Free Tracker by James Rollins Page B

corner stalked a trio of large men, African, with tribal tattoos across their faces. They carried machetes and spread to either side of the empty street with the clear skill of experienced hunters.
    Their target also noted their arrival—igniting his already frightened flight into a full rout—but blood loss and exhaustion had taken their toll. Within a few steps, the victim tripped and sprawled headlong across the street. Though he struck the cobbles hard, he didn’t make a sound, not a whimper or a cry, simply defeated.
    That, more than anything, drew Tucker out of hiding.
    That, and something his grandfather had drilled into him: In the face of inhumanity, a good man reacts —but a great one acts.
    Tucker tapped three fingers against his dog’s side, the signal plain.
    Defend.
    Kane leaped over the prone body of the young man and landed in a crouch on the far side, tail high, teeth bared, growling. The shepherd’s sudden appearance caused all three attackers to stop in shock, as if some demon djinn had materialized before them.
    Tucker used the distraction to fold out of the shadows and close upon the nearest of the three men. In a swift capture of wrist, followed by an elbow strike to the chin, the machete ended up in Tucker’s grip. He flat-handed the man away as the second assailant wielded his blade in a roundhouse swing. Rather than leaping clear, Tucker lunged forward, entering the man’s guard. He caught the deadly arm under his own and snaked his hand fully around the limb and immobilized it. With his other arm, he slammed the butt-end of the steel machete into the man’s nose.
    Bone cracked; blood spurted.
    The man went limp, but Tucker held him upright by his trapped arm.
    From the corner of his eye, he saw the third and largest opponent back away two steps and free a pistol. Tucker swung around, using his captured assailant’s body as a shield as shots rang out. It proved a meager defense at such close range. One of the rounds blasted through his captive’s neck, grazing Tucker’s shoulder.
    Then a scream bellowed.
    Tucker shoved the body aside and saw Kane latched onto the shooter’s wrist, the dog’s fangs digging deep. The pistol clattered to the street. The man’s eyes were round with panic as he tried to shake the shepherd loose. Blood and slather flew.
    Only then did the huge African remember the machete in his other hand. He lifted it high, ready to hack at the dog.
    “Release!” Tucker cried out.
    The command was barely off his lips when Kane obeyed, letting go and dropping back on the street. But the man continued his downward swing at the dog’s neck with a savage bellow. Kane could not get out of the way in time.
    Tucker was already moving.
    Heart pounding, he dove for the abandoned pistol and scooped it up. He shoulder-rolled to bring the weapon up—but he was too slow.
    The machete flashed in the sunlight.
    A gunshot cracked loudly.
    The man crumpled backward, half his skull shattering away. The blade flew away harmlessly. Tucker stared at his pistol. The shot had not come from his weapon.
    Up the street, a new trio appeared. Two men and a woman. Though dressed in street clothes, they all had the stamp of military about them. The leader in the center held a smoking SIG Sauer.
    “See to him.” He pointed to the bleeding young man on the ground. His voice had a slight Texas accent. “Get him to a local hospital and we’ll rendezvous back at the evac point.”
    Despite the concern about the injured man, the leader’s gaze never unlocked from Tucker’s eyes. From the hard contours of his face, the close-cropped black hair that had gone a bit lanky, and the stony edge to his storm-gray eyes, he was definitely military.
    Likely ex- military.
    Not good.
    The leader crossed over to him, ignoring Kane’s wary growl. He offered a hand to help Tucker up.
    “You’re a difficult man to find, Captain Wayne.”
    Tucker bit back any surprise and ignored the offered hand. He stood on his