Hunter

Chapter 9

They survived the night, emerged into light only to see a darkening sky. Clouds low, black, and sliced by lightning. But the temperature was too high for snow. Hunter didn't care about the rain but knew it would adversely affect the professor, whom Bobbi Jo had tended to through the long night.

They began the day early and covered distance cautiously. Professor Tipler held up well until noon, when the terrain grew steeper and he began to need more rest. Without saying a word, Hunter knew it would be one more night before they could make it to safe ground. His mind began to ponder, but he had no ideas. He knew, somehow, that the trick he used last night wouldn't work again.

It would find a way.

They kept walking until finally the professor sat down, exhausted, on a fiat slab. Hunter didn't even have to turn back to know what had happened. He knew everyone's rhythm, gait, shuffle, and Taylor's Frankenstein plodding. He stopped and looked and saw that Tipler was pale, haggard, and sitting with head bent low.

Hunter didn't want to usurp Takakura's authority, so he motioned quietly for the Japanese to join him in a private conference at the front of the line. Together they knelt and Takakura spoke exactly what Hunter was thinking: "Yes, I know. He cannot go much further." There was a decided lack of fear in the statement, and Hunter remembered "Expect nothing."

"I don't think that what we did last night will work again, Takakura,"

Hunter said. "It's getting smarter by the moment. And we're almost out of ammo."

Takakura gazed around, analyzing. "This is as good a place as any to make a stand. We have at least one hundred meters on each side. Perhaps, if we are lucky, we can discourage it with the Barrett."

Hunter released a deep breath. Yeah, it was a good place, but that thing could cover a hundred meters in six seconds. And that was too fast to acquisition for a shot. Still, he didn't have a better idea.

He shook his head.

"It's gonna be a hell of a fight."

Hunter gently gave Tipler a drink of water, noticing the ghostly paleness of the old man's face. His hands trembled slightly and he moved with an odd stiffness. Hunter estimated that some of the rigidity was due to the severe testing of muscles, but it could be more.

"How ya feeling, old man?" he asked.

Tipler laughed, "I am feeling splendid, my boy. I just need a night to rest a bit, and then we shall be on our way."

"You bet." Hunter smiled. "But right now all you need to do is rest. I'll be back in a bit to check on you, and Bobbi Jo is gonna be close. She'll be looking in on you, too." Hunter winked. "You just don't go trying to pick her up. She's too young for ya."

Tipler laughed.

Hunter laughed with him as he rose and exited the tent. Then he examined the perimeter. It was a hundred yards across, and Bobbi Jo crouched dead-center in the middle of it, rifle pointed at the sky. She was wearing night-vision goggles and had her back to the fire. She was also wearing what most referred to as "wolf ears" — devices that amplified sound for humans so they could hear as well as a wolf. Hunter had never needed them.

Takakura, also keeping his back to the flame, held the MP-5 close, and was wandering a tight circle while the rest held established positions. Hunter walked directly to him, and Takakura, acutely aware of any movement, turned slowly to face him.

"It has the advantage, Takakura," he said.

"Yes," Takakura responded. No emotion.

"But I think I know how to keep it from attacking."

Takakura stared an unusually long time. The black eyes narrowed. "And what would that be?"

"A challenge."

Consternation in Takakura's face betrayed his confusion. "I believe we have given it as much of a challenge as possible, Hunter. I do not understand your—"

"It's an animal, Takakura, and I understand animals more than any of you. It's the alpha of this forest. The strongest. The ruler of the forest, if you want to put it like that. We're on his ground now, and he doesn't like it. He wants to show us he's boss."

Takakura replied, "And?"

"And so we show him that he's not. That's a challenge he can't resist."

Silence.

"And how would we go about doing such a thing?"

Hunter lifted his head to the darkening forest that surrounded them. "I give it a challenge. It won't be able to resist. If I go out there, I'll be the alpha. It will hate that. It will hunt me instead of you. Then it won't attack the camp."

"You are speaking of…"

"Yeah. I go out there. Let him chase me instead of me chasing him. Turn things around on him. It'll be surprised at first, but it'll take the bait. I can lead it south."

Takakura said nothing for the longest moment, as if the idea did not deserve a reply. "If you encounter the creature in the dark, it will tear you to pieces."

Hunter bent to retie his moccasins. "That's a big 'if Takakura. 'If bullfrogs had wings they wouldn't bump their butts when they jumped. But I'm taking Ghost with me. And nothing can sneak up on him. Not even this thing. And I can give it a run for its money." Hunter stood. "I can keep it away from the camp until daybreak."

"1 cannot allow this."

"It's your outfit, Takakura. But it's my life. And I'm not under military command. I'm only telling you this… as a friend. Either way, I'm going out and play a little cat-and-mouse. If I'm not back by dawn, head southwest for twenty miles. Follow the Yikima Creek for five miles, then strike across. The research station is another five. If you push hard, you can make it in six hours."

"The professor cannot make such a journey."

"Build a cot for him and carry him." Hunter removed his shoulder pack and checked his thick leather belt, pulling out a small fist-sized piece of steel with a long thin wire attached to it.

"What is this?" the Japanese asked.

Hunter suddenly grew grim. "A last chance." Then his mood changed and he inserted it back into his belt. He strapped the Marlin to his back, cinched it tight, and turned his face to the almost totally darkened tree-line. "Game time," he whispered.

"Ghost!" he said sternly.

Instantly the wolf was at his side, and Hunter was moving for the darkness.

Takakura called after him. "Hunter!"

He turned back.

"This thing we hunt, it also hunts you."

It was a dismal, strangely soundless and chilled afternoon when Chaney strolled casually into the McMillan Deli. It was the habitual watering hole for off-duty, and sometimes on-duty, government agents and was owned by a retired FBI agent named Frank "Brick" McMillan.

"Brick" had earned the nickname twenty-five years ago when, as a deputy marshal, he had been trapped in a house that was fully aflame and all the exits were blocked. Not content to be burned alive, Brick — a former fullback for Texas A&M — just got a good running start from one end of a long hallway and "made" a brand new door in the rear wall of the structure before it collapsed behind him. Somehow, the nickname seemed to stick through the rest of his career.

Chaney sauntered through the crowd with a few handshakes and some smart remarks about how the service was doomed for the graveyard under the new administration. He went back to the kitchen and saw Brick standing over a stainless-steel counter, deftly slicing meatballs and lettuce for a sandwich.

Bricks flattop haircut hadn't changed in thirty years. He claimed he kept it that way because it was "economically and theologically correct." And the wide bull shoulders and expansive gut were still present, as were the tremendous gorilla arms and tree-trunk legs. Brick looked up as Chaney walked forward, smiling broadly. He wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his gut and laughed.

"Hey, boy," he said, extending his hand. "What'd they do, make you work for a living?"

"Naw." Chaney picked up a meatball. "I'm faking it. Like always."

"Like I taught you." He laughed.

Chaney looked at the meatball. "Damn, Brick, this is good. Did you make this?"

"Nope. Edna does all the cooking. I'm just a gofer."

"I'll bet she does. How you like retirement?"

"Best of life, kid. Best of life. Just wait 'til you get your twenty so you can tell them to kiss your heinie and they can't touch you. And they still gotta pay. Revenge is best served cold." His square face split in a becoming smile. "But that ain't why you come to see me, is it? Just to see how an old man's getting along?"

Chaney smiled. He shook his head as he sat on a stool. "I guess I still gotta go some to sneak up on you, huh?"

Brick laughed. "Some." He slid the sandwich on the mantle. "Order up!" Turned to Chaney. "Come on. I gotta check the beer anyway. Those CIA goombahs drink like fish. Must be the burden of all their sins."

Chaney followed to the storeroom and Brick continued, "So what you got?"

"Still keeping your nose to the wind?" Chaney sat on a crate as Brick effortlessly shifted four cases at a time.

"Well, kid, I hear things. 'Bout like usual."

"Heard anything about a few stations up in Alaska? Any kind of trouble up there?"

Brick set the cases down with a thump. Turned slowly. "They give that one to you?"

Chaney nodded.

With a grunt, Brick wiped his hands on the apron. "Well, I don't know too awful much. Heard some cowboys got killed. Bad scene. Made me want to stock up the bunker."

"You get that from the Agency?"

A guffaw. "Oh, hell no, kid. You think I trust those goons? You know better than that. At least I hope I taught you better than that. I wouldn't buy an apple from them and I always keep both hands in my pockets when we talk." His laugh was a hoarse rumble inside a huge barrel chest. "No, got it from a friend of mine uptown. Seems like the army, or the marines, were on it. Don't know who had full authority and command. But the Corps ain't too happy about what happened. Seems they lost a lot of recon guys. Tough hitters, 'bout like you used to be before you retired to work for the bleeding Marshals Service. And nobody is talking much, which means there's a lot to say."

Brick focused fully on Chaney, and the full weight of it disturbed Chaney as much as it did twelve years ago when he was a rookie deputy marshal and Brick was his training officer. "What's that got to do with you, boy?" Military affairs ain't your jurisdiction."

Chaney sighed. "I'm supposed to find out what happened, Brick. So, yeah, it's my problem."

"A CIA screw-up ain't your problem."

Chaney didn't blink. "It is now."

There was uncomfortable tension as Brick gazed about. Chaney noticed that Brick seemed as robust as he was over a decade ago. He was a bull-thrower then, he was a bull-thrower now. Brick lowered his voice slightly as he replied.

"You sure you ain't bein' set up? Made any enemies inside the agency lately?"

"No." Chaney shook his head. "Skull is pissed, but that's just Skull. You get used to him. No, he wouldn't do that. Truth is, Brick, I don't know what's going on. Not really. But if there are some dead marines, then one of those leatherneck senators is going to be going ape."

"So you can't use official lines."

"No. This has got to be done quiet. Just like the ol' Reagan days, when we could actually get things done, shake people up. 'Cause if anyone gets wind that I'm sniffing around, they'll just close ranks and start shredding. I can't have that."

"If you want to stay alive, yeah," Brick grunted. "Okay, drop by the house tonight. I'll see what I can get. And don't go acting like an investigator between now and then. Be a good boy. Keep your head down and your mouth shut, just like I taught you. I'll see you later."

Rising, Chaney said, "I owe you, Brick."

Brick winked. "You always will, boy."

Chaney smiled, walked away.

"This can't be right," Rebecca whispered. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at a printout of the DNA strand. "No, Gina. This is impossible. This points to something we've never seen before."

Gina shook her head. "I know. But that's what we got. The machine doesn't lie."

Neither of them said anything as they stared at the display on the electron microscope.

"If this is not contaminated, Gina, it's incredible." She flipped a dozen pages of numbers, graphs, curves and comparison charts. "My God," she whispered. "Look at the fibronectin and talin in the inhibitors. This thing… it has to… it has to have an incredible resistance to infection. Look at the epinephrine enhancers. Incredible. We've never seen this kind of overabundance of factors." Pause. "Just what in the world is this thing?"

"Well, Rebecca, the DNA go ninety-nine percent Homo sapiens. The rest is as unknown as how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. This particular strand doesn't collate with anything in the bank, but you can see that with all these restrictive enzymes and retroactive proteins this thing has a super powered immune system. I don't know what it is or how it's done, but it's there. I… well, I really don't know how else to classify it."

For a long time, Rebecca stared at a photon level image of the tendril recovered from the plaster. She had a hard time tearing her eyes from it. Then her mouth tightened, almost angrily, and she spoke. "All right. Record everything. Make three copies. You know where to put them. I'm taking one to the lab at Langley. They need to see this or they won't believe it." She waited. "Hell, I don't know if /believe it, and I'm staring right at it."

It started in the thickest darkness Hunter had ever known, but he knew it was more than just the night. With Ghost at his side, he moved in total silence, alert, sensing every empty shadow. They caught the first hint of it in twenty minutes.

It was about six hundred feet north, and Hunter was west. Calmly, Hunter crouched, studying all there was to see in the silver moon. The night gave just enough light to see the ground. Good enough.

"Come on, boy," he whispered.

It was accustomed to prey fleeing its wrath.

Hunter ran straight toward it, toward the north, closing the gap much, much quicker than it would anticipate. Then he saw the right terrain and leaped high, one foot hitting a boulder that launched him higher to a tree limb, where he leaped onto a slope.

Ghost made the tremendous leap without the advantage of the boulder, landing beside him.

Instantly Hunter angled uphill, running as quickly as the steepness allowed, slowing on moccasin-padded feet as he crested and crouched. Below him, he saw a ravine no more than ten feet wide, and then… a tremendous hulking shape of a humanoid creature. It was shuffling, confused, and even at that distance Hunter could read the anger in its face, its stance. It turned this way, that, searching with quick, jerky movements. The scent was strong here, it knew, but the prey…

Hunter smiled, knowing that the very first move he made would snatch its attention. He decided to make it a good one. Backing up a few steps, he rubbed Ghost's head. The wolf knew what he was going to do, was going to do it with him.

Hunter ran toward the gap in the ravine, and leaped, wasting one second to glance down and see the beast whirl as if shot. And he knew what it saw. A man and a great black wolf suspended in the air, soaring across a narrow moon.

Hunter landed lightly on the other side, and Ghost was beside him. Then Hunter was running, running, weaving a complicated path through roots and trees and over boulders, doubling back, avoiding inclines because they slowed him, and then he began laying traps, tricks, immersing himself in a freezing stream and floating downriver until he lifted himself out with a limb and climbed from tree to tree for a hundred yards before dropping to earth.

He stopped in place.

He had landed before a gigantic stone tablet, at least two hundred yards across. It was utterly level, as if ancient glaciers had shaved it. But now it was also littered with boulders, the remnants of earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, flood. Instantly he began a complicated trail, in and out, around good ambush sites, which the beast would approach slowly. He worked for ten minutes, running quickly, crisscrossing a dozen times. He left trails that led into the surrounding forest in a myriad of directions. When he was finished, he was sweating heavily and his legs were numb. But Ghost seemed to have enjoyed it.

Hunter looked at him, smiled. "You idgit-head. All you want to do is fight him, don't you?" He rubbed Ghost's head. "He ain't the alpha, old boy. You are. You always will be."

Afterwards, Hunter floated down a frigid stream, downwind, and finally saw an overhanging limb — too far to reach! In a split second Hunter had grabbed the snare from his belt and held the steel tube, and as the branch came closer he saw a broken limb, short enough for one good throw. As he passed under it the titanium lasso lashed through the air, silver and spiraling. The loop landed solidly on the projection, tightened, and suddenly cold water was splitting around Hunter.

Hands cutting to the cord, Hunter hauled himself back to the branch, and only by the most extreme strength of his forearms was he able to maintain a grip on the titanium as he hauled himself up. His hand lashed up, settled on the limb and he was clear.

He sat on the limb a minute, breathing heavily, freezing, but he knew his clothes would dry quickly. He could endure. He attempted unsuccessfully to undo the lasso from the four-foot-long limb for five minutes, but the lasso had been designed so that, once closed, it would not open. With his heavy Bowie he severed the limb at the trunk and carried it with him. After another ten seconds of hacking he had severed the limb, unwinding the lasso to replace it carefully in his belt. He smiled to himself; the makeshift device was coming in handy. He climbed the tree to another and then down to the ground at least a hundred yards distant.

Then he sat. Waiting.

Ghost, beside him, listening to the night, was uncannily alert. And Hunter was already exhausted, so he ate some pemmican for strength. Then he gave Ghost a large slab of beef jerky.

If the beast eventually unraveled the trail, Hunter would be able to confirm that it could hunt by scent as well as sight. Every discovery he accumulated about it was important because Hunter never knew what he might be able to use for an advantage.

It was five hours later before Hunter heard distant but determined splashing upstream. He rose, running at full speed, knowing that this thing, as inhumanly strong as it truly was, was not inexhaustible. Nothing was inexhaustible. So he would run it to ground. Would run it until the sun rose in a few hours.

And he knew he stood a chance.

Ducking a low limb with the sinuous grace of a panther, he hit the ground lightly and weaved between rocks, boulders. Some he vaulted, landing only to change direction again, and on and on it went with limbs lashing his face and arms in pitch-dark. His legs and lungs burned, but the land rolled past him. Then he broke the woodland and saw open country, and let out a long, steady, strong stride that had carried him in the past for forty, fifty miles at a time. Five, six, seven miles and he kept the fast punishing pace — noticing without appreciating entire valleys passing or the gigantic stands of timber that loomed up and faded hauntingly into the night behind him. Still he continued. He estimated he had gone ten, maybe twelve miles when fatigue began taking a toll, but he pushed himself harder.

Never before, though he had often run all day in order to cross a forest, had he held such a brutal pace for so long. Sweat poured from his face in a slicing cold and darkened his leather shirt, and his long black hair was laid back with sweat and rushing wind. His blue eyes squinted against both the mist that fogged his vision and the night air that burned his lungs. And eventually, when entire worlds of landscapes had been claimed by distance, even Hunter's arms became fatigued from holding the steady rhythm, and his thighs swelled with irresistible numbness. Beside him, Ghost effortlessly kept the pace, even when Hunter began to stumble slightly with fatigue. Now beginning to fear that he would commit the ultimate mistake and twist an ankle or knee, crippling himself and leaving him virtually helpless in the night, Hunter decided that he had gone as far as he could go. Breath burning, eyes misty and tearful, he stopped and dropped to the ground.

No time for rest!

Groaning, he rose, staggering a moment.

To hear a vengeful roar terrifyingly close.

"Now what," he muttered, glancing around.

And saw a ledge.

What he needed.

Hunter saw the slope downward was like angled granite steps and took the first leap boldly, landing on a slab ten feet below and selecting his next angle of descent. Then down again, not worrying about Ghost's ability to negotiate the steep steps. And as Hunter hit the third slab he stopped fully, crouching like a beast, eyes afire, lips drawn in a snarl, listening. He focused, tried to slow his breath, to think.

The forest was everything to him now, his life, his place, his home. Somehow he felt more animal than man, but he had no time for that. He had to use his instincts but he had to use his mind. He couldn't let the animal out of the cage; he had to use it, control it, retain the human center.

He unslung the Marlin and held it in one hand as a frontiersman would hold a musket when he ran down a deer by sheer strength, exhausting the animal until he could get close enough for a shot. It was a sure tactic but required the endurance of a wolf and the accuracy of a true marksman when sweat was stinging your eyes, and your breath was heaving in hot blasts. And Hunter had practiced it at length when he was young, often running for twelve or fifteen hours before he could make the shot.

Ghost landed beside him without a sound, panting.

Hunter knew it had followed but he hadn't made it easy. Nothing could have followed him easily through the obstacle course of trees and rocks, ledges and ravines that he had leaped and descended, then doubled back to frustrate it.

A twig snapped.

Hunter raised his head, blinking sweat. Less than a minute and it would find him.

Already it was too close, searching now by sight. It was maybe two hundred yards away. Glaring around frantically, Hunter searched for an advantage, a place for an ambush, anything.

He had to outthink it, but the terrain was completely wrong for every trick that flashed like lightning through his frantic mind. He heard another crash in the woods about fifty yards from the crest of the ridge, then silence. Twisting his head viciously left and right, he searched for some advantage any advantage because he hadn't thrown it off for more than thirty seconds.

He was on a ledge about four feet wide, six feet deep. Another ledge, about two feet wide, ran to the right, disappearing around the edge of the slope. Beneath them was a river, roaring with white water. Hunter scanned it, estimating…

If a man fell into that, he would be dead instantly. But this thing… it would survive. Unless it was badly injured. Hunter debated it and in seconds made the decision because he was in a defenseless position. He moved along the darkened, mist-wet ledge with the utmost caution. Without hesitation Ghost moved carefully behind him. And thirty feet later, Hunter found what he needed.

A narrow niche, a cave of sorts, opened into the wall about halfway down the curve. It was utterly dark and, three hundred feet beneath, the river roared.

It'd have to do.

Ushering Ghost before him into the niche, Hunter slid inside, turning almost instantly as he heard a thunderous impact on the rock far behind him. Then he cocked the hammer on the 45.70, a massively powerful round once used for killing buffalo. Since the demise of the bison, however, the cartridge had been ignored. But Hunter had always preferred its stoutness for felling bear in stride.

Retreating six feet into the niche, he raised the heavy carbine to his shoulder and waited, aiming at the opening.

Last stand…

His breath, starving and strained, hurt from oxygen loss. And his focus was tunneling, seeing nothing but the target space. He fought it, but the hunt, the chase, the run, and this desperation move had overloaded his system. He tried to eliminate his breathing altogether though, because he knew that its preternatural senses would detect the slight disturbance of air.

Suddenly Ghost tensed behind him and he felt the great wolf move its shoulder an inch forward, as if to get in front of him. Hunter twisted back slightly against it, all he could allow, telling his friend to retreat and be silent. Hunter didn't know if it would be enough, but he knew he couldn't remove his eyes from the—

What dropped dead into the tomblike opening of the niche was beyond horror. It descended from straight above instead of creeping cautiously from the side, and was outlined by a glaring angle of moonlight that captured bristling white hair on huge, hunched shoulders that swelled out from a heavily maned head. Its face was sharp and wedged and monstrously deformed. And it was incredibly muscular in its slouched pose, the thickly corded arms hanging slightly longer than a man's. Then it expanded its chest and unleashed a crashing roar — a vengeful blast of hate.

Talons visible even in moonlight were displayed openly as it unhinged its fangs, glowering and thirsty, and the wholesale murderous gleam in its eyes was shock.

No time for shock…

Hunter fired almost immediately, not a full heartbeat passing between the horror and the detonation, and the report of the rifle was deafening. Then he glimpsed the huge apelike arms raised in pain and an unearthly, bestial roar of pain that contained bestial rage.

Hunter worked the action and fired again and again and again — six massive rounds as he advanced into it, moving it back on the ledge toward the river. It was swaying on the edge when he ran out of ammo. Then, swinging the butt of the weapon hard, Hunter struck it fully in the face as it fought for balance.

It bellowed in fury and lashed out with a wild blow. Hunter ducked and then returned his own before it swiped the rifle from his hands and caught him across the face with a clawed hand, leaving narrow furrows. It was only a glancing blow, but the force behind it was inhumanly powerful and Hunter was hurled against the wall.

Growling, hands raised, it came for him.

Stunned, Hunter tried to rise, couldn't. But he sensed the immense humanoid shape over him, so large and monolithic that it blocked out the moon and the night together, leaving nothing but itself, master of both.

Hunter clearly recognized its pure, dominating strength, but reached for his Bowie as it prepared, snarling.

It came.

Hunter rose, crouching, squaring off.

What happened next — it was a blur to Hunter — was something that moved with a fury and speed beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined, all coming from a roaring, wild black animal center that exploded from the wall.

Ghost struck the creature fang to fang, colliding against a creature of supernatural strength and rage, and the violence made the night retreat. Snarling and roaring, Ghost savaged it for a fantastic, spellbinding moment before the creature bellowed in pain and twisted as if to hurl the wolf from the cliff.

"No!" bellowed Hunter.

It heard the threat and hurled Ghost into the cleft, turning into the challenge. It slashed at him but Hunter struck first with a purity that merged grace and strength in the unleashed movement, and the blade struck true.

Flashing white in the moon in a crescent that hit the creature full in the neck, the ten-inch blade sliced through the armored skin to exit the other side in a flood of smoking blood and the creature staggered back, holding its throat.

Nothing but this…

With his right hand on the hilt, Hunter ducked under the wrathful counterattack — a wild clawed swipe — and slashed backwards to tear a deep slice through its torso, yielding a wild outpouring of blood.

It howled.

Staggering, it grasped roughly at both wounds — mortal for any natural creature — and focused on Hunter with a power and rage beyond anything worldly, staggering forward.

Incredible…

Hunter staggered back.

Moving with a savagery that shocked even Hunter, Ghost exploded from the cleft once more, roaring in the air, and they collided with a vicious exchange of fangs. Stunned, the creature toppled backwards.

It was too much.

Hovering in midair, the creature wind milled on the edge of the ledge for a long, surreal moment, before the true fall began.

"Ghost!" Hunter screamed as he leaped forward and viciously snatched the wolf by its thick black mane, hauling him from the monster's deadly embrace as it was claimed by space and night.

Only at the last minute did a taloned hand lash out to smash against the ledge with titanic strength and titanic rage before its great weight pulled it down and away, leaving claw marks in the stone.

It was gone.

Wind and the last of night enveloped Hunter as he crouched on a boulder, resting on his way back to the ragged campsite. From the stars, he estimated two hours before dawn.

He moved only his eyes as he scanned the broad expanse, patient and disciplined. He felt alive in the purity of it, at home again. But it had been a narrow escape, and even Ghost had not come away unscathed. A series of savage gashes had been torn in the wolf's neck and ribs, slashes that had even torn through the thick fur, though the wolf did not seem to notice. Hunter smiled at the thought; Ghost never noticed anything at all, had never asked a question in his life.

Easing down, Hunter had traveled less than a mile, moving toward a pass that would quickly return him to the camp, when Ghost stopped in place and emitted a single threatening growl. Hunter reacted instantly, swinging the Marlin from his shoulder in a vertical movement.

Immediately Ghost fell silent and Hunter remembered that the big wolf only gave one warning. The next sound Ghost made would be something beyond wild, something that thundered from the center of a blurring black death.

For almost five minutes Hunter held position, conditioned to waiting without sound or movement. Then, in the distance, he saw a black silhouette emerge over a ridge. Ghost lifted his nose slightly to the oncoming wind, tasting a scent as he stood solidly on all fours, head slightly lowered at an intense animal angle.

"Easy, boy," Hunter whispered, noticing the shape was walking slowly and somewhat unsteadily. He squinted through the night, grateful that his vision had improved so much with use, and tried to make out details. He saw almost instantly that it wasn't the creature because it was too small, held too short a stride, and its bulk wasn't right.

Hunter moved to the side without a sound, crouching low, using a boulder to hide his profile against the sky, and then he slid around it and out of sight. He knew that if the man was alert, the width of the boulder would have appeared slightly larger for a split second before Hunter had moved behind it, but he doubted the man had noticed. Hunter gave no concern to Ghost, knowing the wolf would melt beyond the rock with only the faintest flicker of night shadow.

Carefully selecting his ground, Hunter crouched on a slope, still hidden from the stranger's view but bisecting his path. Then, when the man passed beneath him, beyond view but well within Hunter's acute hearing, Hunter stood, staring down.

Instantly the figure whirled, raising a rifle.

Hunter was implacable.

It was an old man. An old Anathasian man.

A hundred years ago, men knew them only by the primitive term "Eskimo," native Indians of the far north. But in the white light of approaching dawn Hunter could identify the style of crude leather clothing, the hair, could almost read every harsh year of survival etched in the gaunt brown face. And he recalled that the Anathasians were once revered as the continent's most accomplished hunters and trackers, even selected their chiefs by their prowess at such things. Those, and war.

It was a warrior race, Hunter knew, and the aspect before him did not belie that suspicion. Slowly, the old man lowered his rifle.

Hunter spoke. "It is too cold to be walking alone in the night, Grandfather, so far from your fire," he said. He knew that, among all North American Indian tribes, "grandfather" was a term of respect.

The old man nodded once. "Yes," he said. Then, "I hunt. Only now I do not hunt so well. Or I would have seen you." He shook his head. "I must be getting very old. I must hunt very badly now."

"Not so bad," Hunter smiled. "Not so old."

Hunter noticed that the gaunt voice, so low against the wind, seemed weary and disturbed. He continued, "Why do you leave the safety of your village to walk alone in the night? And what do you hunt in the night that you cannot hunt in the day?"

The old man hesitated. "I hunt the beast that walks by night," he said simply, unafraid.

There was no need for more. Hunter knew what the old man hunted, alone and helpless, wandering through the hungry cold in the coldest hours before dawn. "Why do you hunt this beast that walks at night?"

The old man bowed his head. "I had a grandson." He waited long, and longer. "I have one no more. He was young. Just learning to hunt. I was there when the beast…"

Hunter bowed his head. Then, bracing, he looked up. "I am sorry, Grandfather. I am sorry for you, and for your family, and for your people. But I will avenge your grandson."

The old man seemed to stagger slightly. He did a kind of quarter turn, to face Hunter fully. "You… hunt…"

"Yes," Hunter said plainly. Up here, he knew, where men were so alone with each other against so much that was not man, there was no need for lies. "Yes. I hunt it."

It was enough. The old man nodded, simple as that. He believed, but Hunter knew he believed for more than the words. A long time in the wild, and a man learned to read the words of other men, perhaps because they heard them so little.

Hunter saw more clearly the old man's withered face as he seemed to somehow step into a fresher shade of moonlight. The countenance was indeed old, but the eyes scintillated with intelligence, keen and quick. "And what is this beast, Grandfather?"

The old man approached the foot of the rock.

Hunter did not move.

"It is not the bear," the old man said. "But it is not man. I do not know…what it is. I only know that it does not belong."

"Why does it not belong?"

"Because…" The old man paused. "I have seen pictures of it. Many years ago, when I was a boy, I saw pictures of it in the caves." He pointed to a faraway ridge with his rifle. "Long ago, when my people lived in the caves, we knew the pictures well. The pictures, they were drawn by those who came before us, the storytellers. There were pictures of this beast that walks in the night… I remember these pictures."

Hunter frowned. "And so what did these pictures say, Grandfather? You said it is not a bear. You said it is not a man. Tell me more of these pictures."

"It is not man… but it was feared by man," he answered slowly, but his voice seemed subdued, taken by the gusting wind. "The pictures, they spoke of war. War among the natural man and the unnatural man, the Iceman. They spoke of slaughter, and much killing. And they spoke of bones at another place, a cursed place. We do not go there. To the other place." He pointed south with the rifle. "It is at the place the white man calls… White Mountains. On the river where it bends, beside the water that comes out of the rock. We call it Cave of Souls. There was much death there."

Hunter knew.

"I heard the old people speak of it once. They said that the Cave of Souls is where the Iceman lived long ago, before it no longer belonged, and the forest took it. They say there are also pictures there. And much death. For it is a haunted place. An evil place. But you can find it by following the water that flows from the rock between the two beasts, I have heard. But I do not know. I have never been there."

Hunter said nothing.

Pausing, the old man continued: "When I was a boy, we would find things in the mountains. Weapons not made by my people. All very old. My grandfather told me it had always been that way. And then he would speak of hidden things… of things buried in the ice. And one day, after we found a bow deep inside the north, he spoke of when he was a young man and they found one of the men of ice. It was very old. Frozen. And when they lifted him from the ice and carried him to the village, his body crumbled like ancient bone. But I remember my father's eyes as he spoke of it, and I know he was very afraid." A pause. "Just as I know that I, too, am very afraid."

Hunter's blinked. "Go home, old man. I will hunt this…Iceman. I will kill him for you… for your grandson."

"This I believe." The old man's eyes squinted against a sudden, slicing gust of wind. Hunter knew that what he said next was a warning. "It has killed many men."

"I know," Hunter answered. "And it will kill many more if it is not itself killed. So go home, old man. It is cold in the night. And when you He beside your fire, pray for me. Pray that I will kill this man from the ice… before it kills us all."

Hunter approached the camp from the heights in the last hour before dawn, moving in silence. He didn't worry about Ghost, knowing the great wolf always moved without sound.

He knew the creature had been severely wounded by the fall and the throat cut more than anything else, and knew that they would be relatively safe until dawn, but he still traveled at a relatively brisk pace. Battered and exhausted, he approached the campsite, Ghost trailing beside him, and all of them whirled, alert to the movement. Hunter was also too tired to care if they accidentally fired.

Takakura was the first to reach him. Hunter didn't see where Bobbi Jo was positioned. The Japanese searched his battered form with surprising concern before he hazarded, "And… so?"

"It's alive." Hunter knelt and picked up a can of MREs, eating a small bite. He made a face and gave it to Ghost, who devoured it in seconds. "I led it west, south, lost it for a while. It caught me. I put it off a bluff. I think we need to get moving. It'll heal up fast."

Takakura's voice had relief. "We will move immediately. But we must proceed slowly. Dr. Tipler is tired. And we would call for an emergency extraction but…"

Not shocked, Hunter approached him, staring the Japanese hard in the face. He didn't need more to know that the radio was no longer functional. After a second he shook his head, trying to rein in the anger. Yeah, his suspicions had been correct.

"You spoke of this," Takakura said in an unnatural tone. "How did you anticipate this?"

Without even responding, Hunter walked past him, moving to a hastily erected tent where he suspected they had laid Tipler. The old man was inside, and his face was white and sweating. Bobbi Jo was at his side, administering an injection. She tilted her head to indicate they should move outside and discuss the situation just as the professor sighted him.

"My boy!" Tipler cried, overjoyed. "I knew it! I knew you would do it!" He tried to give Hunter an awkward one-armed hug. "Ha! Ha! Ain't no man that ever lived who could ever track my boy!"

The outrageous exclamation was so uncharacteristic that Hunter almost laughed. He moved slowly to the cot, bent gently. His voice was calm. "How ya doing, old man?"

Upon seeing Hunter's battered body more closely, Tipler reached out and gripped him. "You are well?"

"Yeah, yeah, you know me. I'm always fine." Hunter smiled. "A few bruises. But you and me have seen worse." A laugh. "Especially you. I've seen you weather everything."

"Oh, this is hogwash, that's all," Tipler laughed gustily. "I had a slight palpitation. Had them for years. I am about as concerned about it as I am about the fact that my second-grade teacher died forty years ago. You get used to things."

Hunter laughed. "All right, you just take it easy. I'm gonna go outside for a minute and then I'll be back. I'll talk to you in a few minutes. 'Cause we gotta get you out of here." Tipler raised a hand but Hunter said, "No objections, old man." A wink. "You did all you could. Time to rest. I'll be right back."

Outside, a crimson dawn cast a golden halo around Bobbi Jo's silhouette, and Hunter stood motionless — a monument of dignity and strength. He waited only a second before she began. "His blood pressure is lower now than a few hours ago. But his pulse is still in the nineties. He can walk if we go slow, if we don't push him, but we have to get him serious medical attention. He could arrest at any time. I gave him something to thin his blood just a little and to boost his energy. But it's not a good idea to try and control this condition with what I have. We have to get to the research station as fast as we can move him."

"We'll put him on a stretcher," Hunter said instantly. "I'll have one made in fifteen minutes." Then he turned to Takakura. "What in the hell happened to the radio?"

"I do not know," the Japanese commander said plainly. "It is disabled somehow." There was a moment of pause before Hunter turned away and then back again, almost in Takakura's fearless face. "When we get back, I'm going after this thing alone, 'cause something is wrong with this mission. I've seen that from the first. So I'm gonna get you back to the research station, but not for you or this team. I'm getting you back for that old man in there."

He walked into the bushes, past the aristocratic Wilkenson, who said only, "I believe he will be all right until night, Mr. Hunter."

But Hunter wasn't in a mood for replying. He went into the woods, drawing his bloodstained Bowie to swipe two seven-foot length poles of poplar sapling. The trunks were about an inch in diameter, and strong because they were still green. With that and the leather twine in his pack he would quickly have a stretcher constructed.

They had broken camp when he finished gently loading the old man, who protested but finally conceded to Hunter's stern reproof. And then they were walking.

Takakura and Wilkenson guarded the rear. Buck and Riley had the first duty of carrying the professor through the difficult terrain, and Taylor was point. Hunter found himself walking beside Bobbi Jo, lost in his thoughts.

Until she spoke.

"Tell me something," she asked with the tone of someone who wanted to lighten the mood. "How did you get involved in something like this?" she looked at him, clearly curious. "They told us in the briefing that they'd found the best tracker in the world. Said you weren't military, but that you could track a squirrel across rock. But how would they know? Have you worked with them before?"

"No, not really with the military," he said finally. "When I was a kid, I found a place out in Montana. High. Cold. Isolated. Thought I might settle there. I didn't have much, but I could live off the land. So I trapped, hunted, survived pretty well. It looked a lot like this." He gestured toward the woods. "Anyway, I had a ham radio, just in case I was hurt or something. And I was listening to it one day when some kid got lost in this wilderness area below me. It was November, a cold front coming. They had tons of people in the woods, but they couldn't find this kid. I knew those mountains — how cold they got. I knew he wouldn't survive the night."

"And so you went down the mountain and started tracking him," Bobbi Jo said, without doubt or surprise. Hunter grimaced, half-shrugged before he continued.

"Yeah. And it was a tough track. Took me all day. The little kid was so tiny he hardly left a print. And he was wearing these flat-soled shoes that didn't have a pattern. I thought I lost him a dozen times." He smiled, shook his head. "Kids. They're something else the way they wander. You have to be careful. It's easy to lose them. And if you lose them, they'll die quick. They don't know how to find shelter. How to keep warm."

"So, did you find him?"

"Yeah. He was half-frozen, but I built a quick shelter and warmed him up and fed him. Then, the next day, I carried him out."

"He's okay now?"

He nodded. "Oh yeah, heard from him a while back. He's doing great. We write each other pretty often."

Silence.

"That was a lot of pressure," she said. "I mean, to find a little kid lost in a wilderness when the tracks were old, everyone had trampled on them." She thought about it a second. "So little left to go on, you have to get into their mind."

"Pretty much."

"And after that?"

A shrug. "Well, after that things just sorta’ happened. Whenever someone was lost, they'd call me. Then people in other places started calling me to hunt down camping parties, to find people." He rolled his neck, loosening. "I guess I've tracked just about everywhere. Mexico. Canada. Up north. Out west. It's always different, but the same. I've found most of them. But there were some I didn't find until it was too late."

"And what's that like?" She waited patiently for an answer. "To fail, I mean."

He took a long time to reply. "It's hard when I find the body, and it's too late. But all I can do is my best." A pause. "The first time I found a kid, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And I was right. Each time is as good as the first."

"I'll bet it is." She smiled. "I wish I could track like that. But that kind of skill is beyond anything you can learn. You have to have a gift. You have to be born to it."

"Maybe," he said. "I don't think about it."

"You just do it."

"I guess," he mumbled, casting a brief glance back to check on the professor. "Something like that."

She paused a long time, smiled. "You're a strange man, Mr. Hunter. You don't seem to like people. Don't even seem to like being around people. But you risk your life to save them. Why is that?"

His face was unreadable.

"Don't know," he said. " 'Cause I like the ones I find, I suppose."

Rebecca leaned over the table, attempting to gain the reluctant attention of the CIA physicist at Langley. Tall, white-haired, and aristocratic in attitude, Dr. Arthur Hamilton did not look up from the DNA printout.

"Doctor!" she stressed. "You're not paying attention! Look at the integrin matrix! They're…they're like…like scaffolding to an aggregate of molecules that form an adhesion that includes actin, talin, vinculum, and o-actitin. It's not like any regenerative properties we've ever witnessed. Not even in invertebrates that are innately immune to carcinogens!"

Dr. Hamilton's voice was soothing. "And your point is, Rebecca?"

She stared.

"My point?" She laid a hand on the DNA printout. "My point, Doctor, is that this reveals that this creature has a unique ability to activate quiescent integrin molecules so that they adhere to proteins — including fibrinogen — which makes a very powerful bridge for platelets. Then all the systems work together for enhanced healing, no matter the site of infection or injury. It's like this creature's entire extracellular matrix is expressly devoted to some kind of uncanny healing ability." Rebecca went to the edge. "Doctor, I would say that this thing, whatever it is, is completely immune to disease."

Dr. Hamilton stared at her and slowly replied, "That would be presumptive, Rebecca."

"Read the leukocyte level!" She leaned forward, feeling heat from the confrontation. "That printout, which is dead accurate, says this thing has trails to sites of infection like nothing we've ever seen. Look at the reperfusion molecules! The oxidant levels! The molecular adhesion to prevent restenosis! We've never seen anything like this. Not ever! And in that, Doctor, I know what I'm talking about. That's not presumptive!"

He frowned deeply as he studied the printout. "I suppose you have copies of this," he murmured.

"You bet I do."

"Please ensure that you preserve them," he added with greater interest, focusing again on the page. "Will you allow me to run my own analysis tonight? I would like to confer with you in the morning after I have time to collate a breakdown of the D-4 through D-10 to determine a mitosis level."

Rebecca stood back. "All right. Tomorrow. But I want this information in Dr. Tipler's hands by morning. He needs to know."

"Of course. I will see to it personally."

She picked up her briefcase and moved for the door. He spoke after her. "Is there anything the Agency can provide for you, Doctor, while you are staying in the city?"

"No." Rebecca turned back. "I can take care of myself."

"Of course."

Dr. Hamilton watched her close the door quietly and waited a moment before picking up the phone.

Brick shut the bank vault and moved with his familiar, unhurried, bull-like stroll, blacksmith arms falling past his sides at slight angles, to a gun crate.

He poured a glass of Jack Daniel's for Chaney, a larger one for himself. Chaney looked bemusedly around the vault as he took a sip, remembering that Brick had gotten it for a song six years ago from a local bank scheduled for demolition. It was the only place in the house where a conversation couldn't be surveilled by electronic listening devices.

"I don't like what I hear, kid." Brick grimaced as he swallowed a large, stinging sip of the whiskey. "Hoo-wee!" He held the glass up before his face, staring hard. "Man, it's been awhile! Must be gettin' old! But better old than dead, I guess." He sniffed, warming to it. "Which is just what you might be, boy, if you poke around."

Silent, Chaney held the rock-hard gaze. Brick usually spoke with a plainness that obtained immediate attention and respect, but rarely with such a dark grimness to the tone.

"Am I being set up?" Chaney asked.

Brick took a smaller sip, shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is that nobody claims to know much. Which means they do! They just don't talk about it! If they were ignorant, they'd be asking me questions instead. Yeah, for sure, people in this biz can't stand thinking that they don't know what's going down."

Brick's light-blue eyes, arched by bushy white brows that bristled in the dim light, went dead-flat on Chaney. "Why don't you go slack on this one?" he asked quietly. "Tell 'em you can't find nothing. Give it back and go on to something else. You're G-4, so you ain't gonna go much higher, anyway. You only got eight to fill. It won't hurt you to take a little heat."

Chaney blinked; it wasn't a bad idea. Marshals did it all the time, but something about this affair intrigued him. "What did you find' out, Brick?" He took a larger sip as he listened.

Brick sat on a crate of AK-47's. Thousands of rounds of NATO 7.62 ammo were stacked against the wall behind him. The rest of the vault was similarly stocked with shotguns, semiautomatics, pistols, gas masks, food, emergency medical kits, smoke markers, portable ham radios, and two crates of antipersonnel grenades. Brick's career as a marine, plus two tours in Vietnam, had made him a seriously connected gun lover.

Freshening his glass, he continued, "What I got is sketchy. But I know that two platoons of marines are listed as lost in a 'training exercise.' "

"In Alaska?"

Brick waved dismissively. "Don't matter two frags where. That's just how it's done. But they were marines, don't forget that. Not shake-and-bakes who can't do an air force push-up with a gun at their head. The dutch is that they were assigned a real special tour to guard some kinda research station and got wiped out."

"A military research station? Those are only located along the Bering Strait, aren't they?"

"No, it wasn't military." Brick shook his head glumly. "This was some kinda spook job, up near the North Ridge. I don't know what they were doing. The CIA hasn't had any research stations inside the Arctic Circle in thirty years. I can't even remember when they closed down the last one. Anyway, the word on all that is pretty low. I didn't push it."

For a while Chaney digested it. "That could make sense," he said finally.

Brick grunted over another sip. "To you, maybe."

"No, it does. Imagine this, Brick. Some CIA research station up where it shouldn't be. Okay, but for what? What was it doing up there? How did they get the funding? What could be so important about Alaska's North Ridge that would justify a budget?"

"Cussed if I know."

Chaney stared. "They found something," he said.

"Found something? Like what?"

"Son, I don't know." Chaney shook his head, looking away. "Something they want to keep secret. But something they have to stay close to. Something they're protecting." He strolled slowly around the room. "Were all these guys killed at the same station?"

"No. I did get that much. Seems that there's several of those things up there." Brick paused. Clearly, he didn't like any of it. "Something bad is in the wind, son. And nothing in the news. But somethin' shoulda’ leaked. So somebody with power has shut down the pipe." He looked around thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna stock up the bunker."

Chaney laughed, let it settle.

"So, several research stations are attacked," he continued. "Which means that these people, whoever they are, didn't know where to look. They only knew that it was somewhere in one of the stations. I can see how that might make sense. They've got something up there, and somebody else wants it."

"There ain't nuthin' that important, kid. Killing two platoons of marines would be considered an overt act of war. Even though we ain't in the Reagan years no more, there's only so much that folks out there in God's country will take. The people would make us hit back, no matter who it was against. And the good ol' boys would be lining up at the recruiting office, just like they did after we kicked butt in the Gulf."

Chaney hadn't considered that; yeah, killing two platoons of marines probably would be considered an overt provocation act of war unless…unless…

"Unless…" he said slowly, "we killed them ourselves."

Brick didn't move.

Releasing a heavy breath, he stared at the wall.

"This is unreal," he said.