James Rollins - Altar Of Eden

“Who’s on the west exit?” Duncan asked.

“Gerard is at the tree line with a sniper scope.”

“Go join him. Search for those specimens. Shoot anything that moves out there.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and ran off.

Duncan knew Connor would not fail him. The man was as brutal and unrelenting as a machine. Once let loose, he would lay down a swath of destruction. Two years ago, Connor had wiped out an entire Somalian rebel village-men, women, children, even the stray dogs-all to avenge a comrade who’d lost a leg to a roadside bomb. He’d get the job done here with the same ruthless efficiency.

As Connor disappeared around the corner Duncan’s radio crackled to life again. “Alpha One, Korey here. Reporting from the morgue.”

“Go ahead,” Duncan said. “Have you secured the carcasses of the two cats?”

“Yes, sir. Their heads are on the way up. But we believe we’ve also discovered where the other targets-the scientists-are holed up. Found some sort of big meat locker down here. It’s locked tight, but I thought I heard movement inside.”

Duncan brightened at the news.

“Permission to blow the doors, sir. Though I can’t guarantee there won’t be target casualties.”

Duncan understood the man’s caution. They needed at least one of them alive. He weighed the risk of killing everyone inside and decided it was worth it. He knew there was at least one person still running loose. The woman. That was good enough.

“Do it,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Duncan returned his attention to the smoking ruin of the front of the facility. Fires burned deeper inside, glowing through the pall. No one was coming out this way, and Duncan had a man posted at the entry road.

It was time to end this.

He pulled out his sidearm. The heft of the Sig Sauer pistol helped weight and center his determination. He headed toward the least smoky window. There was a woman loose in there. Scared. On the run. Likely armed.

He smiled-or at least half his face did.

He didn’t want her killed. At least not until he was done with her. Got answers from her. And maybe a little more besides.

With his scarred face, few women would give him a second glance, except in horror. And even fewer would ever satisfy him. Unless paid or at the point of a gun.

He headed for the building, determined to find this woman. The hunting would make the prize all that much sweeter. Afterward he would get all he could out of this woman.

Then put a bullet in her skull.

Jack kept to the forest.

He wanted to move more quickly as he circled toward the rear of the complex. He had traveled out and around, intending to come at the place from the back. He knew any eyes would be focused toward the facility, not over their shoulders.

Still, he dared not make a sound. He forced himself to move silently, to place each foot with care. Burt shadowed him, moving just as quietly, recognizing that this was a hunt. Jack’s heart thundered against such caution, urging him to run headlong back toward the facility, guns blazing.

Moments ago, he had heard gunfire, muffled and indistinct, coming from somewhere inside ACRES. He recognized the rattle of an assault rifle. He pictured Lorna bleeding, sprawled in death.

He fought against despair as he approached the southern side of the facility. From fifty yards away, he took a position under the low limbs of an old black oak, half shrouded by Spanish moss, and studied the building and grounds. The pathology lab lay to the rear of the facility, in the basement level. The others had holed up there.

But are they all still there… and what about Lorna?

He pictured her reacting to the fire. If she wasn’t still in her office, the flames and smoke would likely drive her toward the back of the place.

Meaning everyone should be close by.

At least, he prayed so.

He studied the building more closely. A concrete ramp led down to a steel roll-up door, large enough to drive a Pershing tank through. The pathologist had mentioned the back entrance earlier.

Jack didn’t intend to use that big door. Instead, he focused his attention to a smaller service entry beside it. As he recalled from the pathology floor’s layout, the door led into a side office. That would be his point of entry.

Sliding back behind the oak’s trunk, Jack knelt beside Burt. He dared not make for that door. Not yet. As sure as a catfish loved mud, there had to be at least one man watching the rear of the building. But where was he? With the woods dark as pitch, the bastard could be anywhere.

Jack gave Burt a scratch behind an ear. While Jack might not have night-vision gear, he had another way to extend his senses: one of the best hunting dogs in all the state of Louisiana.

“Time to flush out that bird.” Jack waved an arm and gave a soft command. “Hup!”

Burt took off like a shot. Since a pup, the hound had been taught to roust birds out of field and forest. Jack had trained him with clipped pigeons, and with the help of Randy and Tom, he’d established a flushing pattern with Burt, a precise zigzagging run that would clear a field of birds as efficiently as a lawn mower. The memory of training with his two brothers brought a pang of grief, as sharp as a knife to the belly.

He bit against that pain and followed down the center of Burt’s switchbacking pattern. The hound ran the woods back and forth, pivoting exactly at the range of a decent rifle shot.

The river breeze blew in his face, perfect for hunting.

Jack followed, moving from tree to tree, listening to the dark wood. He tuned out the whispering rush of his dog running back and forth. Burt was twenty yards ahead-then he heard it.

A snap of a branch to the right. A heavy footfall. Someone turning.

Jack set his back against a tree and pinpointed the location in his mind’s eye. He let out the soft whistle-chirp of a Carolina wren, one of the region’s most common and vocal birds. Burt knew the signal and went silent. Jack pictured the hound dropping flat to the ground as trained.

He waited for a full minute, long enough for the guard to turn his attention back to the facility. Satisfied he’d held back long enough, Jack slipped around the tree, and with even more caution than before, he crept toward the location Burt had exposed.

The edge of the woods appeared ahead.

Starlight bathed the open grounds beyond, brighter than the dark bower of the woods. Silhouetted against that backdrop stood a darker shadow. A guard had taken a position at the edge of the forest, a sniper rifle at his shoulder. The weapon looked like an M21, a semiautomatic rifle. If anyone had come out that rear door or dared approach it, this lone gunman would’ve dropped them in a heartbeat.

Pistol in hand, Jack moved like a ghost through the woods, glad to have the wind in his face. The river breeze would help mask any scent and muffle any telltale noises.

Still, when Jack was two yards away, something must have prickled the hairs on the other’s neck. The guard turned.

Jack moved fast. He dared not shoot. The crack of his pistol through the open air would be like a cannon blast out here. He lunged before the other could react. Jack twisted the weapon out of his startled grasp while sweeping the man’s leg and dropping him to the ground. Jack followed him down, landing both knees square on his rib cage, squashing air out, preventing a scream.

Jack jammed the pistol under his chin and fired.

Like with a pillow, the skull and helmet muffled the blast to a harsh pop. Still too loud.

Fearing any response, he leaped up, whistled for Burt, and sprinted toward the building. He ran across the open ground and hit the ramp at full clip. He flew down it, half tumbling. He came close to running headlong into the steel roll-up door but caught himself at the last moment.