Ice Hunt

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Authors: James Rollins
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growled more fiercely again. Of course, out there was one last snag to this plan. Matt crossed the scarp, away from the other pursuer. His camp was two miles away, but at least it was on this side of the rockfall. It would take a bit of time for the rider to find his partner, circle around, and chase them. By then, Matt planned on being well away.
    With this goal in mind, Matt crossed back into the thicker woods and jogged down toward his camp. His wet clothes hung like sacks of cement on him, but after a few minutes, the exertion helped warm his limbs and staved off the threat of hypothermia. Once he reached camp, he could change into dry things.
    As he continued down, a light snowfall drifted from the clouds overhead. The flakes were thick, heavy, heralding a more abundant fall to come. After ten minutes, this promise began to be fulfilled. The snow obscured the spruce forest, making it hard to see much past a few yards. But Matt knew these woods. He reached the ice-rimmed river on the valley floor and followed it downstream to his campsite. He found the horse trail.
    The first to greet him was Bane. The dog all but tackled him as he slogged down the last of the trail.
    “Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too.” He thumped the dog’s side and followed the way back to camp.
    He found Mariah munching on some green reeds. The other dogs ran up, but there was no sign of the reporter. “Craig?”
    From behind a bush, the reporter stood up. He bore a small hand ax in both fists. The relief on his face was etched in every corner. “I…I didn’t know what happened? I heard the gunfire…the scream…”
    “It wasn’t me.” Matt crossed and collected the ax. “But we’re not out of the proverbial woods yet.”
    Across the valley, the whining growl of the lone motorcycle persisted. Matt stared into the dark, snowy woods. No, they certainly weren’t out yet .
    “What are we going to do?” Craig also listened to the motorcycle. The sound had already grown louder. The reporter’s eyes drifted to his shattered rifle.
    Matt had forgotten he was even carrying it. “Broken,” he muttered. He turned back to camp and began to rummage through his supplies, quickly picking out what they would need for this midnight run. They would have to travel light.
    “Do you have another gun?” Craig asked. “Or can we outrun the motorcycle on the horse?”
    Matt shook his head, answering both questions.
    “Then what are we going to do?”
    He found what he was looking for. He added it to his bag. At least this wasn’t broken .
    “What about the other motorcycle?” Craig’s voice edged toward panic.
    Matt straightened. “Don’t worry. There’s an old Alaskan saying.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Up here, only the strong survive…but sometimes even they’re killed.”
    His words clearly offered no consolation to the Seattle reporter.
    10:48 P.M.
     
    Stefan Yurgen wore nightvision goggles, allowing him to see in the dark without the motorcycle’s lights, but the snowstorm kept his vision to no more than ten meters. The snow fell thickly, a green fog through the scopes.
    He kept his snow-and-ice bike steady, grinding and carving up the switchback trail. The snow might block his view, but it allowed him to follow his prey easily. The fresh snow clearly marked their trail. He counted one horse, four dogs. Both men were riding. Occasionally, one man hopped off and led the horse afoot across some trickier terrain, then remounted.
    He watched for any sign of the pair splitting, but no prints led away from the main trail.
    Good . He wanted them together.
    Under the frozen goggles, a permanent scowl etched his features. Mikal had been his younger brother. An hour ago, he had found his brother’s tortured body beside a small stream, nearly comatose from pain, his face a bloody wreck. He’d had no choice. He had orders to follow. It had still torn him to pull the trigger, but at least the agony had ended for Mikal.
    Afterward, he had marked

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