CHAPTER 1

ALASKA, THE DENALI NATIONAL PARK PRESERVE was whatit was called now. The name had gone through some changes. First itwas called Mount McKinley National Park in 1917. Then it was calledDenali National Monument in 1978.

He knew all of the names and studied the place well. He had to;it was what he did all his life. He always researched his environmentsanywhere he traveled, slept, or worked. Today was a workday.

He speculated, how did Mr. Burrows see him make the movetoward him? Was he getting old at this? No, he was only thirty yearsold. Was he getting sloppy? Yes, he was getting careless.

He'd been doing this job for ten years and trained for it five yearsearlier than that. He'd been doing this his whole life; don't get shoddynow. His superiors taught him better.

Maybe a grizzly bear or wolf will do his job for him? He laughed.Highly unlikely, he figured, given the circumstances that these animals,though vicious and huge, stayed away from humans, and it was themiddle of the day. It brought him back to the reality that he was goingto have to see this one through.

He ran over another honeydew grassy hill hoping to see Burrows.Nothing yet. There were only more rolling lush hills with miles of a teagreen tundra.

He was surprised how fast he could sprint in his heavy black snorkelparka. Yes, he was still conditioned. He had to concentrate on histracking.

His hunting skills were impeccable. His occupation at huntinghumans might sound insane to most, but one had to look at it throughhis eyes. He saw the target as not human but more like a vermin. Thinkabout it, he considered. What do I do when I need pest control? What doI do to prevent diseases? A pest to the fabric of his organization had tobe dealt with so the disease won't spread. Believe, he assumed, it worksand has worked many times.

He had been on dozens of missions before. For ten years hespecialized in baiting, camouflaging, flushing, scouting, and trappinghumans in the wilderness and civilized situations alike. He named hishuman hunts either big game or predator.

This hunt today was big game. It was big game because the individualbeing hunted wasn't skilled enough to escape. He may fight back, butwith only futile results of his demise.

A predator hunt was skilled in what he was skilled in. The only edgehe had was they usually didn't know he was coming.

The predator hunts were agents expelled from the association—rogue,awol, individuals of that nature.

This institute was run like the mafia; there was no getting out, thiswas his life. They told all the agents of this in the beginning.

He wondered, if he was to quit, was there an agent better than he,on the hunt for him? No time to think about that right now; he had awild rabbit to catch and the farmers, his superiors, were nervous.

He could see his exhaust in front of him smoothing out now. Hewas in his rhythm and warm in the ten degree weather.

When he ran to the top of the next hill, he stopped for a second andchecked his bearings.

The hills ended about a mile ahead of him, as far as he could see.In all directions there was nothing but flat gray grass that seemed togo on endlessly. The powder blue sky with white long clouds scatteredeverywhere would have been a spectacular view if he cared.

He smiled, not because of the view, but because he spotted hisrabbit, Mr. Burrows. "Get it," he whispered, "rabbit—burrows."

He pulled his SIG Sauer P226 9mm from his jacket and took aim.He seemingly could have hit him from this distance, about a mile away.He watched at the tip end of the black gun, Burrows run from his coverof the hills across the level grass. He moved his gun past Burrows tostudy his direction of flight.

Then he saw it. The small forest was about two or three miles east ofBurrows' position. The many slender cylindrical evergreen trees calledwhite spruce were spread wide from each other.

It didn't make a good hiding place, but used right and with the rightskills, could lift your chance of survival, just a little. He knew Burrowslacked that skill. Just in case, though, why wait to find out?

He only had about eight more hills to run over. Then he'd have aclearer shot, and judging his speed over Burrows, he'd get him probablybefore his chances were raised.

He put away his gun and sprinted ahead.

The first two hills were easy; he jetted over them in about twentyseconds. The next few were taller and more evenly spaced out. They wereharder to run over, but he pushed on.

He jogged six miles every other day when he wasn't on a mission.This is nothing, he kept thinking. The only strain he felt was adrenalin;the thrill of the hunt, and he was excited.

Every time he made it to the top of a hill he could feel himselfclosing in on his prey. He was sure Burrows felt it, too, death creepingupon him as he reached the crest of another hill.

He saw the rabbit glancing back as it sprinted.

Three more hills to go. Two. One.

He felt like shooting him from atop the final hill. The clear high openshot was tempting, but using his better judgment he thought against it. Itwas a sure kill, but to shoot on the flat ground in a direct line, of coursethe chances were greater for a hit on the first shot. A straight line frompoint A to B, mathematically always reach his destination quicker.

When he reached the hill's end, he pulled his handgun out again.

Strange, he pondered; the man hadn't made it far, he guessed abouta little more than a half mile and about two miles from the forest. Heknew the guy was overweight, but he wasn't that fat. He felt he himselfwas just that fit and Burrows wasn't used to this sort of exercise. Hesmirked, his bad luck.

Aiming, he fired his pistol. In the distance he watched the mandrop.

Damn, he was going to have to shoot him again, he realized. Heaimed at his head, but the bullet hit him in the back. He saw feathersflutter up in the air from the rear of the man's coat before he fell. Fromthis distance the velocity of the bullet arched from the effect of gravity.It apparently didn't go deep enough because Burrows was struggling toget up. He might have miscalculated his ratio of miles. Burrows couldhave been a mile away. This flat, almost endless terrain sometimes canplay tricks on the eye.

He jogged toward his injured target; he had to get this over with.This was still a civilian park, and a ranger could pop out anywhereat any time. Also someone might have heard the loud bang from thefirearm. Hopefully not; he felt the gun didn't give off an echo thoughthe mountains were just far enough away.

As he trotted, the ground was slushy beneath his feet, and his rabbitleft no tracks. Like his rabbit's, his own footprints disappeared. His bootsslipped ankle-high under the tall grass. Marsh mixed with frozen dirtysnow sloshed about, slowing his trot a bit. Now he knew why Burrowsdidn't move as fast as he thought. After running over all those hills he hadto make it past this almost unseen swamp before entering the forest.

Moving his pace to a walk, he found Burrows crawling through themuddy shrubs.

Burrows, who wore a dark blue snorkel jacket, tried to crawl as fastas he could, but just kept stumbling in the mud face-first, turning hisentire wardrobe black and soggy.

He noticed, Burrows, realizing he was walking beside him, stoppedand turned on his side huffing and puffing, his breath shooting out likesteam on a nineteenth century locomotive.

"What ... I." Burrows coughed spitting up blood onto the mud."What I leave ... behind will be woven." He hacked some more. "... willbe woven into the lives of others." He breathed in deeply, trying to catchhis wind.

Standing over Burrows, he aimed his gun at the man's head. Thegun felt funny in his gloved hand as a cold wind whipped around him,making his thick pants flutter. Maybe he felt the cold now because thepursuit was over—no more adrenalin fix.

"A taste for truth ..." Burrows rambled on, "... at any cost is apassion—"

He shot him in the head. The bullet made a quarter size hole inBurrows's temple, shutting him up indefinitely. He lay there still on hisside in the mud as if he were asleep. Blood poured out of the hole togush slowly down the right side of his mudded face.

The truth is common people need not know about it; they couldn'thandle it, he contemplated. Just like Burrows here. It was amazing hegot this far. Burrows, throwing the hot coffee into his face back at thebase, was a daring move, but it only bought him time.

He dropped his 9mm onto the grass next to the body. Bendingdown, opening the lapel of the coat, he searched through the innerpockets. The gray flash drive was in the left pouch. He took it out,smirked, then held it in the air probing it.

What truths were on here for the world to see? He didn't even know.He didn't care. His job was to track and retrieve.

He stuffed the thumb drive into his right pocket. He was superstitiousabout putting things in the same pocket as a dead man.

He walked out of the marsh from where he had came, leaving hisgun behind. Taking into account, he considered, if detectives findthe body, they won't have to search far to find out whom the weaponbelonged to. That would be considering the elements or animals don'tget to the remains first. The weapon was registered to a state trooper whoreported it was stolen two days earlier. Who knows maybe authoritieswill see it as a suicide.

He shivered, not because of the act he just committed, but becauseof the cold. It was ten degrees, but the wind made it feel as if it was tenbelow. He jogged over the hills again back to the highly secure militarybase FG2.

To the public, FG2 was known as CRC, Cyberspace RegulationsCenter. The place was supposed to keep the Internet safe from majorhackers of government-owned firms, domestically and globally. Part ofit did; most of it didn't.

If someone was to investigate, they would find that the place wasfunded by S&T, Under Secretary for Science and Technology. Thecenter, to him known as FG2, Fort Greely II, was also funded by andan extension of Fort Greely a army launch site for anti-ballistic missiles.Now what did that have to do with cyberspace? Nothing, he pondered.

Think about something else other than the cold, he kept deliberating.The late Burrows got a pretty good jump on him for him to jog all thisway back to the center, a couple of miles to be exact. Burrows had somekind of sixth sense when he moved toward him in the cafeteria.

Burrows usually had lunch around one o'clock when everybody elsewas finished, then stepped outside for his lone afternoon walk. He wasgoing to grab Burrows at that time, and make it look like he was shotin front of the facility.

The center weeks earlier had some threats made by some new farleft-wing Green Party radicals. They claimed the CRC was just puttogether to spy on citizens' home computers. They alleged CRC hiredthe best hackers in the world, and was funded by the S&T, which wasfunded by Homeland Security.

They had been right. CRC was also funded by his directors,something the Green Party he assumed didn't know.

His superiors then formulated a plan on how Mr. Burrows wasgoing to die. Green Party revenge.

Burrows must have figured someone was after him, the way hejumped at him. He had to give the guy a little credit. He did manageto chase him for miles out here in the cold.

He did for a minute wonder why his directors wanted this thumbdrive so badly. He didn't know if it was stolen or did Burrows own it.It didn't matter, and he didn't care; all he knew, he was on a missionmost people seldom traveled.

Most missions he took, if he had to tell anybody about them, he'dhave to kill them. His name was secret, as were his benefactors.

As he continued back to the facility, he reached into his left pocketand took out a small old salt bottle, one he stole from a diner beforetaking the job. He poured some salt into his gloved hand, then threwthe salt over his shoulder. Stuffing the bottle back into his pocket,he felt for another small object. Though he could hardly feel the softrabbit's foot in his thick gloved hand, he imagined it. Just the idea thathe knew the charm was there brought him comfort. He sighed; anotheroperation well done.

CHAPTER 2

NZINGHA CHELSEA stood next to many full-glass ceiling to floorwindows on the sixtieth floor, the last floor of the East ImpendingTower. Her eyes closed, she faced a window already knowing the RhodesState Office Tower, LeVeque Tower, and Scioto River were there. Sheclosed her eyes with her head up and hands behind her back as if shewere smelling the sweet air. She wasn't; she was meditating in deepthought.

She couldn't deny that she felt a little prevailing, though throughher actions many people thought of her as modest. Her twin glasscylindrical towers were the tallest in all of Ohio and her black CarolinaHerrera pants suit she wore today was custom made. Anyone in herposition would feel this way—commanding.

She stood in the large conference room with prestige as if she ownedOhio, as if she owned the world. Without a doubt she was the richest self-madewoman on the globe, and she had done it through technology.

Antimatter-propelled police vehicles in Columbus glided aboutbelow her. Police automobiles floating three feet off the ground, void ofwheels, were now in every major city in the United States. It had takentwo years to do this.

Many American scientists considered her company physicistsgeniuses when they unlocked the problem in the physics of antiparticlesannihilated with matter giving off energy for centuries. Now Columbus,Cleveland, and Cincinnati's electric power grids were replaced byChelsea Energy.

Scientists at the DOE, United States Department of Energy, saidthey were some kind of baryogenesis masterminds. Along with theCentral Intelligence Agency, the DOE wanted to interrogate her people,but Chelsea allowed no such thing. She owned the largest law firm inAmerica, and she was prepared for a vicious battle for privacy.

The government knew this and backed away for now. The UnitedStates Government had many tricks up their sleeves, like the renownedPatriot Act bill. Chelsea Industries, for now, was proven to be noterrorist, and side transactions like working exclusively with the DOEslowed government action toward the company.

Other things jumbled her thoughts as she waited in the large whiteround conference room. This was the largest meeting room in thebuilding and the least visited.

A huge white donut-like table sat in the center with twenty-threegreen rolling chairs evenly spaced out around it. The room's clean whitefloor sparkled and ceiling alike. Above and equal to the size of the tablea huge round mirror reflected the image below, causing an illusion ofa hole in the ceiling.

Usually her assistants and executive managers were here first,waiting on her, but today was different. She wanted to ponder on thebattlefield before the battle. Like an ancient maiden warrior, she casedthe landscape alone before the great crusade.

Opening her eyes to look out the window, she noticed she was evenhigher than the late afternoon sun as it raced toward the west horizon.She truly felt domineering, just this day.

This important meeting was classified from most of her staff. Thelast time she had a meeting here, three years earlier, was about herantimatter energy. She had secret discussions on how to release it to thepublic, the press, the world. Today she was repeating the same thing.

Then, to talk about classified, brings back memories of a man, a fewyears ago, named Maddox Mathews, a.k.a. Mathew Mathews, a.k.a.maybe FBI agent, a.k.a. probably CIA. The spy who managed to get closeto her worked for an advertising company called Alona.

Alona in which was still a part of the Chelsea Company claimed tobe totally flabbergasted about the situation and apologized many timesthat they hired such a man. Till this day she didn't know if she fullybelieved them or not.

Then, on the subject of believing, several years ago, she wonderedif what her stepfather told her was the truth. She asked him, "didyou have anything to do with an assassin within my company killingindustrialists in competitive corporations of Chelsea, resulting in mytakeovers?"

Her stepfather told her, "yes, a hired gun within my company wassent to the States to infiltrate your firm."

There were rumors; the purpose was to make her company growrapidly. The motive on why this individual wanted her to grow wasunclear. Someone wanted to spread her technology quicker—maybe—butwhy? Nigerian authorities with his personal investigators were inspectingthe matter.

Her stepfather claimed no hand in the incident and was shocked asshe was when he heard of such things. He'd been investigating for twoyears and had come up with nothing. She wondered at first if she shouldbelieve her stepfather. She speculated if the conspirator was he himself.It would have been his motive to push his only daughter's endeavors.