Tracker

Tucker calculated in his head. That equaled over $200 million.

Not a bad haul if you don’t mind murdering some innocent cemetery caretakers, a kindly university professor, his daughter — not to mention yours truly. And who knows how many more?

He’d heard and seen enough.

He slipped out his pistol, raised it, and shot three times.

Three head shots.

Three bodies fell. The last was Domonkos, who sank with the most bewildered expression on his face.

He couldn’t bring all four back to the surface by himself.

Too risky.

But he could bring one, the man behind all of this.

Csorba stumbled into the crate and yanked his wireless detonator out of his pocket. “Another step and I’ll press it.”

To see if he’d actually do it, Tucker took that step and another. He saw the man’s thumb tremble on the button.

Then, with a wince, Csorba finally pressed it. “I… I warned you.”

“I didn’t hear any explosion,” Tucker said. “Did you?”

Csorba pressed it several more times.

Tucker closed the distance, plucked the useless detonator out of his grip, turned it off, and pocketed it. He waved his pistol toward the steps.

“I don’t understand…” the professor mumbled as he obeyed.

Tucker didn’t bother to explain. Once he got hold of the pistol from Kane, he could have shot Domonkos and his two cronies up top, but he feared that if Csorba heard gunfire he might panic and do what he just did — press the transmitter.

So Tucker had to come down here to be certain.

A quarter of the way along the steps, he had lost his wireless connection to Kane. That panting in his ear had died away again. So he was confident Csorba’s transmitter, buried four times deeper, would be equally useless — only after knowing that for sure by coming down here did he feel it safe enough to act.

They finally reached the top of the crypt.

Csorba tried to bolt for the forest.

“Kane, stop him.”

Folding out of the woods, a shadow blocked the professor’s path, growling, eyes shining in the dark. Others materialized, closing in from all sides, filling the night with a low rumble, like thunder beyond the horizon.

Csorba backpedaled in fright, tripped over a stone, and fell headlong into one of the open graves. A loud thud followed, accompanied by a worrisome snap.

Tucker hurried forward and stared into the hole. The professor lay six feet down, his neck twisted askew, unmoving. Tucker shook his head. It seemed the ghosts of this place weren’t going to let this man escape so easily.

Around him, the dark shadows faded back into the forest, vanishing upon some unspoken signal, until only the whisper of leaves in the wind remained.

Kane came slinking up, fearful he had done wrong.

Tucker knelt and brought his friend’s face close to his. “Who’s a good boy?”

Kane reached and touched a cold nose against his.

“That’s right. You are.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Tucker sat in the sedan with the broken headlamp, the engine idling. He had freed Aliza and her father and told them all that had happened. He was going to leave it to them to explain as best they could to the authorities, leaving his name out.

Aliza leaned her face through the open window.

“Thank you.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? If only for another night.”

He heard the offer behind her words, but he knew how complicated things would become if he did stay. He had two hundred million reasons why it was time for him to go.

“What about a reward?” she asked.

He pictured Csorba falling into his own grave, snapping his neck.

“There’s too much blood on that gold,” he said. “But if there’s any spare change, I know of some hungry dogs that share this forest. They could use food, a warm place to lay their head at night, a family to love them.”

“I’ll make it happen,” she promised. “But aren’t those things what we all want?”

Tucker looked at the stretch of open road beyond the brick archway.

Maybe some day, but not today.

“Good-bye, Aliza.”

He revved the engine.

Kane’s tail thumped heavily on the seat next to him, his head stuck full out the window. As Tucker gunned the engine, a howl burst from his partner, an earsplitting call, singing to his own blood.

The sedan shot forward and barreled out the archway.

Behind them, the forest erupted with a chorus of yowls and wails, echoing up into the night and chasing them out into the world.

As they raced away, the wind blew brochures around the car’s interior. It seemed the prior owner had been dreaming of faraway trips, too, ways to spend that gold.

One landed against the windshield and became plastered there crookedly.

The photo depicted palm trees and sandy white beaches.

Its exotic name conjured up another time, a land of mystery and mythology.

Zanzibar.

Tucker grinned, and Kane wagged his tail.

Yeah, that’ll do.

* * *

So ends this adventure with Tucker and Kane — but a larger one looms ahead for the pair as they reach Zanzibar in a novel titled Bloodline. A fateful crossing with Commander Pierce of Sigma Force will cast them into an adventure spanning the globe, one that will reveal a frightening scientific truth about the nature of mankind: That immortals are walking among us today.

About the Author

JAMES ROLLINS is the New York Times bestselling author of international thrillers, translated into more than forty languages. His Sigma series has been lauded as one of the “top crowd pleasers” (New York Times) and one of the “hottest summer reads” (People Magazine). In each novel, acclaimed for its originality, Rollins unveils unseen worlds, scientific breakthroughs, and historical secrets — and he does it all at breakneck speed and with stunning insight.

Find James Rollins on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, and at www.jamesrollins.com.

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