When he stood, the Japanese walked coldly toward the front of the column. And Bobbi Jo knelt beside Tipler, checking the old man's vital signs, speaking to him gently.
Taylor, enraged to madness, kept a hot eye on everything around them. Even his bad eye seemed to glow with a rage that would be quenched only when this beast was meat on his table.
Ghost had not been injured in the brief encounter and Hunter, for the first time, realized it was remarkable that the wolf hadn't pursued the creature into the forest. And the thought occurred to him that perhaps it was because Ghost, on a level that was his alone, was more concerned about Hunter's welfare than he was about killing the thing.
But he also knew that if Ghost chose to leave and roam these hills, only one of them would survive. Ghost would never allow such a creature to live inside his domain. He would hunt it down to fight it, and somehow Hunter knew the wolf would die.
Bending, Hunter rested his hands on his knees, taking a breath, trying to assess his wounds. He knew his back had been torn and bone-bruised when he had rebounded from the boulder, and he had probably sustained a number of torn muscles.
None of the injuries would hurt now. But later, when he rested, they would stiffen. After that it would be a constant battle to stay on his feet.
He looked around, saw a number of floras that he could use for the pain, and walked over. Carefully he picked the leaves and put them immediately in his mouth, chewing them raw.
Taylor, accustomed now to Hunter's oddities, didn't waste a second glance. But Wilkenson seemed intrigued, eyes narrowing in the bronzed, lean face. Badly bruised by the creature's blow, he nevertheless seemed to have recovered his composure. It was clear he wanted to ask what Hunter was up to but the tracker was so enraged by the attack and Buck's death that the Englishman was careful to keep a safe distance.
Bitter and dry, the leaves would have been more effective if they had been boiled, but Hunter had no time. As it was, he would probably suffer cramps later from direct ingestion, but he would have to weather it. He had to head the pain off before it became so distracting that his abilities were compromised. He didn't worry about Ghost; the wolf never seemed to care about any kind of injury.
When Takakura reached Hunter, his face was a mask of pure, almost frightening rage. Hunter stood to face him, heaved a hard breath. For a moment their eyes met, then the Japanese spoke. "We will do as we planned. We will deliver the professor to the research center."
Hunter didn't comment.
"Then," Takakura added, colder, "I will join you on the final hunt. Orders or no orders, we will hunt this beast to the ends of the earth, and we will take its head." He didn't wait for Hunter's acquiescence, nor did Hunter expect him to.
Takakura jerked his head to the side. "Riley! How far to the bluff?"
"Another two hundred yards," Riley answered, still breathless and stunned. Hunter saw that his combat vest, armored with Kevlar and what appeared to be some kind of steel mesh, had been torn like tissue paper. His chest was bleeding — so, no, the beast had not missed completely. The wounds were a deep red-black in the gloom of the ridge.
"Taylor and I will carry the professor," the commander said, allowing no room for contest. "Hunter and Ghost will lead. Bobbi Jo, you will be back-up and Riley will be guard. Beware, Riley! It has struck once from behind. It may again. We go! Now!"
In seconds they were moving more quickly, almost at a trot, though Hunter somehow didn't expect an encounter soon. He didn't know why, exactly; perhaps it was just his forest sense. But he had seen the creature's reaction up close when Bobbi Jo hit it with the Barrett and he had somehow sensed its surprise, as if it still could not believe these pitiful weapons could hurt it.
They reached the bluff quickly and Taylor was the first to rappel down. Takakura was second in order to back up Taylor at the base and then they rigged the professor, who was easily lowered to the bottom. Next, the three of them rappelled down, one after the other, with Riley last.
"What about the rope?" Takakura said. "We may need it. It is still tied to the tree at the top."
"That's why you brought me, Commander," Riley responded. "I lassoed it to the tree."
He pulled on one length of the doubled rope and quickly one end ascended. In seconds, the entire rope came over the summit and spiraled in a slow majestic descent over the climber. "One second," he said, again out of breath; the ordeal was wearing on them all.
That Takakura did not hurry him was a measure of his command ability. In five minutes the gear was stowed and Riley lifted the pack, holding his M-203. "I'm ready," he gasped.
Ghost ranged in front as they picked a path down a slope that bordered a creek running toward Windy Gap, a cut in the mountains. This was their only chance for getting the professor to the research center. It would be the last night alive in these mountains for all of them if they failed to succeed.
Leading, Hunter kept the Marlin ready, for whatever it was worth. When he cast a quick glance back at Bobbi Jo, he saw a vicious edge in the sniper's eyes. She was not just looking; she was hungry. She wanted it in her sights again; she had confidence in both her skill and her weapon.
Then Hunter again remembered the demonic eyes that blazed with malignant intent, heard again the enraged deafening roar hurled from the humanoid face with curved claws weaving a black web of death that he had evaded again and again by the merest margin, escaping death by the space of a breath, and he knew one more thing.
It would never cease this hunt. He was the only one that had beaten it face-to-face, the only one to challenge that dark might and escape. Yes, it would come. And it would come for him.
"I can't give it to you on a cellular," Brick growled. "Call me on a land line."
"Give me a number," Chaney said, steering the rented Ford LTD into a gas station. He was less than thirty miles from the Tipler Institute. It was the most likely place to begin.
He wrote down the number Brick gave him and hurried to the phone, knowing he could be racing against a tap. Brick answered before the first ring finished.
"It's only a piece," Brick said hoarsely, "but I found something from one of the snitches injustice. This guy knows somebody who was asking questions about logistics, the satellite support stuff for these research stations. That ain't much, but if someone is poking around, they got a reason."
"Can this be traced back to you?" Chaney asked, suspecting a possible trap. It was the oldest trick in the book; put out false information to a particular person and then wait and see if it surfaces downstream. It was one of the best methods for finding moles and leaks.
"No, this guy is solid," Brick responded. "We go back."
"Did he give you a name?"
"Yeah." He paused, and Chaney heard paper rattling. "He said the guy's name was… Dixon. Yeah, Dixon. Flashed CIA creds. He didn't mention division. But if it's dealing with this, I'd say covert ops is a good place to start. Want me to check on it?"
Chaney debated.
The Central Intelligence Agency was prevented by law from operating any facilities inside the continental United States, with the exception of a domestic office that they ran at a covert site in New York City. Both the CIA charter and presidential mandate prevented domestic activities. And whatever this would eventually turn out to be, it was definitely a domestic activity. He wasn't sure if he wanted to involve Brick any further.
"No," he said finally. "I can take it from here. I want you to smooth things over. Act pissed off and ignorant. Say you wonder why a bunch of marines got wasted because you're an ex-marine. Make like you're angry about the whole thing. They'll figure, once a marine, always a marine. Take that line. Let them know you don't care who knows you're interested, then they'll think you have nothing to hide."