Free The Hunted by Gloria Skurzynski Page B

thought, as Miguel cut off the path and moved into the woods. After a hundred more feet, he started ducking behind tree trunks, one at a time, slowly and softly moving forward, nothing more than a shadow. Ashley and Jack followed, doing exactly what Miguel did. Underbrush thickened, scraping Jack’s skin. Twigs snapped underfoot. The mysterious smell grew nauseating.
    When they reached an opening, Miguel dropped to his belly and pointed. At first Jack could see nothing, but as he strained forward he made out the shape of a delivery van—dark green and inconspicuous in the midst of all the foliage. Jack motioned for his sister to stay down. Ashley made herself small, her eyes barely clearing the tall grass.
    â€œThat’s not the police,” Jack whispered to Miguel. “Look at the license plate. They’re from Washington State, where Seattle is. No policía.”
    â€œSí.” Miguel nodded, growing tense.
    The tension had nothing to do with Miguel’s concern about police. Devouring the scene in front of him, he stared fiercely, hardly breathing, and Jack knew why. Miguel had heard the magic word Seattle . Jack followed his gaze.
    Two men sat on folding chairs half hidden by a cluster of bushes, casually talking as though they were merely enjoying a vacation in the woods.
    â€œMan, this silence is killin’ me,” one moaned.
    â€œThen next time, moron, remember your headphones. You touch that stereo one more time, and I’ll break your hand off.”
    â€œNo one’s even out here, Terry. What’s the big deal? You think maybe a squirrel’s gonna report me? I hate nature—it’s too quiet. Drives me crazy!”
    â€œWill you stop with the music already? You’re just antsy ’cause it’s taking a lot longer this time,” said the man called Terry, who sat with his left ankle perched on his right knee. He wore wraparound sunglasses, the metallic kind that made it impossible for his eyes to be seen. A Greek fisherman’s hat tilted down so far that its brim touched the top of the sunglasses. His body seemed strong and athletic, but his mouth looked hard.
    â€œI know it. I was thinkin’ maybe the wind’s blowing in the wrong direction,” the other man said. “But you’d figure with that rotten deer over there, you wouldn’t need to depend on a breeze to carry the smell. Whoo, that baby is ripe.” He slapped his knee, maybe for emphasis, maybe hitting a bug. He was bareheaded, with no sunglasses, and young, about mid-twenties, with long, reddish hair so curly it was almost fuzzy. He wore a muscle shirt that might have been white once but was now a dingy gray. His shoulder—the one facing Jack’s direction—was crowded with tattoos.
    Holding her hand over her nose, Ashley pointed past the men to the bloated carcass of a deer, a hundred yards from where the men sat. Why didn’t they move away from that awful smell? It was bad enough to make Jack gag, and the two men were closer to it than he was. What was going on here? Maybe they ought to leave before they were spotted. Silently motioning to Miguel and Ashley, Jack began to back slowly through the trees.
    â€œHey Max, did you hear something?” asked Terry, the man in the hat.
    Had they been seen? Jack, Ashley, and Miguel froze, hardly breathing. Jack’s heart began to bang in his chest. Every muscle stiffened.
    â€œYeah! Maybe this is it,” Max answered quietly. “It’s coming through on the left! I hope it ain’t a big male. Give us a sow with three cubs.”
    Jack’s breath escaped in a puff. They hadn’t been seen. The men were looking off into the woods to the east of them.
    â€œYeah—that’d be luck,” Terry agreed. “I’d settle for two cubs. Two’d be lucky. That’d earn a K for you and a K for me.”
    K? Did they mean a thousand? Dollars? For what? Jack reversed himself and