Hunter (56 page)

And at the impact of the blow the creature came from its bowed posture like a rocket, instantly grasping the sword and twisting to hurl both it and the Japanese far and away. They crashed painfully against a Humvee and fell to the ground.

As it turned back to Chaney and Brick, almost with contempt, Brick's feet had left the ground. His body, twisting volcanically, had spun, holding the barrels of the Weatherby in huge fists. The wide wooden stock of the rifle swung like a baseball bat to strike the bowed head with incredible force. And at the impact the sound of pulverized flesh echoed like a gunshot across the glade. But the stock shattered, leaving Brick staggering back holding a broken rifle, gazing upward into the face of the beast.

Shaking its head in contempt, it started for him.

Hunter was on his feet, roaring as he moved, and Ghost moved with him, each attacking the creature from opposite sides. Hunter saw Chaney take aim and hit the beast solidly in the head with two .454 rounds of the Weatherby. A blinding burst of white came from the side—Bobbi Jo joining us—that made Hunter reflexively bend away before he hurled himself forward and slashed at the neck.

Sensing his approach, it flung out its left arm to hurl him back hatefully. The blow caught Hunter's shoulder as it roared with rage. Then—

A Japanese cry ... sword flashing, slashing across, back again ... explosion before them, gray shape falling upon Hunter ... Bowie slashing up to hit gray flesh, down quick, stabbing ... black wolf across, white fangs lashing out ... spiraling blood ... explosion in his face, blinding ... Bobbi Jo, Chaney ... DUCK! ...Clawed hand lashing viciously over his head ... returning ... blade moving on weight ... come back to me to hit ... weight and body behind the blade, slashing hard ... stabbing deep ... that's it ... bring the blade down and put your body into the ... blade stabbing deep, rising, falling with weight, rising volcanically ... steel vanishing into gray, ripping away ... animal roaring ... Brick struck and flung ... hurled through air bellowing, striking wildly at air ...
Chest
! ... Leaping forward blade poised to strike upward now!
Opening
!

Roaring, Hunter uncoiled like a rattlesnake, the blade flashing before him to AHH!

Darkness.

Roars, orange flashes in the blackness, spotlights in the sky.

Lowering ... so cold ... to him.

Rising slowly,
Bowie knife hard in a clenched fist, Hunter stood, raising his face to the strange silence as it registered that all of them, even Ghost, were motionless and prostrate on the wet ground. Brow hardening, knowing that a half-dozen helicopters were settling in the glade, Hunter gazed about curiously, fist tightening even more on the huge Bowie.

He saw nothing.

The beast was gone, though in the stillness he knew where he would find it. He raised his head wearily; he was covered in blood and it didn't matter. Enough was enough, they had come too far. He even knew who the undisclosed men in the helicopters were, and didn't care. Nothing would stop him now.

This belonged to him, not them; it had changed hands a long time ago, when they had sent him out to die. He had already destroyed the relic, and now he would destroy the living embodiment of this primordial evil.

Hunter could not accept the possibility that his colleagues were dead, and regretted hurling himself into the battle. But he had done it out of love. And that he did not regret.

As the helicopters landed and scores of black-clad soldiers leaped out, guns poised, running across the glade, Hunter knelt beside Ghost. The wolf, sensing his presence, blinked, and Hunter smiled, sitting gently on the ground beside it, stroking the thick, bloodied black fur.

The wounds torn into its muscular body were deep and terrible, but Ghost revealed no pain.

"It's gonna be all right, boy," Hunter said quietly.

Ghost blinked again, silent in his pain.

A team of soldiers, locking and loading automatic weapons, surrounded them.

At the sounds, Ghost tried to rise. But Hunter placed a hand on him, continuing to speak in soothing tones. He talked about everything, about nothing, about what they would do when they went home. And he talked until the awesome, courageous black eyes glazed over, and the huge chest fell still. Hunter waited another moment, his hand soft on the mane, stroking his friend. Then he solemnly bent his head.

A frown twisted his brow as he rose, staring darkly at the weapons, the men. He feared none of them, and never would. Death would be welcome to him now. He almost invited them to shoot. Glancing across the faces, he found no leader.

"Where's Dixon?" he growled.

"Get on the ground!" a soldier bellowed.

It took a single long second for Hunter to turn his head to the voice. His countenance was deadly.

"Make me," he said, low.

The soldier stepped back.

Orders were barked, and Hunter glanced to the side to see Chaney rising, holding a hand to his bruised forehead. And Takakura was stirring, clumsily and painfully. Bobbi Jo lay where she had fallen; she made no movement at all.

Hunter moved for her, and a cacophony of voices and orders thundered in the air; he didn't give a damn. He reached her and rolled her over gently, checking the wounds.

A large blue-red welt on her head revealed where she'd been struck. And a narrow gash—the wound of a single claw—streaked her forehead, the blood already drying. Another clawed blow had split her Kevlar vest at mid-torso. But after carefully removing it, Hunter saw that the claws had only barely touched the skin, though she bled heavily from the cuts.

Despite the shouts behind him, Hunter turned to them in a low voice. "Do you have a medic with you?"

They cared nothing for his words. Nothing for his needs.

Bellowing now with authority, they told him what to do.

He stared at all of them: if dying was this, so be it. He would obey no one and nothing until he had helped his friends. Ignoring the conflicting orders, he looked to the side to see someone obviously in charge striding through the detachment: Dixon.

Hunter squared into him.

Without expression, Dixon came up, hands clasped behind his back with a hundred rifles trained on Hunter. Smiling faintly, Hunter communicated that he knew who had true courage.

Dixon was unfazed. He spoke boldly, frankly, and with a complete lack of concern or compassion for the suffering and sacrifice that Hunter and his colleagues had endured in the last three days. It was an attitude that Hunter had expected, but even he had not anticipated such a perfect, superlative level of pure arrogance and apathy at the death of so many; deaths that could have been prevented. Bowing his head, eyes hidden in shadow, Hunter didn't reply.

"Mr. Hunter!" Dixon kept his distance with the words. "I feel that it's only right to tell you: if you do not discard your knife in the next three seconds, my men will shoot you and everyone with you stone-cold dead! You are not a soldier! I am! Believe me, I say what I mean!"

Hunter looked into his eyes. Laughed.

"Three seconds?"

"Three seconds!"

"You won't give us more?"

Dixon laughed. "You're such a fool, Hunter. I am about to count. Remember. Three seconds."

Hunter nodded vaguely, understanding. "Okay. Count."

"One ... two ..."

Hunter lifted a hand from behind his back and the
Bowie knife at the same time. Dixon's eyes widened as he saw the only bag of HD-66, the source of all they sought, poised at the tip of the blade. The slightest movement, even by accident, would split the bag and spill the precious liquid on the ground, costing them all they had schemed and worked toward for so long.

Instantly Dixon extended his arms, his words soaring over all else as he bellowed, "Hold fire! Hold fire! Hold fire! No one is to fire! Is that clear! No one is to fire! No one is to fire!"

Confused looks were cast at the CIA agent, and Dixon stretched out his arms as angry figures rushed from the complex behind them. Hunter recognized Hamilton. The rest, he didn't know. He stared back at Dixon as they neared, his hands dead-steady despite the adrenaline surge he felt in his system.

Chaney came up beside him, staring at the troops. He shook his head as he muttered, "America's finest."

Hunter heard Takakura rise, gain balance. Then the Japanese bent to help Bobbi Jo to her feet, lifting her gently to sit her on the fender of a truck. She didn't take the Barrett with her, even in her confusion knowing it wasn't necessary. There was a pause, and then her voice cut through the tension.

"I figured it would end in something like this," she muttered.

Hamilton halted, breathing heavily, beside Dixon.

"These
...these are the men," he exclaimed, pointing. "They are guilty ...they are guilty of sabotage!"

Dixon never removed his eyes from Hunter.

Smiling, Hunter never removed his eyes from Dixon.

"I think the right of decision has passed to Mr. Hunter, Doctor," Dixon said with cold assessment.

Hunter looked into his face and knew that Dixon would murder them instantly if Hunter gave them the serum. Only the threat of its destruction was keeping them at bay. He lifted his chin.

"Get everyone back into the choppers," he said. "Now."

Dixon shuffled and glanced at Hamilton, who now noticed the amber-filled bag in Hunter's rigid hand. The doctor's face blanched and he extended his hand: "You took it! You stole the serum!" He swayed a moment, shaking his head. "Was it from ingenuity, Mr. Hunter?" he added with hate. "Or was it the vengeful motivation to kill this magnificent creature?" The doctor laughed. "Yes, I know. You did not expect to use it in this manner, but neither did you hesitate."

Hunter shifted his eyes from Hamilton to Dixon.

"Tell you what, Dixon," he said softly. "You've got three seconds to lay down your weapons and get out of here. Your men fly. You stay."

Shocked, Dixon blinked. "You can't be serious."

"One ..."

"Back in the choppers!" Dixon whirled, cupping his mouth for volume. "Get back in the choppers! All of you get back in the choppers! Move! Move! Move!"

They hesitated.

"
Two
..."

"Get in the choppers!" Dixon hurled an arm out, motioning violently. He grabbed the nearest soldier and flung him toward the Blackhawks. "All of you get in the choppers now! Do it now-now-now!"

Disciplined, they dropped their rifles and ran across the short space to the choppers. Then, as a helicopter filled with unarmed soldiers, the Blackhawks lifted off one after the other until they stood alone in the glade listening to the vanishing whirring of blades in the invisible night. Angry, Hunter focused fully on Dixon.

"Well, Dixon," he said, "I guess this is what they call 'reality.' "

Dixon smirked; he had had several minutes to collect himself. In turn, he glanced at Takakura, Brick, Bobbi Jo, and Chaney. When he looked back at Hunter, he revealed a rich amusement.

"Not much of your crew is left, Hunter." He almost laughed. "You go in with seven, come back with three
and now you are trapped with nowhere to go even if you wanted to escape. My men are not fools, you know. They are waiting for you to attempt escape. And then, quite simply, they will blast you out of the sky."

"That's not your problem, Dixon," Hunter responded, stone-cold, with a hint of malice. "Right now you need to be thinking about how you're gonna get out of this alive."

Dixon glared into Hunter's eyes with scorn.

"You're lost, Hunter." He shook his head. "You're just out of your league, man. How do you think you can compete with us? We know everything. We're locked into everything ..."

"What are you locked into, Dixon?"

Dixon started to reply; something real. Then he dropped his hands to his sides as if he never could.

"Just ... everything, Hunter."

"So this is what it comes down to, huh?" Hunter shook his head. "Hundreds of people die so a handful of the privileged can live. Doesn't sound like much of a tradeoff, Dixon. Especially for the people you pushed into traffic."

"You and I don't make those calls, Hunter."

"Who does?"

Dixon stared. His expression was honest. "I have no idea."

Having already lowered the serum to his side, Hunter held his
Bowie in a loose fist. He would use both when the moment came. And the words of the old Indian returned to him, more meaningful in the last six hours than they had ever been.

He understood, now, where it was going. And he knew he would have pieced it together a long time ago, if they had only been honest. But he had been forced to discover the truth for himself beneath layer upon layer of lies and deceit and betrayals.

Somber, he turned to the forest. The far horizon was touched with a steel-gray dawn that matched his mood.

The beast was wounded, and retreating.

It knew, now, that it would never obtain the serum; whatever remained of its human mind would convince it of that. But the animal would rule as it always ruled. So it would do what an animal always did when it was wounded. It would retreat to where it could heal. It would go to its lair. And that's where Hunter would find it.