Hunter (34 page)

Hunter turned away, watching the trail behind them as the professor was carefully loaded onto the chopper. Then Takakura was bellowing at him.

"Hunter! We go! We go! Come on!"

Hunter turned and loped toward the rest who were gathered at one of the open doors. As he reached it he grabbed Bobbi Jo's shoulder and pushed her ahead. Ghost was at his side as he leaped into the bay and one of the crew gave thumbs-up to the pilot.

They rose above trees, shifting slightly as they entered blue sky and stars and black claimed the trees beneath. As they reached altitude, Hunter released a breath but revealed no physical sign of relief as they gained speed, angling higher and higher, heading south.

One of the crew, obviously a trained medic, was administering an IV to the professor, injecting something into the tube. Hunter watched for a moment and then nodded, bowing his head. Then he reached out to ruffle Ghost's mane. But the black wolf only looked tiredly at him, and Hunter knew that Ghost, like all of them, needed food and rest.

As they left the valley behind, Hunter gazed back somberly. Still, he could not believe it
: It had spoke to him ...

It
had
spoke
to him ...

* * *

Chapter 15

Chaney had parked his car a few blocks away, near a corner. As he walked toward it, he kept wondering what in the hell that article had to do with anything. He knew it was important but it didn't make any sense. Whatever beast was captured in those pictures was long dead. But clearly it meant something to the good doctor. Maybe it would mean something to Gina.

A couple, arm in arm, passed him.

Chaney nodded, hands in pockets, and continued strolling. He passed a group of older guys playing basketball, engaged in trash talk. He laughed, remembering the days.

The city was slowly coming alive with those who tended to wake up at night, like vampires. Already, in the few minutes he'd been walking, it had grown more congested. Not bustling by any means, but not as dead as it had been in late afternoon.

Two guys off to the side were doing what appeared to be a drug deal. Chaney glanced at them, grunted, let it go.

The pieces were beginning to fit together—the creature, the killing team, the betrayal. The one thing that didn't fit was the death of Rebecca Tanus. She had discovered something important about this creature's genetic structure. But what would be so important about DNA that it would justify murder? He just couldn't understand a professional hit that—

Shadow—

Something happening—

React!

Chaney went for his gun without seeing an enemy and sensed what was coming a second before it hit. He knew what it was by feel, by the glimpse of gray and steel beyond his head. A pipe. He went down—arm dead—and they were on him but his arm wouldn't work and the Sig .45—a black matte weapon useless on cement—was at his feet as he rolled to avoid a second blow.

The pipe, crashing down beside his ear in the hands of a huge black man, sent fragments of cement across his face and Chaney kicked up, trying for the groin. But the man was an experienced fighter and blocked the kick with his thigh as the second man swung another pipe, glancing the steel off Chaney's cheek before it crashed across his chest, doubling him in breathless shock.

For a moment Chaney knew nothing, no breath, not even pain, though he knew he was hurt bad, and then the bigger one grabbed his shirt,
Lifting him half from the ground as he stretched his arm back, pipe tight in a square fist.

Chaney didn't have time to be afraid of the glaring eyes and the rage. At the moment the swing began he withdrew the concealed .38 from his ankle and, like a boxer throwing an uppercut, brought it up under the man's chin and fired. At the shot the second man jumped back and Chaney swung fast, still breathless, targeting. The attacker leaped and ran.

"Don't!" Chaney shouted.

The man ran faster and Chaney took careful aim with the last of his control, pulled the trigger. It hit dead-center in the spine and for a suspended slow-motion moment the man was bowed in the air, arms outstretched to nothing before he landed on his feet, took another step, staggering, and fell to the sidewalk facedown.

For a second Chaney lay back, pulling, pulling for breath, and finally caught one, paying for it with a sharp pain in his ribs. Struggling, he rolled to his side, then crawled to his knees, breathing slowly, painfully, trying to concentrate.

He crept over the dead black man and reclaimed his Sig, put it back in his hip holster. But he held the revolver as he rose—he didn't know why—and walked to his car. He didn't notice that the basketball court was empty or that the streets had suddenly become deserted as he fired the engine and pulled away.

He couldn't wait for police, couldn't go to a hospital, couldn't make himself visible or vulnerable again. They had anticipated this move, he suddenly realized, holding a hand across his chest, sweating and trembling.

He groaned as he turned a corner, and knew he'd be caught if police spotted the car because he wasn't in condition to out-drive anyone. He had to ditch it, but he was too injured to steal another one. His mind raced, searching for ...

He saw a familiar street sign and hung a sharp left, praying that nothing was coming, but he had to move fast because he could feel something coming on, something that would put him out. He knew he was only awake because of shock and fear and adrenaline, but that would wear off quickly enough and he would crash hard. He had to reach a safe house, a place where he could hide.

Fighting fiercely to stay conscious, he drove toward Brick's.

***

Gina Gilbert, hair stringy and plastered with sweat from working nonstop for the last forty-eight hours, stared at the electron microscope monitor. The screen was littered with the strands of the DNA sample that she was working her way through.

As she identified even the most basic characteristics, like eye color or pigmentation, she would move on, searching for something unusual. She knew, in general, what she was searching for, but it was difficult to discern.

What she sensed was that this seemingly endless DNA strand contained something that would reveal the secret of this creature's identity. She didn't know what it would be, but she was certain she would recognize it when she saw it. She turned a large black dial and the screen flickered, revealing another molecule.

Empty boxes of Chinese and Italian food—take-outs—littered the table behind her. She folded her arms across her chest and watched, studying the movement, counting the electrons and calculating their molecular weight.

It was something unknown—part of the alien DNA. She leaned forward again and studied the strands, and saw that it had enhanced transmitters, or reflectors, that sped the production of proteins.

She smiled.

"So," she whispered, "now I got you."

It took another hour to analyze the proteins. She compared them to those from a gorilla, a tiger, and finally from Homo sapiens. But she found no corresponding genetic formation. Then she went back to the readout and repeated the entire procedure step by step, counting the molecules, verifying the enhancers that connected the molecule to the more familiar human DNA. And again, the results were the same.

There was an unknown protein—some kind of powerful mind-influencing chemical—generated from the strand segment. She knew it would take hours and hours to discover what protein or enzyme was being generated, what effect it had upon the creature, and what secrets it might provide to the beast's identity. But that didn't bother her. She had all night. She felt a wave of sadness at the thought, remembering . . .

Rebecca had no time at all.

"God Almighty!" Brick shouted as Chaney, bloodied and sweating, collapsed through the back door.

Brick, who had answered the door eating a meatloaf sandwich, pulled Chaney into the kitchen and rolled him over. Even before he examined Chaney to determine his injury, Brick tore the Sig from Chaney's hip holster and leveled it at the open door. Enraged, the big ex-marshal searched left and right, gun leading and all the slack taken from the trigger, but he saw nothing.

Turning on the floodlights, he shut the door hard, threw the deadbolt, and bent, feeling over Chaney's chest.

Groaning, Chaney coughed, spoke with difficulty. "They ... after the search ... they were waiting."

Brick muttered a stream of obscenities, lifting Chaney by the arm. He held the Sig in his free hand as they stumbled across the kitchen. "Good thing Edna's out of town this weekend," he muttered. "She'd be going nuts seeing you like this. Come on, let's get you down into the basement. Don't you worry 'bout nothin', kid. I got ya and I got what ya need. Yeah, of Brick's gonna fix his boy up."

Together they stumbled down the stairs and Brick laid him on a cot. Then he unfolded a large green Special Forces emergency surgical kit. He tore open a packet with his teeth, gave Chaney two blue pills and water, then felt his chest.

"You got some hematoma there in the ribs, boy," he grunted. "Somebody whacked you good with a bat, or pipe. Can't tell. Doesn't matter. You're hurt."

"A pipe. Two of them. They're dead."

"I ain't sheddin' no tears," Brick said as he helped Chaney out of his coat and shirt.

Chaney sank back and Brick gently felt the ribs. "Man, you got some swelling here, kinda high. Probably just cracked 'cause I don't feel no break. Hurts bad enough, though. Cracked hurts as bad as broke, no lie." Quickly he felt Chaney's neck and shoulder. "You got some bleeding, here," he added. "I'll fix that up."

"You got
the house locked up?"

"Always."

In short order, Brick cleaned and bandaged Chaney's shoulder and face. It was an efficient, professional job and Brick's hands moved with surprising tenderness. Finally Chaney felt the painkillers kicking in, the pain fading so softly he could barely feel it diminishing. But it was leaving, and it made him feel stronger. Still, he knew it was a deception; he wasn't stronger, so he didn't move.

His breath was regular, measured, and he tried to replay the scene in his mind, cursing himself for his carelessness. He had been so distracted by his theories and discovery that he had failed to remember the elemental rule of a hitter: they almost always waited for you to come to them, and he had walked right into it.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself.

"Did you recognize either of them?"

"No."

"Sure you got 'em?"

"Yeah." Chaney rubbed his bandaged face. "I got 'em."

"Good," Brick muttered, removing a syringe from his case. He inserted the needle into a small vial of
Lidocaine. Then he removed it and inserted the needle under Chaney's arm. With the painkillers, Chaney hardly felt the sting. Closing his eyes, he floated on the drugs and the fatigue from the fight.

He felt like his mind was returning from panic and stress overload.

"A little something to kill your side while I sew up this gash." Brick removed a curved needle with black thread dangling from it. In his other hand he held forceps. Then, deftly and without hesitation, he began an efficient, circular movement with the forceps as he inserted the needle in Chaney's side and withdrew it, tying a quick knot every two seconds. In less than thirty seconds it was over and Brick snipped off the thread, laying the instruments to the side.

Brick nudged him until he opened his eyes. "You're gonna be all right, kid. You got a couple burst blood vessels in the skin, some bruised or
cracked ribs, and a three-inch cut in your side that I stitched up. But you came out pretty good, considering."

Chaney didn't say anything, closing his eyes again, as Brick rose and^ walked swiftly to the vault. In seconds he had opened the gigantic steel door and walked inside.

He heard Brick moving equipment, shuffling, then the familiar sound of a rifle chambered. Almost instantly Brick emerged carrying an AK-47, a large thirty-round clip inserted in the port. Three more full magazines were in his hand, and a Colt 1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol was stuck in his belt, pressing against his gut. He came straight to Chaney and bent.

"You're safe down here," he grunted, a bit breathless. "Ain't but one way in or out. I'll be upstairs watching for 'em. Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning."

Chaney attempted to rise. "My gun ..."

"Right beside you." Brick gestured. "Right here. But don't reach for it unless you hear shooting upstairs. Those are morphine tablets I gave you. Pretty strong ones, too. I don't want you holding that Sig while you're high unless you have to. But if things get that bad, if they get past me, then there ain't no wrong you can do. Just shoot whatever comes down the stairs and keep shooting 'til you're empty. You still got the clips on your belt. Understand what I'm saying? If they get past me, it's Dodge City as far
as I'm concerned."

Nodding with the last of his control and strength, Chaney closed his eyes. "Yeah, Brick, I got it. I ..." He felt sleep coming over him, soft and comforting. "I got it."

Without another word Brick rose and Chaney heard him hurrying up the stairs. Somewhere, far off, he heard a series of thumps, Brick running across the ceiling above him, and knew the old marshal was making certain that the house was completely secure. Chaney glanced to the side, made sure the Sig was within reach, and as he passed into unconsciousness he suddenly remembered Gina Gilbert, and knew she would be next ...

He began to rise, to warn her.

Collapsed back.

***

Despite his exhaustion, Hunter felt himself stiffen as the Blackhawk swept in over the last knoll separating a windswept field from the surrounding forest. And as he sighted the facility from high, he knew instantly that this one was not like the rest.

White cement walls enclosed a four-acre facility that vaguely resembled a squared fortress. The roof was a forest of antennas and satellite dishes and wiring and cooling equipment—an impressive piece of architecture for the middle of nowhere. He noticed at least a hundred fifty-five-gallon drums, perhaps holding coolant, to the side of the building beside a wide set of double steel doors, and three enormous ten-thousand-gallon fuel tanks beside the back fence.

There were no windows; only large steel doors guarded by two sentries with M-16's at port arms. He scanned the brightly illuminated compound further and saw light transport vehicles and at least fifty military personnel. He estimated there would be at least a third more inside.