Hunter

Chapter 16

Brick came down the stairs in a rush, the AK-47 slung around a bull shoulder, barrel bouncing on his hip. He walked wordlessly into the vault and came out with three hand grenades hung on his belt. He held a large starlight scope — a night-vision device for the rifle.

He glanced at Chaney, who now sat upright on the bed, testing his arms for injury. Chaney eyed him and knew, from the old days, that Brick was ready to deal out some serious hurting.

He asked, "Anything out there?"

"Not that I can see, kid." Brick adjusted the night-vision scope and mounted it carefully on the AK with a small screwdriver. "But I can't see so good in the dark. They could be laid up in the shadows." He took a moment, adjusting carefully. "Good thing I picked up one of these starlight scopes at the last gun-and-knife show. Figured it'd come in handy one day. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."

Chaney lowered his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbed his head. "Thank God for morphine," he mumbled. "Listen, I've got to make a phone call. Where's the horn?"

"Upstairs," Brick grunted. "But I don't think you're in shape for walking."

"I better be." Chaney rose with the words. "I've got to" get in touch with a girl at the Tipler Institute. She's in danger." He picked up the Sig, moved the slide enough to ensure it was chambered, checked the .38 on his left ankle, and slid it back into the concealed holster. Mechanically, he moved the Sig to his left hand.

The semiautomatic pistol didn't have a safety, all it needed was four pounds of pressure on the double-action trigger to fire. He had fifteen rounds to a clip, and two backup magazines. Strange, but before tonight he always figured forty-five 9-mm rounds to be sufficient for any gunfight. Now he knew they weren't.

"Come on, then." Brick held him by an arm, moving to the stairs. If you gotta go, let's get upstairs."

Hunter awoke as a hand touched the doorknob to his room, but he didn't move. Only his eyes, gleaming in the dark, shifted as he watched the darkened portal.

They had all retired to quarters, Bobbi Jo in a room next to his, the professor still in the ICU. Takakura was across the hall and Taylor was also in the wing. Wilkenson was down the corridor, near the exit. And for the longest silent period, nothing happened. Then the door opened, just a crack, and a sliver of light cascaded through the gloom.

Without making a sound, Hunter found the Bowie knife and, even though the move almost made him groan in agony, lowered himself into a crouch beside the bed. He didn't look but knew Ghost was also crouching, poised to attack. He waited and a shadow slowly, almost tentatively, entered and stood motionless.

Bobbi Jo's silhouette stood in the narrow portal.

For the first time. Hunter saw Bobbi Jo the woman, instead of the warrior. Her hair was loose, and she wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Silhouetted against the light, she was more beautiful than any woman Hunter had ever known. She didn't say a word and didn't move, only stared at him.

Hunter laid the Bowie on the table. Then he walked forward, stopping close in front of her. He reached out to touch her cheek softly, and at that movement she reached up, grasping his wrist, leaning her head slightly into his hand, closing her eyes.

He gazed silently at her.

Her eyes opened and stared into his.

"At least we have tonight," she whispered.

Hunter paused, then reached out and lifted her from the floor. He closed the door softly and carried her slowly across the room to the bed.

Dr. Hamilton, tirelessly overseeing every aspect of the isotonic distillation of the serum, studied the technicians who were preparing the first twenty cc's. Drop by drop, the serum fell into a glass vial that slowly began to fill. The processing had progressed slowly, but after three hours there was almost enough for the initial test.

Emma was beside him, holding her ubiquitous clipboard. "After we do the electron scan and cross-check it with the receptor and transmitter genes and insure that there's no reopening or cyclization, we can proceed."

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "You have ensured that the linear itrons are still intact?"

"Yes, sir." She nodded. "It's four hundred and fourteen nucleotides long. The same as before. But we've removed transgressors and progresses to stop the mutated cyclization rate. Now, when the molecule splits off a fourteen-nucleotide share, the split will multiply no faster than human DNA. The RNA is no longer self-replicating and tetrahymena has been molecularly spliced to normal human DNA to neutralize any mutation splicing. So basically there will be no rate of mutation at all. No way for it to overtake the human system. And yet it still contains the RNA itrons and RNA-related proteins that provide the healing and longevity factors." She paused. "I believe we've arrived, Doctor."

"Good." He seemed pleased. "Then it is time for our first laboratory test."

"Doctor, I know what… what is at stake. But we have already had one catastrophe already. Do you truly think that it's wise to risk the same dangerous results without the necessary precautions in place? I mean, shouldn't we isolate the subject somewhere?"

Hamilton smiled, his native charm and confidence awesomely displayed. "Emma, Emma," he answered, "there can never be surety of results. That is why we use test subjects. Now, granted, this is an unusual scenario. And because it is an unusual situation, it requires creative thinking. Surely you don't expect us to quantify results with mammals that have less than ninety-nine percent mutual strands with Homo sapiens, which leaves us with man. Now, should the test be a success, no harm will have been done. And should it fail, then we will know more precisely how to alter the serum to achieve our goal."

"I'm speaking about the danger of another monstrous mutation, Doctor." She seemed firm. "I'm speaking about Luther."

He laughed. "Now, surely you don't expect me to proceed without safeguards. Every contingency has been considered, every measure put in place to ensure the safety of both our team and the facility. These measures have not escaped me. Do not trouble yourself."

Emma glanced back at the lab personnel. "I'm saying this, Doctor, because some of the lab techs are terrified. I'm worried that their work will suffer, that we'll make a mistake in the isolation process. You have to remember, Doctor, they've been working almost nonstop in an attempt to compensate for the data lost at the other facilities. They're tired and frightened and I fear they're going to make mistakes."

"That's the reason that I am personally overseeing every aspect of the distillation process," Dr. Hamilton said, nodding sagely. "By noon tomorrow, we will have the first experimental serum, and the day after that, we will know if our efforts to synthesize this gene have been successful."

Emma didn't move. "And if this serum causes another monstrous transformation? Like the last?"

"As I said" — Hamilton turned back to his work—"those contingencies have been addressed. If there is a transformation even slightly similar to the initial reaction, we will be quite capable of killing it and performing an immediate autopsy to study the electro-molecular phenomenon." He shook his head, as if dealing with a disturbed child. "Emma, trust me. No one else shall be injured, except the initial test subjects. And then, when we have perfected the serum, there will be many who will be greatly aided."

Silent, she stared at him.

"Just imagine it, Emma," he continued. "Imagine what miracles reside within that blood. The complete cure for every disease known to man. All the flivo viruses, utterly incurable until now, will fall one by one. The devastation of HIV shall be no more. None of the great killers, from anthrax to Marburg, will be able to overcome the unconquerable strength of this immunity factor. And, finally, with the endless regeneration of cellular structure, we will live for hundreds, possibly thousands of years. For all practical purposes, Emma, we will be immortal.

"Do you understand what I mean, Emma?" he finished, unmoving.

Emma Strait found herself nodding. "Of course, Doctor. I just… I just thought I'd make you aware of a few things. I didn't mean that we should postpone the tests."

"Of course you didn't," Hamilton replied, more distant. "And now…" He turned back to the microscope. "I must verify that these serum samples have not developed mutations which would allow the extraordinary transmission of qualities that destroyed our expendable Luther — these base animal faculties that transformed him into a creature which… we may yet be able to use."

Chaney received no answer at the Tipler Institute, and set the phone down. This was bad. But who could he call? The police? Hardly. His own people? Even more dangerous.

No, he had to avoid all government or official lines of communication. No matter how he handled it, he had to do it alone. He put on his coat, groaning. The stitches were in tight; Brick had done a good job. But the morphine was wearing off and he was feeling a multitude of sore muscles and contusions that he had been mercifully spared until now. Brick saw him moving, spoke from his position beside a window.

"Where in the hell do you think you're going?" he rumbled.

"I have to reach this girl," Chaney replied, trying to conceal the pain. "If she's not dead already, she will be. These people are thorough."

"You ain't in shape for it."

"Doesn't matter. I gotta go."

Brick bowed his head for a moment. His chest expanded as he took a deep breath and lifted the AK from the wall. "I don't like this at all," he said. "First, you get waylaid. Now you're going out in the middle of the night to find some woman who's on a hit list. You're busted up. I'm old and slow and out of shape. We don't know who these goons are, how many of 'em are out there, or what they're willing to do."

"They're willing to kill us." Chaney put the Sig in his hip holster. "That's all we need to know."

"Wait a second." Brick disappeared down the stairs. In five minutes he emerged in different clothes. Now he was wearing brown pants and a heavy shirt, and Chaney could tell he had put on a ballistic vest underneath. He also wore a thigh-length coat, and when the flap opened Chaney saw two Uzi submachine guns on dual shoulder holsters. The remarkably compact weapons hung on carefully designed hooks that allowed Brick a fast release.

"Now we're ready, boys!" Brick shouted. "Let me get us a car."

Chaney figured the retired marshal was carrying enough firepower for two or even three gunfights because Brick had only one rule: "It's better to have 'em and not need 'em than to need 'em and not have 'em. Just remember: ammo is cheap, your life ain't."

Brick fired up a Lincoln that was still mostly intact, and they drove across town. Morning was only hours away. Chaney watched the passenger side mirror for a tag but didn't see anything. Brick noticed his casual glances and commented, "Ain't nobody on us yet. But you've talked with the girl before, right? The brainy one?"

"Twice." Chaney winced as Brick took a corner.

"Once is enough," the retired marshal rumbled. "They could anticipate you doing this. Might lay up for ya. And you know that if it burns down, all you got is that Sig and the .38. Not much for a setup like this." He debated. "When we get there, we'll get a couple of CAR-15's from the trunk. I put 'em in there before we left."

"Doesn't matter," Chaney replied, glancing left, right, searching. He was painfully fatigued. "We'll go in heavy, but we're going in. Because that girl is next; I guarantee it."

"Probably. They've already killed just about everybody else. Might as well do her, too. Sanitize the whole thing. And if they're pros, they ain't gonna leave no smokin' gun. They'll be in, out, gone, and laughing in a bar when the locals call her folks."

Chaney said nothing, but he knew there were some things you just didn't do unless you wanted to provoke a little righteous retribution. And deep down, Chaney wasn't sure if he could stay on the right side of the law if they killed Gina. Whatever was going on, she was clearly innocent.

As the Tipler Institute came in sight, Chaney studied it, brightly illuminated in the harsh white glow of security lights. Even at this late hour there were still cars in the parking lot.

"You see anything?" Chaney asked quietly.

Brick studied the grounds; the building itself covered at least four acres and rested on a large, conservatively landscaped lot. There was ample parking space; no one was visible.

Reaching down, Brick removed a pair of binoculars from beneath the seat. He stared over the grounds, moving the lenses slowly, pausing, moving on. "You got two security guards up front. Uniforms. Looks legit." Another pause. "The place is tight. Ain't sure how we'll get in."

"We'll just flash our creds," Chaney said, removing the Sig to again ensure that a round was chambered. "If that doesn't get us in, we'll call Gina up front. She'll take care of it."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Best I can come up with."

"Just walk right in, huh?"

"Yep."

Considering it, Brick shook his head. "Something don't seem right, kid. How come they got two security guards up front? 'Cause that ain't normal. Usually one guy does the desk, one patrols. Then they shift out. That's the way it's done."

Chaney thought about it, knew Brick was right. That's how it was usually done. And the Tipler Institute, despite their delicate research materials and equipment, wouldn't normally violate such a fundamental and simple rule of security.

"You're right," he muttered, suspicion low but rising. "That's how it's done." He wondered if the morphine had dulled his edge to make good field judgments. "What do you figure?"

"Well," Brick said, hunkered over the steering wheel, "I figure if there's two, there's probably four. Or six. We won't see 'em, but they'll be close. If they're waiting to open up on us, they'll be coming out of the woodwork. This could get…mean."

Chaney frowned. He expected to be upset that he might be walking into an ambush. And, strangely, he didn't care. He figured that he'd already been through so much that another gunfight wasn't enough to arouse his emotions.

He put the Sig back in the belt holster, but didn't snap the hammer guard. It wasn't much of an advantage, but it would allow a speedier draw by a split second. "Let's do it."

Brick cocked his head as he put the Lincoln in gear. "You're the boss."

In five minutes they were walking very, very slowly across the parking lot. Chaney kept his hand casually on his concealed pistol, scanning everything without appearing to. Then they reached the door and Brick put his back to it, staring over the lot. His burly arms were crossed over his barrel chest, and to anyone else he would have appeared perfectly harmless. Only Chaney knew that each of those huge hands were settled tight on Uzis.

The door opened cautiously.

"Yes, sir?" asked the guard.

Chaney didn't ask permission as he shoved the glass door open and motioned the man aside with his credentials. "I'm Chaney, United States Marshals Service!" He pointed at the man with authority. "I want you beside that desk. Now."

"But—"

"Now!"

Complying instantly, the man joined the second guard — mid-thirties with reddish hair. Chaney saw that they both carried Smith and Wesson Model 19 revolvers. The Model 19 was probably one of the finest out-of-the-box weapons available, and was chambered for either .357-Magnum or .38-caliber rounds. A dangerous weapon.

Chaney didn't trust either of them.

"Both of you, take out your guns real slow, lay them on the table. Then take three steps back and don't do anything stupid. We may have a crime in progress and you'll get them back as soon as I verify that the situation is not an emergency."

Brick had taken a position where he could simultaneously watch connecting hallways and the lobby. He had removed the Uzis and held one in each hand as he looked continuously around the perimeter, scanning. Chaney heard the sharp crack of the safeties as Brick flicked them off, preparing to fire at the faintest warning.

In the brightly illuminated entrance, Brick seemed distinctly out of place: a burly prizefighter type holding submachine guns while surrounded by prestigious peace awards which lauded the Institute's global attempts to save endangered species.

"I don't see nothing, kid," Brick said, still searching.

Chaney emptied the revolvers and tossed them onto a couch. "Get Gina Gilbert on the line right now," he said, motioning to the phone with his Sig. He followed with, "Before I lose my patience!"

Instantly the first guard was ringing the laboratory. Chaney had the guard wait a long time, but there was no reply. Brick cast him an ominous glance and Chaney shouted, "Page her, boy! Just get her up here right now! I don't care how you do it!"

The guard, galvanized by the imperious tone, tried a host of lines paging one area of the installation after another. After five minutes Chaney knew they'd have to make the long walk back to the laboratory. He reached over and grabbed the first guard by the shirt. "Come on," he whispered. "We're walking."

"B-B-But…" He pointed to the desk. "I have to watch the—"

"All you have to do is what I tell you." Chaney cut him off, feeling remarkably stronger as the tension spiraled. "We're going to the laboratory and see if we can—"

It was a sudden movement — an out-of-place quickness — that made Chaney hurl the man to the side. As he did, he saw a shotgun coming up in the hand of the red-haired guard, but he knew it was too late. The barrel of the weapon had already cleared the desk.

Brick opened up with both Uzis, tearing through the guard and devastating the wall behind him, the desk, pictures, and computer equipment. Chaney knew what would happen next and didn't hesitate.

Holding the Sig in his right hand he reached across, thrust the barrel under his left arm, and fired as his former prisoner lunged. The round hit dead center, and to make sure Chaney fired three more rounds before shouldering the corpse aside, knowing there would be more.

Almost instantly he glimpsed the door behind Brick open a crack. He spun and fired the bullet, missing the retired marshal by inches. Brick, knowing the point of impact and understanding, also whirled, firing hard and long into the panel, which shut slowly.

For a moment they were shooting and then Chaney dove and rolled over the desk, fiercely exchanging a clip as Brick slammed into a wall, eyes blazing, searching. He dropped the long clip in one of the Uzis, slammed in another. His face was red and sweaty, and his eyes flashed as he scanned the room. For a long time they heard nothing and then there was the faintest rustling sound from a connecting hallway.

Chaney turned his head toward it, knew Brick would watch the rest of the room. It had been five years since they were in the field together, but it was like yesterday. Without words, each knew what to do. Chaney raised a hard aim on the corner, waited, and tried to slow his racing heart. He knew what separated him from his prey — plaster, two-by-fours, more plaster. Not enough to stop a supersonic 9-mm hardball round.

He fired ten rounds through the wall, moving in a quick pattern, then moved his sight alignment again to the corner, ready for an attack. Then there was a stagger, a groan, and the clattering of an M-16 hitting the floor. He saw a form fall, a blood splash erupting across white tiles.

Brick looked up. "You getting help off the psychic hotline? Good shot!"

Chaney grinned mirthlessly as he mentally counted his rounds — six left in the clip, a full clip with fifteen, and two left in the emergency reload. He decided to stay with the six rounds, moved from behind the desk with Brick moving back-to-back, staying tight.

"Just like the old days, Brick," he said. "Same routine."

"Two by two on doors without any crossovers and don't get fancy on me," Brick rumbled, holding the Uzis at chest level. His dark eyes, quick and wide open, read everything.

Chaney had the impression that the old man hadn't lost that much after all. And in ten minutes they were near the door of the silent laboratory. Chaney swung the Sig left to right as they entered quickly, in more than a hot-enough mood to kill another one. But there was nothing; the laboratory was deserted.

"Don't relax," Brick rasped, scanning the mezzanine that ran the length of the facility. "Just keep looking like you know they're here. Which they are."

Chaney crouched beside a computer base. He was out of breath and tried to calm down. "The guys…" He swallowed, took another breath. "The guys up at the front, they weren't wearing mikes that I could see."

"They weren't," Brick confirmed, turning to look behind them. "Don't mean they ain't got friends."

"So… how do you want to do this?"

"This is where she's supposed to be?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"All right," Brick began, "we'll do it by the numbers. Room by room. Stick to the routine."

"Real methodical."

"Slow and careful."

Chaney sniffed and thumbed back the hammer of the Sig. "Okay, I know this place so follow my lead," he said as he rose and walked slowly forward, watching everything. Brick was close and turning, looking behind, above, reflexes sharp and poised. And in five minutes they forced open the door of the lead-shielded electron microscope room to find…nothing.

Chaney's sweat-streaked face twisted in frustration.

"They had to have gotten to her before we did," he whispered. "They already did her. Carried her off."

Brick, bent like he'd heard something, was silent. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

Chaney paused, listening.

"No," he replied softly. "What was it?"

Shaking his head, Brick continued to stare. Then he moved slowly for the door, one Uzi at shoulder level, the other low. He did a slow scan, inch by inch, of the room. "I don't know," he said. "Sounded like… something hitting something."

Chaney walked into the room, moving ahead of the bigger man. Caution was good, but he was losing patience and quickly nearing the point where he was going to start kicking in doors to find some answers.

The pain and the violence and the medication had given him an edge of indifferent recklessness. If they wanted to leap out right now and begin firing, it was fine with him. He would give as good as he got.

Chaney jerked his head

"There." Brick raised the aim of the Uzi and together they were moving toward a wall of yellowish white refrigerator doors. There were about twenty separate doors that fit neatly into the wall, the panels flush with the plaster. Chaney stood a long time, and this time he heard it.

Together they targeted on the door and Chaney moved behind it, Brick taking aim with both Uzis. Then — on a practiced count of three— Chaney ripped it open and Brick tensed dramatically. The Uzis dropped to his waist as he leaped forward.

Even as Chaney turned the door, Brick was hauling Gina Gilbert from the refrigerator and ripping off the plastic bag wrapped around her head. Her hands were tied to her feet. Chaney didn't even check her condition as he ripped out a knife and slashed the ropes.

Her face was white and tinged with blue. Then she made a choking, guttural, frightened moan, half raising a hand like someone returning from the dead. She rolled over, inhaling deeply, wrapping arms about her chest.

Brick grunted, "Get her a blanket!"

They managed to warm her quickly — Chaney knew it wasn't the best medical treatment, but they were in a tactical situation — and she slowly regained the power of speech. She weakly acknowledged Chaney and Brick, and asked, stuttering, "They… they t-t-tried t-to kill me. The men…"

"It's all right." Chaney nodded.

She seemed to notice the heavy smell of gunpowder permeating both of them. Confusion was in her face.

"We had it out with them in the lobby," Chaney said evenly. He shook his head. "You don't have to worry about them."

Revealing no remorse at their deaths — understandable — she said, "We'd better get out of here."

"Wait a second," Brick asked, a hand on her shoulder. "How many did you see?"

"F-five."

Chaney raised his eyes at Brick.

"That leaves one," the big man said.

"We gotta get her out of here, Brick," Chaney said as he dropped the six-round clip and loaded a full fifteen-round mag. The big man nodded with a frown.

"Can you walk, Gina?" Chaney asked as he lifted her, but she fell limp.

He picked her up in his arms, holding the Sig in his left hand. He looked at Brick cautiously. "You know that you're gonna have to spot him and take him, don't you?" he said.

With a quick nod Brick turned and went to the door. He stepped out, came back. "Okay, it's clear to the hall. We'll do it in sections."

Section by section they carried her through the building, moving for the exit nearest the car. Chaney had thought of taking the closest exit but that would have meant going around the building, exposed and without cover or concealment. Better to take a chance in the hallways and office rooms where they could quickly find cover.

They reached the main lobby, second-guessing that the last hitter wouldn't expect them to leave through the scene of their earlier firefight. Chaney glanced over the long lobby, mostly open floor, and blew out a hard breath; there was no way to do this safely.

With a coordinated glance at Brick, they opened the door and began the only act left to them: they started walking slowly across the open space. Every two steps they turned, moving in circles; slow, cautious, open-eyed movements. Chaney had the Sig leveled at the waist, holding the girl. Brick had two fresh sixty-round clips in the Uzis.

Cautious, slow…

Gina screamed.

Chaney didn't even think. He spun in the direction she was looking at. Everything in a micro-second coordinated in his mind, his body moving three to four moves ahead: Throw her out as you spin and get the Sig from under her legs, take one step to the left, protect her with your body and fire fast to rattle him. Then acquisition and open up with everything you've got—

Everything erupted.

Chaney fired while Gina was still in the air.

Brick had already opened up, tearing up a counter on the far wall. Chaney hadn't heard a shot from the hitter but he had felt the whip of a bullet passing by his ear. Something in Chaney s mind told him silencer. When Brick roared and went back something changed in Chaney's mind.

He stopped shooting, took an extra second to take dead aim.

No time for Brick…

A silenced shot cut his right arm.

Not enough.

Chaney had sighted solid and steady on the counter. Breath stopped, no wavering, excitement forgotten, becoming cold as death to wait for the shooter to come out and try again…

He did.

Chaney pulled the trigger ten times, the first hitting the counter, the next nine hitting the assassin. Chaney continued until he felt the man wasn't just dead, but good and dead.

The corpse slid to the floor.

Chaney didn't change clips; he still had four rounds left.

Reflexively he turned to Brick, who was already up on an ox-like arm, tearing at his vest. His face was flushed, angry and sweating. He pulled violently until he could slide a hand beneath, feeling for a wound. When he found only a bruise, he turned to look at the far wall and then at Chaney.

Chancy nodded.

With a tired nod back, Brick rose. "Let's get the hell out of here," he muttered angrily, moving for the door. "We ain't got much time."

Together they entered the Lincoln and were clearing the lot as they saw distant code equipment approaching down the only road leading to the Institute.

Brick, cold as ice at the wheel, killed the headlights.

Chaney had a moment of panic as the codes drew closer. Brick increased the speed of the twenty-year-old tank up the mountain until there was only a single curve left between them.

A dirt road that Chaney had never noticed presented itself.

Brick took it quickly and slowed just as quickly. He eased down thirty feet, stopped with the parking brake to avoid setting off the brake lights. It was a trick Brick had taught him a long time ago, which Chaney had forgotten.

In twenty seconds the patrol units sped on behind them, burning into the Institute to shut off all exits.

Brick backed slowly onto the road, Chaney holding Gina quietly in the backseat, and in another half hour they were at Mercy General Hospital.

Exiting the car at the Emergency Room entrance with his credential boldly displayed, Chaney helped the attendants load Gina onto a gurney. She grasped his hand as they swirled around her, and Chaney shoved back an overzealous orderly who attempted to raise the handrail.

"Gina, you can hear me, right?" he said loudly.

She nodded.

"You have to contact the United States Marshals Office in Washington!" Chaney shouted. "Tell them you want to talk to Marshal Hank Vincent! You got that, Gina? Hank Vincent! Tell him everything you know and tell him to alert the marshals in Alaska! Tell him I might need them and soon! Tell him to stay alert on the beacon! Just tell him that! Stay alert on the beacon! The beacon!"

Gina took a second, gripped his hand harder.

"I'll tell him," she whispered. "Be careful."

Standing back, Chaney was fierce as they gathered around her. Surprised medical personnel stared as if they expected him to escort. Chaney threw out an arm, pointing. "That is a federal witness! Notify Washington PD and the marshal division! Tell them Marshal Chaney delivered her!"

Stunned looks as they backed away from his fierceness.

With that, Chaney was back in the car and Brick was speeding down the ramp to hit the road with a hard right and then another four turns as they headed back for the house.

Stronger with each moment, he leaped from the ledge and hit the ground running, moving swiftly through the night with a surety of direction that he could not explain. Nor did he try. To know — by some dark and un-nameable instinct beyond anything he could explain — was enough as he devoured long miles on seemingly endless endurance.

He had killed again, snapping the neck of a bull elk before he feasted heavily on the deep red meat. Then he had continued, feeling his almost inexhaustible reservoirs of energy pooling, gathering, and swirling as he drew upon them. Even as his lungs burned with each breath, he felt stronger, a power building layer by layer, fed by the nutrients he had consumed.

Occasionally he would chance in the utter dark upon a plant that reached out to him on the wind, and he would crouch, ripping the root from the soil to devour it, soil and all. And in this way he continued to enhance his fantastic abilities — healing, speed, strength, his very perception of reality His eyes dilated until he could see almost as in the day, and still his metamorphosis continued until he was again a humanoid shape moving with the speed of a wolf, fangs hot against a cold night, black eyes blazing and clawed hands tearing bark from trees as he continued to run, always running.

He must find the man that had injured him; that was all he knew. He would find the man and the wolf, no matter where they had fled, and he would eat their hearts, their brains, just as he had done to those who had come before him. Then he would be reunited with his brothers, for they were waiting. And together, with the night and the forest and their strength, they would consume puny man.

Etched horrifically against a haggard moon, taloned hands outstretched to grasp a rising night wind, he howled in glory as he descended through darkness.

Bobbi Jo's face was soft against his chest, and Hunter found himself gently stroking her blond hair, a soft mass in his fingers that he lazily caressed, over and over. She had said nothing, but he knew she was thinking — and probably sadly.

Their moment had been passionate, but slow, and when it had ended she had settled over him, tired and exhausted. He, too, had been exhausted and had lain on his back, eyes closed as he cradled her in an arm. After a while she had spoken and he listened patiently as she talked of her life, her training, her fear, and how she had never known terror as she had known it in these past days.

For a long time he had said nothing, but listened and continued to touch her. Then she had asked, "You're afraid of it, too, aren't you?" Pause. "You're scared…like me."

He smiled as he touched her face, a caress.

"Yes," he said.

"But you're still going out there."

Silence.

"Yes."

She said nothing and they rested in a comfortable silence until she spoke again, this time touching the scars on his chest — scars gained in hard adventures of survival that he could scarcely recall. She traced a long, ragged scar that joined his heavy arm to his massive chest.

"You don't care about pain, do you?" she asked.

He laughed lightly, hugged her neck. His voice was gentle. "Sure I do. I'm just like you. I hurt the same. I feel the same. If you cut me, I bleed."

"But you don't care. You've survived too much." She paused. "Your luck, your skill, even your strength won't be enough one day, Nathaniel."

Hunter was deeply touched. She had called him Nathaniel.

"You're not un-killable," she said, with a distinct sadness. "And that's what will kill you." A pause. "It's out there… waiting for you. And you know it… And if you go out there and you'll fight it, you will be fighting a beast no human being was ever meant to fight."

Hunter was silent; her words were a murmur.

"Why do you have to do it?"

"We've talked about it, darlin'." He kissed her face. "And, now, you need to get some sleep… sleep."

"I can't sleep."

He smiled gently. "Sleep, darlin'. You've earned it."

Her eyes closed.

Silence joined them.

"It's afraid of you, too," she added softly. "That's why it has to kill you. Because it's afraid of you."

Hunter slowly caressed her cheek. "Sleep…"

She pressed herself more firmly, snugly, into his chest and arm and her eyes closed. Her breathing deepened and her face relaxed as she began to surrender.

"Kill it, Hunter," she whispered faintly, "before it kills us all."

It was a long while before Bobbi Jo rolled softly over, curling away from him with the covers tightly around her neck. He rose from bed, staring back to ensure that she was in the grateful sleep of exhaustion. Something in his heart made him content and peaceful that she could sleep so blissfully in his bed. Then he dressed slowly, in silence.

He glanced back at her as he neared the door, mentally assuring himself that he had brought everything required for this dangerous, but necessary, task. At the last minute, as he touched the door, Ghost rose from the floor. Hunter motioned sternly for silence, and pointed at Bobbi Jo. Staring a moment, the wolf padded over and lay obediently beside her side of the bed, acutely alert. Hunter knew the wolf would guard Bobbi Jo until his return. The best bodyguard in the world.

In utter silence he opened and closed the door, ensuring that it had not disturbed her, and stood quietly in the corridor, listening. But nothing was moving close; he could determine that much beyond what he could even see or hear.

He knew the complex would be alive with guards, all of whom he'd have to stealthily evade. And then he'd have to take the most daring risk of all — searching the room of the person he trusted least.

Hunter stared into the hallway, remembering every turn and hallway and corner and alcove. He moved with a plan, but a plan he could change at any moment. Animal cunning awakened, and he let it gain control.

Silence…

With a wolf's strides, he loped down the corridor.

"They must pay," Brick growled as he drove the Lincoln through the predawn light. Already, faintly above the river, the sky was a light yellow, the sun rising into a gathering cool breeze that smelled faintly like rain.

They had made an anonymous call to local police to ensure that they responded to the Institute. It wouldn't take much for them, looking inside, to see the devastation and decide on a forced entry.

It would be quite a scene, for certain, with confused uniform officers and then a full-blown building search with canine units and SWAT. All the bodies would be located and identified as well as possible, and then everyone would be looking for Chaney because his prints were all over the spent cartridge cases. It wouldn't take long for the FBI to close that noose. But by then Chaney would be well on his way to bringing this entire thing to an ending. So whatever interference was thrown up from inside the NSA or even from the Hill would be too damn little and too damn late.

Chaney was in a bad mood, and he let it ferment inside him, building in rage. He would need it when he landed in Alaska at the last research station. He would put the good Dr. Hamilton on ice until he cracked and told him what he wanted to know.

Might be complicated, legally, to get away with, but Chaney knew he was already so far out in the badlands that he couldn't really endanger himself too much more. He just hoped Skull would cover him long enough for the stunt, but there was no guarantee on that, either. He was in the black hills now, but that was all right with him.

"Brick, I'm going to Alaska."

"I'm going with ya."

Shaking his head, Chaney glanced out the side window, searching by reflex for a tag. "Brick, this ain't your fight. We already got dead bodies stretched halfway around the world. You did your time, man. You don't need to go out on the line again."

Brick turned solid. "Let me tell you something, boy. I was a marshal when you was still in junior high school. And you're all by your lonesome, just in case you ain't noticed. You think I'd let you go up against these goombahs without another gun?" He barked a laugh, utterly without humor. "The day I'd let you do that is the day I'd strap a grenade to my head and pull the pin." He shook his head again. "No, sir. We're in it now. Both of us. Up to our necks. You think I spent all those years keeping your butt alive to see you get it wasted by some godless heathens that tried to kill a little girl like that? Yes, sir. We're gonna take it to 'em."

Chaney stared, shaking his head. "Like how, exactly?"

"Well, first, we ain't taking no commercial flights. I got a buddy of mine that can get us on a military flight — no names, we'll just tell 'em we're gofers on another hop — and then we can scramble a chopper around Anchorage. You figured on a chopper, right?"

Smiling, Chaney said, "Yeah, I did."

"Yeah, I know you did," the big man replied. "I heard what you told Gina. Stay on the beacon. Yeah, I ain't forgot." He hung a hard right. "You still know how to dog one of them things?"

"Been awhile," Chaney continued to check for anyone following, but Brick was doing a good job. "They're not using Hueys anymore. Now it's Blackhawks." He thought about it. "I think I can handle it. A chopper is a chopper."

"Good enough, then. So we get back to the house, load up what we can carry, get our gear stowed, and we're airborne by midday. It's a ten-hour flight, so we land, regroup, arm the chopper and we pay this Dr. Frankenstein a visit. I've got my old creds, and you've got the documentation for running an investigation on a federal reservation. We'll get this done before somebody tries to shut us down." He hesitated. "I tell you one thing, though; we'll have to work fast. We won't have more than a day. Maybe two if we're lucky."

"Yeah," Chaney nodded, more tired now by the moment. He could use a few hours of sleep on a flight. "I figured that much."

"But don't you worry, kid." Brick finally turned onto his street. "I'm gonna break out something special from the vault. Yes, sir. I got the cure for what ails 'em."

Hunter was back long before dawn, and awake again, leaving Bobbi Jo sleeping contentedly. Dressing in his freshly cleaned clothes, a black combat shirt procured from the military, he entered the hallway to get some food. He had gotten a good feel for the installation last night.

Where the others had been crudely designed with cement walls and an almost depression-era air of construction, this one had stainless-steel walls, well-lit corridors and an almost antiseptic atmosphere. It was luxurious compared to the substandard building requirements of the others. Its layout, as far as he had learned, was a series of circles with intersecting lines drawn to the center of something he had not seen. But in essence it resembled a large spider web.

He assumed the center of the facility was some sort of laboratory, but he had somehow caught the scent of fresh earth somewhere, and suspected that the heart of the station was underground. Possibly several layers beneath the surface. Every door was a metal he had never seen, but seemed impregnable. The hinges were concealed and protected by stainless-steel walls.

The Ranger contingent was at least seventy men, possibly a hundred. They were exceedingly well armed with heavy weapons — Barretts and single-shot Grizzly .50-caliber rifles — very unusual — and wore a sort of high-tech body armor that Hunter had never seen before. It appeared to be molded plastic, but upon closer observation, even without touching, he could tell it was a space-age blend of ceramic and metal, molded in a unique wraparound protective shell. They wore kneepads and elbow pads and specialized helmets that appeared to have night vision built into a visor that could be lowered, as a pilot lowers a visor on his helmet.

Despite his fatigue, Hunter was impressed; whoever these guys were, they certainly had the best equipment. And he knew something else; they were expecting something big to go down here, and were well prepared for it.

Wearing his wool pants, knee-high moccasins and a black BDU shirt, Hunter walked casually through them as they changed shifts. They gave him little attention, but he knew that the easy atmosphere was the result of a well-arranged briefing. If someone without clearance had stumbled into this complex, they would have been arrested before taking three steps. Then in a moment he was inside the commissary, Ghost moving close to his side, and settled down to a relaxed meal while Ghost devoured four large steaks.

He noticed that anyone entering or leaving the chamber had to run an ID card through a wall-mounted security device. And he was intrigued that all the doors between his chambers and the commissary had been wide open. Yeah, they would let him wander, but only where they allowed him to wander. He thought back on the cat-burglar stunt he had pulled last night and smiled. Even technology could be defeated.

He heard an approach and knew who it was from the stride. He didn't turn as he addressed the intruder. "Tight outfit you have here, Maddox. Real secure place."

The colonel sat down before him with a nod, a smile. "We do our best, Mr. Hunter. You're certainly up early."

"I don't need much sleep."

"I can see that." Maddox placed his hands openly on the table, conversational. He smiled. "So, how are your friends?"

"I don't know. How arc my friends?"

The colonel opened his eyes a bit wider. "I talked to the night shift and they said that the professor is much stronger. And, as you know, Takakura and Taylor are fine. Minor burns. Some cuts and bruises. They'll live. Wilkenson was rather badly burned in that explosion, but he'll have a complete recovery, I'm told. They're flying him to a hospital this afternoon." Maddox cleared his voice, hesitant. "I suppose you wonder what the status of the operation is?"

"Haven't thought about it."

Maddox seemed taken aback. "Well…don't you know what we're going to do with you and the team?"

"Couldn't care less what you do with your team, Colonel. I'm done with the army and this so-called mission. Soon as the professor is all right, I'm going."

"Going where?"

Hunter stared him in the eye. "I think I'll do some hunting."

Clearly, Maddox wasn't sure how to respond. Finally he seemed to craft a careful reply. "You, uh, you realize, of course, I could place you under arrest for interfering in a situation of national security."

It wasn't anything Hunter did purposely — it could have been initiated by his sudden stillness — that brought Ghost fully to his feet. But before Hunter could stop him the black wolf had emitted a low, threatening growl that seemed to blacken the atmosphere until it vibrated with the soul of the purest animal viciousness and power. No fear, no pain, no regret, and no hesitation could be known in the rumbling aura that made the entire chamber seem to fade away.

Maddox paled, lifting a hand. "Now… now… I didn't do anything, Mr. Hunter. I, ah, I was just… just thinking out loud. And… and for your own good, I wanted to tell you."

Without a glance at Ghost, Hunter said, "Don't ever threaten me again, Colonel."

"B-B-But… I didn't!"

Maddox was trembling now, and Ghost's low rumbling had faded to an even lower growl that was, incredibly, even more menacing. Hackles had risen on his back, and his canines, more frightening than knives, were out in the open. Hunter knew he would have to restrain him in a moment but he let the wolf make a point: it was enough.

"Ghost," Hunter said, a sharp glare.

Sullenly, the wolf settled back. But his eyes remained fixed on Maddox.

"Good God," the colonel whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. He appeared chilled. "That was quite…quite unnecessary, Mr. Hunter. Quite unnecessary."

Hunter had resumed eating.

"It was you that did it, Maddox. Not me."

"But I didn't do anything!"

"Well," Hunter said slowly, "he's sort of sensitive to someone's attitude."

Maddox took a moment to compose himself. He didn't look at Ghost as he resumed, but Hunter could too easily read that the colonel was following the wolf intently.

"Hunter, what I was…attempting to tell you… is that this is a matter of national security. When you operated under our supervision, you were restrained by a contract of security. If you operate independently, you won't have support."

"Never did."

"But…but if you attempt to hunt this creature alone, then you will surely meet the same fate as your team members who were killed in action. Clearly, no man is a match for it."

Hunter took a slow sip of coffee. "My load, Colonel, not yours." He set down the cup with deliberation as clear as his words. "Whatever I'm gonna do, Colonel, Ghost and I do alone. So you keep your military boys under your command, and leave us the hell alone. I'm gonna stay until the professor is shipped out on a med flight, then I'll be thanking you for your courtesy."

Maddox had composed himself; Hunter knew he was no fool. There was simply something about Ghost's terrifying presence that chilled the colonel to the core.

"Hunter," he began, "I want you to know that I have been honest with you since the beginning of this assignment. Whatever happened out there, it was not my doing. A man in my position has to make hard judgments at times, and sometimes I must send men on missions that I know they will probably not return from. But I have never, nor will I ever, send a man out on a mission that I myself have sabotaged. I have gotten full reports from Takakura and Taylor and Wilkenson. Bobbi Jo refused to be debriefed. I only came over to tell you that, if indeed there was sabotage, I will do everything within my power to discover who it was and bring them to justice."

Hunter had always trusted his instincts. So he paused, listening to that inner voice. For a long time he was still. Then he looked up. His face wasn't pleasant, but his tone was friendly.

"Colonel," he said, "I honestly believe that you don't know what the hell is going on here. I think you're an honest man. But you've been used. And you don't have the foggiest."

Maddox looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

Without intention, Hunter realized that the conversation had turned into an interrogation, with Maddox being the interrogated.

"Colonel, just what do you think these facilities are used for?"

"That is classified, Hunter."

"Secrets work both ways, Colonel."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it hurts you and helps you. Too many secrets, too many lies, and eventually even the good guys — the guys who keep it all together— don't know what's really going on." He stared. "How often have you visited the laboratory here, Colonel?"

"I don't believe that information is within your need-to-know," Maddox replied.

"You've never seen it," Hunter said bluntly.

"And… if I haven't? Do you have some point?"

"Yeah." Hunter shifted. "My point is they're doing something here that you don't know about. Something nobody knows about, really. And, because of all these secrets and need-to-know, you're helping protect a lie."

"A presumption, Hunter."

"Have you tried to gain access to the laboratory?"

"No," Maddox answered solidly. "I am under specific orders not to interfere in the laboratory."

"Why?"

"That's classified."

Hunter took a moment, pondering. "You know, Colonel," he began thoughtfully, "I didn't ask you to come over here and sit with me, and it's amazing how things happen. Sometimes a chance meeting can change everything. Why don't you do something for me, Colonel? And for yourself." Hunter paused to allow time for any objection; it never came. "Why don't you try and gain access to the laboratory under some pretense. Just… make it up. Anything at all that would keep you out of trouble. I guarantee you that they won’t let a lieutenant colonel of the United States Army into a facility he is bound by duty to protect with his life. But they will let civilians in there, Colonel."

Hunter let that settle.

"You're the top man at this facility, Colonel," he continued. "If anyone has a right inside that facility, it's you. You don't work for the damn NSA. You work for the United States Army, and it's your responsibility to ensure that this entire facility is safe. And that includes the laboratory."

A long silence followed.

"What is your point?" Maddox asked, at last.

Hunter felt genuine sympathy.

"My point, Colonel, is that Dr. Hamilton, whatever his real name is, has played you for a fool."

Maddox's face froze.

"My point," Hunter continued, knowing he couldn't hurt the man any more deeply, and not enjoying it at all, "is that Hamilton is performing experiments in there that are illegal and immoral and unethical and against presidential mandates and you are unknowingly aiding him in his crimes. My point, Colonel, is that if you, with the full power of your rank as a colonel in the United States Army, a colonel who is risking his own life to protect this facility, are not allowed into any area of a facility that you are assigned to protect, then someone is attempting to usurp your rank and play you as a fool, sir."

Maddox's face went scarlet with rage. Rising from the table, he casually straightened his coat.

"We shall speak of this again," he said coldly.

Walked off.

Hunter didn't find any portals sealed between the commissary and the infirmary, but every doorway had two uniformed guards with M-16's at port arms. They didn't say anything to him and he said nothing to them. He entered the ICU and found the professor sitting on the edge of the bed. Tipler raised excited eyes as Hunter paused, but a quick glance at the heart monitor told him the beat was steady. Tipler gazed at Ghost and smiled. Yet when he looked back at Hunter, his expression instantly altered, hardening until the pale blue eyes burned in a bloodless, exhausted face.

"We must leave this place, Nathaniel," he said, heaving a single deep breath. "If we do not, we will be dead by morning."

Hunter approached the bed. He grasped the old man's arm and squeezed it. "Listen, Professor," he began, "there's nothing you can tell me that I don't know. I know more than even you do, at this point."

Tipler stared.

Hesitating, keeping the heart monitor in view from the corner of his eye, Hunter said quietly, "It spoke to me, Professor. It spoke. No matter what it is now, once it was a man. Something… happened here."

Hunter had expected surprise, shock. Instead, Tipler's mouth closed grimly. He nodded almost imperceptibly. In a moment he gazed at the wall as if he were gazing at the whole facility.

"Those fools," he said.

Relieved that he didn't have to explain, Hunter leaned farther forward. "You know, just like me, that it's coming here." He waited until the professor nodded. He added, "I'm going to try and get you out of here. The rest of the team will fly out with you. They'll protect you."

"And then you will go out to meet it," Tipler replied.

Hunter's face was cast in stone. He said nothing.

Tipler looked away. "Yes," he said, a sad nod. "I knew…and I knew it earlier." He paused a long while. "You have been compelled your entire life, Nathaniel, to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. It is something I have always admired in you. It will always be the greatest, and is the rarest, of all human qualities. But…yes, I knew what you would do. It is no surprise. You needn't be concerned at my shock. Because there is none."

Hunter's brow hardened as Tipler smiled. "You expect me to say that it is suicide, and that you cannot survive," he said, smile turning to frown. "But you, alone of all men, may be able accomplish this. And if you cannot, then no one can." He paused. "I feel a measure of guilt as I say this, my boy. But if you cannot stop it — and it must be stopped — then nothing can stop it. I would, I admit freely, sacrifice both our lives if we could destroy it. But I am old, and weak…"

Hunter smiled, pushing him slightly back on the pillow. He shook his head as Tipler began to speak. Neither did Hunter say anything to end the discussion. He simply nodded, turned, and walked to the door. Then he looked at Ghost — so large he filled up a quarter of Dr. Tipler's cubicle.

Glaring down sternly, Hunter pointed at Tipler.

"Guard!"

Ghost padded over to Tipler, then placed both paws on the bed and stood up. Even bent on hind legs, staring down on the professor, he was nearly six feet tall. Obviously happy, Ghost panted, glad to see Tipler again. The professor laughed.

As Hunter tilted his head, about to tell Ghost to get down, Tipler raised a hand to cut him off.

"Leave him be, leave him be," he laughed, rubbing the huge black head. "I am glad to see my old friend."