This thing knew it would be hunted for what it had done.
Turning as he heard the careful approach, Hunter spoke in an even tone. "It's not close. You can come up."
It was a fire-scarred face that Hunter saw first, rising from beneath a low spruce limb to stare at him with open hostility. Hunter, for some reason, squared off, implacably returning the stare. If there were going to be trouble, he might as well settle it now.
Staring impassively for a moment, the man suddenly smiled, then laughed silently. He turned, holding a large automatic shotgun, and walked down the ridge.
Within minutes the rest of them emerged from the trees, each holding a different weapon. Without tactical instruction they automatically branched out across the rock-strewn crest in an efficient guard, poised and apparently unafraid. The Japanese came through the brush last, slightly behind Professor Tipler.
Hunter saw that the old man was keeping up well, and it assuaged some of his concern. But this had just begun. The first full day would be the primary measure of what the professor could endure, and Hunter felt fairly confident that the old man would maintain his strength for a while. But after that, mostly because of his advanced age, Hunter was uncertain.
After so many miles in the mountains, everyone, even those in excellent physical condition, would begin to crack at the strain. The back was generally the first thing to go, then the legs, then the feet, and then a general physical blowout that had no exact cause or remedy. And what put someone on his feet every morning wasn't brute physical strength; it was the pure and simple will to rise.
Hunter had seen hundreds of well-conditioned gym athletes crumble completely after ten days on the trail, unable even to roll out of sleeping bags to put on their boots, while other, less-conditioned hikers who had a simple but determined will just pushed themselves up and finished the task. Tipler had plenty of will, and Hunter wondered how far it could take him.
Dignified and solid, the Japanese paused. His curt nod could have indicated anything but Hunter sensed it was respect. Takakura's eyes, obsidian and impenetrable, flicked past Hunter and then down the ridge. "Is that the direction?"
"Yeah." Hunter adjusted the Marlin slung across his back; the leather strap crossed his chest, frontier-style. "It's moving south, like before. Tracks are about a day old."
Hunter once again noticed the katana strapped to Takakura's back, along with a sawed-off shotgun. The hilts protruded from behind either shoulder while the Japanese held the MP-5. Extra clips and shotgun shells were on a bandoleer, and a large combat knife was strapped to his leg.
Cold and concentrated, Hunter ignored Taylor and glanced at the other men on the team. Hunter didn't know where the woman had gone. He didn't know which of them he could truly trust, but for the moment Takakura appeared the safest bet. There would be time to learn more about them later. He squatted by the trail, staring at the last track and trying to imagine the route that he himself would have taken from this ridge in the dark. After a moment he found it and stood.
"We are ready to begin?" Takakura inquired, already seeming to understand a little of Hunter's style of tracking.
"We need to get some things straight," Hunter said, turning to face Takakura, who nodded curtly. "I lead," Hunter continued, "and your people stay back about a hundred yards. Simple as that."
"I have no objection." Takakura frowned. "But we have someone who might be able to aid you. Each of us, as you know, possesses specialized skills which you may, at your convenience, utilize to complete this mission."
Hunter considered it. "All right. Which one?"
Without hesitation — a man comfortable with authority — Takakura raised a hand. "Bobbi Jo!"
Hunter turned his head to see the team's female member trotting instantly and effortlessly up the ridge. She reached them in a few seconds, only slightly winded. Standing at port arms with the gigantic sniper rifle, she regarded Hunter without expression.
She was about five-eight, and slim. Her hair was a dark blond and tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were a vivid blue and her face was sharply angled, indicating that she was in excellent shape. She had a bandoleer stretched across her chest filled with huge metal-jacketed cartridges. Hunter estimated they were at least .50-caliber rounds.
Takakura began, "I have told Mr. Hunter that—"
"Just call me Hunter."
A pause, and the Japanese nodded. "Hai," he continued, staring back at Bobbi Jo. "I have told Mr. Hunter that you are also skilled at tracking. I informed him that you might be of some assistance."
Patiently Hunter asked, "How much do you know?"
Bobbi Jo's voice was young and confident. "I know who you are, Mr.—"
"Just Hunter."
"All right. I know who you are, Hunter. I've followed your work, and I'm not as good as you. I'll say that outright. But I've been through Tracker and Pathfinder. I've got five years in the program. And I grew up hunting. So, although I'm not as good, I can hold my own and I don't make stupid mistakes. And I'd like to take point with you." Her mouth made a firm line.
He studied her. "Okay, how may claws on a bear?"
"Five."
"Wolf?"
"Five."
"How do you tell a coyote from a wolf?"
"A wolf has a larger rear pad, and the digit claw doesn't print."
"How does the movement of a bear differ from the movement of a mountain lion?"
"A bear wanders. No path, just territory. A cougar follows a circuit. Usually about fifty miles in diameter."
Hunter raised his eyes slightly. "Okay, but what difference does that make if you're hunting them?"
"You can anticipate a cougar because it stays on a ridge, in general, and if you lose the track you just crisscross the ridge until you find prints. But if you lose a bear track, you'll have to circle, widening the circle each time to find it."
Hunter nodded. Yeah, she was pretty good. He continued, "How can you tell if a man moves to the right or left?"
"There are at least fifty different kinds of pressure release marks," she said firmly. "But, in general, if a man moves to the right, the print will be impressed deeper on the left side. He was pushing himself in the opposite direction, so the print will be higher. Same for the man moving left, just the opposite effect."
"And if the track is on a ridge?"
"If the ridge slopes down to the left and it moved to the right, then the track would be deeper on the right. And vice versa."
Hunter was impressed but tried not to reveal it.
"How do you crosshead?" he continued.
"If you tell me to crosshead, I'll go ahead of you and crisscross for sign. If you were moving south, I would be moving east and west, trying to pick up anything that would indicate a change of direction."
"And sideheading?"
"Sideheading is when you move parallel to the track, keeping the sun on the other side so you can read faint indentations. You usually use it on hard ground or rock where the impressions are thin. The main thing is to keep the sun at an angle that pitches shadow just right." She paused, hefted the heavy rifle slightly. Hunter was again impressed by how easily she seemed to carry it. "It takes a lot of practice," she said. "I learned how to do it when I was a kid."
"I'll bet. So what have you tracked before?"
"Bear, cougar, coyote, wolf, elk — just about everything."
"And lately?"
"Lately," she said, looking into his eyes without discernible emotion, "I've tracked and killed men, Mr. Hunter."
Hunter studied her a moment. He knew he wouldn't really be able to tell anything until he saw what she could do in the field; whether she could read the age of a track, how delicately she observed everything else as they moved, how alert she was to the forest itself. But she obviously knew the basics.