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Staci moves forward in submission.

Their officer must still be alive, Tanner decided.

Pity.

But there's always tomorrow.

Tanner waited for ten minutes after he heard the last of them before slowly making his way back up toward the edge.

THE CLIMB WAS farther than it looked from below.

It took nearly half-an-hour for Eriko to reach the rocks, pausing only took seek the source of a second, more distant explosion. She was nearly exhausted by the effort.

The sun had just broken the eastern sky as the girl pulled herself up and into the crotch formed by two high boulders. She sat down there, resting her back against one boulder, propping her boots up against the other. She could see a lot from up there, but nothing that gave her any hope.

No sign of Tanner...

But, then, no sign of the hunters, either.

A morning breeze began to sweep the face of the mountain, cold, from the north. Eriko hunkered down in her black fatigue jacket, holding her pistol in her hands, her hands between her thighs, her dark eyes anxiously searching the mountain's face below, for friend or foe, both in vain.

The first, reluctant rays of the sun began to warm the side of her face. Eriko accepted the little gift gratefully, fighting the urge to turn her whole body into the rising light, and thereby turning away from the danger below.

She also resisted the steady, numbing urge to close her eyes. They hadn't gotten much sleep last night, maybe two hours; and that, together with the hard, long run she had made, were beginning to strain her alertness.

She forced herself to sit straighter, not to become comfortable; to keep her eyes moving, and accept the cold morning breeze which fought the sun as a friend which defended her against the deadly lure of calm.

But, mightily as she fought against it, it wasn't many minutes before the slow, faithful rise of the sun and the sinister sense of security it brought took its toll on the artificial habilitations of discipline and training...

And Eriko closed her eyes.

CAPTAIN TANNER WAS well-pleased with the souvenir he had taken from that hunter in the tent: He loved these things.

It had been his weapon of choice in his younger days, when he had hopped the globe with Saint Bartholomew's Group - the barracks room nickname for a (now defunct) band of freewheeling assassins and saboteurs.

Even now, hefting the little hypersonic dart gun in his gloved hand, Tanner couldn't resist a small, wistful smile... Those were the days, goddamnit, those were the days...

He crept forward, silently making his way down the little slope. He froze, kneeling behind an evergreen, and raising a tiny pair of binoculars to his eyes.

After pulling his body up from the abyss, Tanner had, in effect, turned the board around on his pursuers. He was now tracking his trackers, creeping along behind them with a wolf-like agility, shadowing them.

They were about two-hundred feet ahead, spread out among the trees, making their way north toward the summit, in the general direction he had sent Violin.

That wouldn't do.

Tanner tried to make out their officer, but he couldn't tell for sure - Mountain Men wore no rank. He took a half-educated guess, picking a short Caucasian who walked near the center of the trailing squad.
He stole ahead again, moving in a crouch, using the trees for cover, until he came to rest about fifty feet behind them.

He raised the dart gun, leveling its barrel on the one he had chosen, and squeezed the trigger.

TANNER HADN'T GUESSED right.

The target he had chosen was simply a junior noncom, twenty-three year of age.

The frontal bone of his skull exploded outward in a bright red mist. Shattered chunks of his cerebrum, mixed with white bone, sprayed the back of the fatigue jacket of the private to his front.

His comrades spun just in time to see him fall face-first into the damp, mossy forest floor.

Howling in terror, the private desperately shed his sodden jacket, hurling it into the underbrush, before rolling over to clean his bloody hands in the cold dirt, whi

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