where civilization and its power could not help him. He was talking fast, hearing himself protest as he was dragged along.

He stumbled but Hunter's strong right arm hauled him to his feet, the tracker never breaking stride as they closed quickly on the chopper. "Come on, Hunter!" Dixon pleaded. "You gotta believe me! They'll shoot us down!"

"Then they'll shoot you down, too," Hunter snarled, using the pain of the professor's death for strength. He violently hurled Dixon into the bay and was instantly on top of him as the rest grabbed seats and Chaney took the controls. Brick glanced at his watch, at Chaney.

"Two minutes, kid," he said.

"We'll make it."

Hamilton was at the bay, scrambling to enter.

With Dixon under control, Hunter turned on the no-longer-dignified physician. He spoke quietly. "Doctor, you might want to get some distance from your facility before they incinerate it. A lot of distance."

Hunter closed the bay in his face.

A muted scream of horror penetrated the steel door above the sound of rotors and twin turbos. "Everybody hang on!" Chaney yelled over the intercom. "I'm gonna have to try a cold takeoff. It might be rough!"

It was.

Without sufficient hydraulic pressure the Blackhawk pitched hard to the left, swinging across the field at an almost vertical angle before Chaney managed to stabilize the rotors, bring the nose up sharply. Then, rising hard, they cleared the edge of the forest and swept into roaring gray light.

Gazing down into Dixon's terrified face, Hunter took a moment to make it more real.

"This is what it comes down to, Dixon," he whispered, leaning close. "Death… is that what you're scared of?" Hunter frowned. "Well, you've sent hundreds of people to their deaths, Dixon, so you should be used to it! And let me tell you, you're gonna know exactly what they knew! You're gonna know what it's like to stare that thing in the eyes!"

Trembling, Dixon raised his hands. "Hunter, listen, man, you've lost it…"

"It's gonna be in your face" Hunter whispered. "And if you live…" He laughed, "… you'll never forget the face of each and every one of the people that you sent up here!"

Dixon, trembling uncontrollably, closed his eyes, hands raised plaintively.

Remorseless and still emotionally traumatized by the professor's death, Hunter threw him back and turned angrily. A mushrooming orange balloon rose silently in the distance, a sphere of pure white fire expanding, rising, fading to red as it topped the trees.

The air filled with the roar.

"Hang on!" Chaney yelled.

The concussion struck them like a physical wave and the Blackhawk was hurled into a turn, whirling crazily as the helicopter shivered, quaking and trembling, spinning wildly.

Chaney s choked cries from the cockpit rose above it all and Hunter, thrown to the panels, saw the marshal struggling madly to regain control of the craft. He attempted to rush forward to help, knowing he couldn't, when a secondary shock wave — a wall of heavy air rushing overhead to fill the vacuum created by the explosion — smashed them from the opposite side and the helicopter pitched again.

With a curse Chaney righted the Blackhawk as the sky behind them brightened brilliantly, flame expanding to rise higher and higher, mushrooming in fire that only at the last darkened the horizon at once, fading slowly to silence with the dimming echo of roars rippling over unseen mountains.

Silence…

And finally — steadiness.

Flying steadily, Chaney was rigid and possessed at the controls, utter exhaustion evident from his profile. He said nothing on the intercom, nor was it needed. They were safe, and it was enough. And the suicidal atmosphere in the cabin was grim with exhaustion, relief, and a slowly gathering rage that each one of them fed in silence, knowing what they had to do.

Dixon, relief expressed in his slow words, spoke. "Where are we going, Hunter?"

Groaning, Hunter reached back and pulled a headset from the wall. He mounted it, adjusted the mike. "Punch in White Mountains Park into the Magellan," he said. "There's a creek there; it's called Fossil River. It runs between the north and south sides of the range. We need to head upriver to find a cave. I'll tell ya more when we're closer." He paused. "Are the others following us?"

Hesitation as Chaney checked the radar.

"Radar says some of 'em have decked for refueling," Chaney said. "But there's a shitload on our tail, just the same. I'm tracking about seven Blackhawks and six A-14's circling. Damn, they musta’ had a cruiser off the coast or something. They ain't doing nuthin', though. Just circling. I guess 'cause they don't know what we're doing, yet." He paused. "Want me to tell 'em something?"

"Yeah. Tell them we have Dixon. Tell them to give a message to whoever’s in charge that we know where it's gone. And tell 'em we're gonna put an end to this." Hunter blinked; so tired now, so deathly tired. "Tell them that if they want this thing brought down quiet, they need to leave us alone 'til it's over."

Staring at Dixon, Brick suddenly rose, grabbing the CIA agent and tossing him roughly to the front of the bay. Then the hulking ex-marshal felt along the back wall, searching.

"For combat missions," he whispered to himself, though Hunter somehow heard, "these things always got a stash."

Chaney's voice came over the headset: "They say they're just doing surveillance! But I gave 'em the message! Everybody knows the score! They ain't gonna do anything!"

Hunter lowered his head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. They had sent him out to die and he had survived, and now they both cursed and feared him. But this was the last of the game. Either he would die or it would die; there was no other way for this to end. Then remorse and affection struck him at once, and he gazed at Bobbi Jo.

She was waiting for it, was already staring at him.

What was spoken — and Hunter knew that she utterly understood, and agreed — was done without words or expression. Then she smiled — a sad smile — and he bowed his head.

Yeah, they'd finish it.

"I got it!" Brick shouted, and the back panel of the bay fell; a wall of steel lowered to reveal an entire arsenal of weapons.

Hunter saw stacked grenades, a flame-thrower, M-203's, rocket-launched grenades and two extra Barretts. The lower half of the compartment was packed with crated ammunition and extra napalm canisters for the flame-thrower.

Smiling or frowning, Brick looked down.

His voice was grim.

"Let's see the son of a bitch survive this," he said.