Chapter 2

 

The cool, fresh air washed over his face, slipped down the back of his neck. Turning his palms up, he tried to catch that air, pull it into every pore. Tried to remember.

There had been life before this, before he’d been transferred into this strange new existence. Life before the injections and the pain, before the poker-faced doctors scurrying around their labs. There had been life before the man in the dull-gray suit with the sharp eyes.

Out here alone, he was sure about that life before. When he closed his eyes and the only sounds were from Mother Nature, he could almost say his name. Not his ID number, not the stupid codename Mr. Gray Suit himself had slapped on him, but his real name.

A car engine purred, tires humming on the asphalt road below and his real name slipped out of his grasp again. No matter. Even the vague recollection that there had been a name and a life and something different helped steady him.

“Pointer, report.”

The electronic voice in his ear calling out his codename kept him tethered to the present and his filthy, gritty nest where he was hidden from the rest of the world. The lab, the man in gray, this current position—all added up to something better suited for a sci-fi novel. He swallowed the flash of resentment along with his first inclination to tell the voice to shut up. Any disrespect—intended or not—resulted in a painful electrical pulse that would rip through his body without warning. If the infraction was severe, the regular dose of the drug they’d hooked him on would be withheld, making the zap feel like a Swedish massage.

He still hadn’t decided which was worse, being a lab-rat turned operative for some obviously black-ops gig or being addicted to an unknown substance.

“Pointer, report.” The command was accompanied by a minor buzz, not much stronger than a bee sting, but a sufficient reminder of who held the power.

The damned codename made him feel like a dog, but he gave his report, confirming the area remained clear and there had been no sign of the white panel van with a Colorado license plate he’d been ordered to shoot off the interstate. His rifle remained in position as he delivered the update and the only movements on his hillside were the wind teasing the grass over and around his prone body and the nearly imperceptible shift of his breathing.

He wondered how long it would take the officials in the white lab coats to make breathing unnecessary.

It wasn’t as bizarre as it sounded. There were three glass-walled cells in the main lab and the other two hadn’t always been empty. The docs moved him and others in and out, jabbed them as needed and recorded reactions and tolerances.

Whatever else they’d been pumping into him along with the drug that blocked his recollection of his previous life had increased his stamina, reduced his need for sleep, and amped up his observation skills. The first time they’d let him out into the field, the colors, the impact of each image and every distinct sound had hurt like hell. It was as if he’d been trapped in the newest-gen television with the highest clarity and resolution and the best sound system money could buy.

The first time out, with the orders and expectations and the penalties for mistakes, had convinced him he was stuck in this new system. It was obey or suffer, in the lab and out, even if the orders didn’t make sense. He was a grunt, a tool for the man in the gray suit, that much was clear. Showing a glimmer of defiance was akin to courting death.

Only when field ops were quiet like this one, with a full, comforting dose of the drug in his veins, did he recall his previous life and entertain the vague concept of escape. It was a relief to hear a heavier engine in the distance. He needed the distraction.

“Vehicle approaching,” said the voice in his ear. “Verify good target.”

He rattled off the truck description and plate number.

“Good target. Fire.”

He fired. The panel truck jumped up, bounced and tumbled to the opposite side of the road. “Good hit,” he said.

“Confirm no survivors. Clear area and rendezvous on schedule.”

He acknowledged the orders as he packed up his rifle, enjoying the silence as he picked his way down the hill, leaving as little trace as possible. The camouflage that blended into the terrain combined with his enhanced senses, allowing him to be as close to invisible as a man could be. He crossed the highway and approached the wrecked truck.

The scene struck him as familiar, tickling at the edges of his memory much like his name. He didn’t dwell on it, far too aware of the tight window they’d given him to reach the rendezvous point. He would have to run the whole way. If he was late, he’d miss his next dose of the drug.

At the wreck he thought the driver and passenger looked dead enough, but he’d been trained to be thorough. A misinterpretation of the orders, any mistake resulted in pain. He pulled his pistol and put a bullet through the forehead of each man. Holstering the weapon, he set off for the rendezvous point at a quick pace, grateful that whatever they’d done to his body, he could now run for hours without tiring.

*

Lying in the grass next to her camera mounted on the tripod, wildlife photographer Hope Small watched the land below and the sky above through the lens of the smaller camera in her hands. She had excellent shots and unique angles of the sunrise and clouds and was confident many of the shots could be touched up for sale on her website. She expected a few gems could even be enlarged for her next gallery showing.

She had loads of pictures of Cedar waxwings and other year-round bird populations. All she needed were the pictures of the birds the Audubon Society had sent her out here to find. Both the chestnut-collared longspur and the McCown’s longspur migrated across this area of the Crow Indian Reservation. Both longspur varieties were of conservation concern and Audubon believed her photos would give them more insight and raise public awareness. Fortunately, her Native American heritage made it easier to navigate the permits to roam wherever she wished on tribal land.

According to the notes from the birdwatching team that had tracked the migration patterns over the years, she was definitely in the right spot at the right time of year. This was only day three of the waiting game. Hope’s years of experience had taught her that patience was the best tool in her chosen career. Animals didn’t pose and didn’t follow a timetable other than their own. The requested subjects and perfect pictures rarely occurred when it was easy or convenient.

That dogged patience and a keen eye for composition made her one of the best photographers in the field. Even this field, she thought with a snort. She wouldn’t abandon her strengths simply because she’d grown a bit restless and bored on a beautiful spring morning.

She kept an eye on the sky while she listened for the longspurs calls but all she heard was the morning breeze stirring the grass nearby. Moving back to the camera on the tripod, she checked the view, startled by movement at the western edge of her shot. Zooming in as far as the lens allowed, she spotted a man loping into her frame. He was well over six feet—based on how deep his long legs dipped into the grasses—with pale blond hair and fair skin. How weird. She leaned back from the viewfinder, blinked rapidly, and refocused.

No, she wasn’t hallucinating. Wow. It was damn near impossible for a man to be more out of place than this would-be Viking in Crow territory. On a whimsical thought, she mentally dropped him into the same category as a rare white buffalo, chuckling at the stares he would get if he crossed through one of the more populated districts. As long as he didn’t veer closer and interfere with her potential shot of the migrating longspurs, she could ignore the oddity of him out here.

She kept an eye on him and an eye on the area the longspurs should be covering any day now. He had a steady, ground-eating stride that didn’t falter over any variance in the terrain. Remarkable. She’d spent enough time out here to know the grassy meadows were far from smooth. She adjusted the focus and continued watching him as he ran, making the process look too easy. Was he even breathing hard?

Over the years of watching and photographing wildlife around the world, she’d developed a feel for space and distance and this man was maintaining a pace somewhere close to ten miles per hour. Possibly faster, if that was possible. He moved with such grace, not a hitch in his motion. His gait was more appropriate for a smooth-surface running track. Even the best of runners occasionally adjusted stride or shifted to allow for a stone or rut or hollow when training or racing over natural terrain. How was it he knew just where to place each foot?

Was he an ultra-marathoner or extreme runner? During a photography expedition in Africa, she’d met a tribe with several experienced, winning, and aspiring distance runners. They weren’t built anything like this guy.

With an economy of movement honed to prevent startling wary animals, she shifted and continued to follow his progress. Closer now, she could see the item on his back was a rifle. She swore. Poachers were the lowest of lifeforms in her mind, no matter the continent or game they went after. Although he wasn’t carrying a kill, that didn’t mean he didn’t intend to be successful in the near future.

Decided, she pressed the shutter, holding it for a burst as he raced on. Still framed in her hand-held camera, she saw his head turn toward her. Nothing else in his stride changed, but she would have sworn his hard gaze bored right into her soul through the lens. Impossible. A coincidence, and yet a chill slipped over her skin. Her finger jerked into action and she held the shutter down again, hoping she hadn’t missed the opportunity for a full-face picture.

Whoever he was, she would share the incident and the photos with the tribal authorities as soon as she got back to her campsite. They could track him down and confirm that he wasn’t here on some criminal endeavor.

*

Movement to the south, low in the grass caught his attention. Even at this distance he knew it was too big to be a small animal like a rabbit or fox and too low to the ground to be a bigger animal. A person, lying down like a sniper, he thought.

Deep in his gut, he knew he wouldn’t have noticed the motion or made the assessment without the chemical boost from the lab docs. Score one for the black-ops team and methods, he supposed. Whatever they were giving him, he was starting to appreciate the advantages.

‘No witnesses’ was the brutal philosophy of the people who controlled him now. If he ignored the situation and there was a problem down the line, the punishment he’d endure would be worse than being late to the rendezvous point.

He tapped the mic and called it in.

“Pointer, hold course.”

He held course, ran onward. Despite killing two men an hour ago, he enjoyed the air, the sunshine, and the sense of freedom. Enjoyed it more since he had no idea if or when he would be out of his cell again. If they found a way to blame this anomaly on him it could be never.

He’d killed before, on orders from his superiors. The man in the gray suit had told him that, told him he’d served in the military. Although he couldn’t recall his name, the military service felt true and explained a few scars and the random images that flitted through his mind when he heard certain sounds. Being in the military also clarified how comfortable and accurate he was with a gun—any gun.

He didn’t exactly trust the man in gray, but he had nothing reliable in his head to counter the claims.

Now the crap he’d been fed about being convicted of murder felt different. Wrong. Again, no way to counter the assertion, but his gut instinct couldn’t reconcile it. Just in case the murder thing was true, he’d stopped fighting the program at that point, choosing even this twisted-up life over the death penalty.

He endured week after week of injections, training, and testing, learning the system and the responses that resulted in the least amount of pain. And whenever an image that might be from his past flickered at the edges of his mind, he did what he could to hold on to it.

“Pointer, you are re-tasked to investigate and eliminate any witnesses. Officially, you have never been in this area.”

“Understood.”

He didn’t ask about the rendezvous, simply assumed he had to manage this diversion within the allotted time frame or else. He didn’t want the or else, so he ran a little faster. Circling wide around the area where he’d seen the person, he didn’t bother worrying over how he knew precisely where to go in this territory with no real landmarks.

One of the first things they’d drilled into him in training was how much he needed to trust his new abilities as they manifested. Comforting? Not in the least. But the voices in his ear hadn’t hung him out to dry yet.

So he didn’t question how he knew when to turn one way or another, he just let the undefinable intuition guide his feet. The scent came to him first. Female. Her scent blended with the sunshine and spring growth, rising into the air. He slowed down to a walk, honing in on the source.

He reached back for the rifle, prepped it to fire as soon as he was in range.

Something like resistance flared at the back of his mind. He suppressed it. Right or wrong, this was the job. Fresh air or prison? Incredible physical enhancements or intolerable pain? Her death for his life.

His choices were that black and white.

Minutes later and he zeroed in on that softer, mysterious trail teasing his nose. His enhanced vision picked up on the signs and once he understood how she moved, it was as if someone had highlighted the path for him. That was new and more than a little helpful. Maybe those lab docs and field trainers knew what they were talking about after all.

He could see how she’d walked into the field from the north. He paused, assessing. He could follow the path she’d taken toward the grassland, or choose the faint trail that likely led to her campsite.

Only one set of footprints, which meant only one witness to eliminate. That was something positive. He pressed forward. If he had time, he’d find the campsite and destroy it too.