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?"