Read Online Hunted by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page B

put his hand palm down on the ground. Rodica laid her muzzle over his hand in a sign of trust, then raised her head and gently bit at his chin. Wolf affection. Darry pressed his face against hers and signaled her to take the pack away, to safety. Two seconds later, there was no trace of the wolves on the ridge.
    Darry lay alone on the ridge and studied the teams of men. Now they had been joined by a third team of two men, and Darry had a strong suspicion there were more of them working on the other side of the timber-covered far ridge. There was no doubt in his mind what they were looking for. They were looking for him.
    Darry sighed and cased his binoculars. He lay for a time with his forehead on the cool ground. He was so tired of running. Centuries of running. An endless roll of years, unable to establish any sort of permanent home or relationship. And it just got worse as technology advanced. It hadn’t been so bad before the telegraph and telephone and the industrial revolution; life was slower and easier, and it had been much simpler to lose one’s self. It was getting more difficult each year.
    Darry raised his head and gazed down into the valley. Two more men had joined the others, and Darry felt sure there would be still more. The men had gathered in a small circle and were squatting down. One was pointing toward the west. That was all right, for Darry’s cabin lay to the south of the valley. But they’d get around to it, sooner or later.
    He wondered just how good these men were. That question was answered a heartbeat later when a voice said, “Mike? You copy this?”
    Darry tensed, not moving a muscle. He didn’t even blink. How in the hell could a man get this close to him without his knowing it?
    â€œYeah, Mike. You can see for several miles up here. There are no cabins in this valley. No signs of human life at all. None.”
    How close was the man? Not more than three or four yards at the most, Darry guessed, for the voice was clear.
    â€œYeah, okay,” the man radioed. “I see Doolin and Blake. They’re comin’ out of the timber to the north of you. Okay. Right. I’ll start workin’ my way down to the valley floor. Jenkins has already started down. Sure. Let’s give Mr. Roche his money’s worth. Right. Webb out.”
    Mr. Roche? Who the hell was Mr. Roche?
    Darry listened as the man turned to leave. He moved well, his boots making only the tiniest of whispers. If the rest of the manhunters were as good as this one, Darry was in for a time of it.
    Six teams of two each. At least twelve men were hunting him. Damn! And the reporter and her camera-person. He’d have to run. He’d have to pack up what he could, put the hybrids in the bed of the truck and leave. He had no choice in the matter. None at all that he could see.
    Or did he?
    Darry lay on the ridge and thought it out. His cover was as good as it had ever been. His driver’s license was valid. It would take some organization like the FBI to discover that his past was nonexistent—at least on paper—and it would take them several days to do it.
    These men hunting him were not government hunters. He was sure of that. Someone named Roche was paying them. But why? He could not remember anyone named Roche in his past.
    Roche Industries? The words popped into his consciousness. Robert Roche, he had read somewhere, was the richest man in the world. Worth billions and billions of dollars. He owned all sorts of factories and construction companies and real estate and . . . hell, Darry couldn’t remember all of the article. But Robert Roche’s holdings were vast. Worldwide.
    Could that be the Mr. Roche the manhunter was referring to?
    Probably.
    But why?
    Darry had no answer to that question. But then, people had chased him before without any real reason. But mostly those had been in the bad old days, back when he was a gunfighter.
    Darry made up his mind. He was not going to