Read Online Hunted by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online Page A

They’re all armed, Rick. Pistols, mostly. Carried in shoulder rigs or high up on the belt, like the feds do. They got fancy communications equipment. I never seen nothin’ like it. Little bitty portable fold-out satellite dishes. And money ain’t no object.” He spat on the ground. “That’s what leads me to believe they’re government people.”
    Rick looked pained. “I work for the government, Chuck.”
    â€œThat’s different. You’re one of us ... in most ways. I figure at least three of these people are military types. Haircuts, bearing, and mannerisms. Something is goin’ on in the wilderness, Rick. And I don’t like it.”
    â€œThey could be moving against Sam Parish and his bunch.”
    â€œThat’s possible, but I don’t think that’s it. I just get the feeling these people come from a lot of different federal agencies. And I don’t think they’re workin’ together. I think they’re workin’ at cross-purposes.”
    Rick studied the older man’s face for a moment. “You’re not telling me everything, Chuck. Come on, give.”
    â€œEver’ goddamn one of these feds, and that’s what they are, goddamn feds, asked the same type of question. Is there a man between twenty-five and thirty years old, five-ten to six feet, livin’ alone near here? I didn’t tell ‘em jack-shit! I hate the fuckin’ feds, Rick. No offense, but I ain’t got no use for them. You work for the government; you have to cooperate with ‘em. But I don’t. They can all kiss my ass! If a man wants to live alone or with his family out in the big lonesome, long as he don’t break no laws, he’s got a right to be left alone with his beliefs. The goddamn government ain’t got no business stickin’ their goddamn fuckin’ noses in his business.”
    â€œI agree with you,” the voice came from behind the men and spun them around.
    â€œWhere the hell did you come from?” Rick asked.
    The man smiled. “My truck developed a flat tire about a mile down the road. I find that my spare is also flat. Careless of me. Do you have any sort of portable compressor?”
    â€œAre you another goddamn federal agent?” Chuck demanded.
    The man laughed. “No, ’fraid not. I’m a wildlife photographer. The name is Johnny Mack.”
    * * *
    Darry left his hybrids at the cabin and went for his weekly romp with the wolf pack that had settled into the area. But they were tense and nervous, and they signaled danger to him. Darry walked among them—being careful not to get between the alpha male and female—and they all began to settle down. Normally, a pack would not tolerate an outsider. But with Darry, they knew he posed no threat to them; indeed, he was an asset to the pack, for when he was as them, he warned the pack what areas to stay out of and which were safe for a night hunt. The alpha female signaled “follow me,” and the pack took off in single file, with Darry bringing up the rear.
    They ran for several miles, staying in the brush and on safe trails the pack had checked out and scented as their own. The female led the pack up a grade and behind some rocks on a ridge overlooking a long valley. She bellied down, and the others followed suit, Darry beside her. Darry had named this female Rodica, after a girl he had known back in the village where he was born. Both Rodicas were lovely.
    Neither the wolves nor Darry were winded. Darry had not even broken a sweat during the several mile run.
    Darry looked out over the valley and immediately saw why the wolves had told him there was danger. He could see two teams of men working slowly through the wide valley. He uncased his binoculars, adjusted for view, and studied the men. He had never seen them before. They moved like hunters. Not game hunters: man hunters. Professional warriors.
    He lowered the glasses and