PROLOGUE WOLF
POINT, MONTANA, 1998. The wash of moonlight through the trees shadowed the
underbrush and speckled the arms and legs of the three darting figures in
an eerie glow. In and out of the slats of light they moved, swiftly,
urgently, without a sound. The biting chill of the night air lashed
against the few patches of revealed flesh on their faces, but they had no
time to think of such things. The road. Get to the road. Taut young
bodies, made fit through hours of training and drills, had learned to shut
out the burning strain that now crept through their limbs. Two weeks of
subzero temperatures had left the wooded floor a hardened mass of soil and
roots, uneasy footing; even so, they were making excellent time. Another
ten minutes and they would be through.
None of the three, however, had fully considered the options
beyond that. They knew only that they would be alone, outside the
compound, far removed from the near-idyllic world they had inhabited for
the past eight years—a place where young boys and girls had learned to
excel, to challenge themselves, all the while content to be a part of the
whole. Insulated and surrounded by others of “equal promise,” reared
for a purpose, a destiny. It was what the old man had taught the children,
what they themselves believed. Memories of lives before
Montana—families, friends, places—had long ago faded. Everything and
everyone they needed had always been here. There had been no reason to
look elsewhere.
No reason until the three had begun to see beyond the rote commands,
beyond the need to please. Perhaps they had simply come of age. Young
girls grown to women. Whatever the reason, they had come to understand
what the old man expected of them, what he expected of everyone. And it
had confused and frightened them. No longer willing to accept without
question, they had begun to talk among themselves. They had begun to raise
questions.
“You are not meant to ask,” he had said. “You are meant
to do. Is that clear?”
“We don’t understand,” they had answered.
The punishment had been quick and severe. “A kind reminder,” he had
told them. But it had not been the days without food, the days shut away
and beaten that had caused them to question the world they had known for
so long, nor even the none-too-subtle hint that they might somehow be
expendable should their concerns ever arise again. It had been his answer:
“You are not meant to ask. . . . You are meant to do.” Autonomy
stripped away in a single phrase. And still they had wondered. Had that
been the message all along? Had that been what he had trained them to
believe? No. They knew there was no challenge in that, no inducement to
excel—only the brutality of the threat.
And so they had decided to run.
They had left just after midnight. Silent jaunts from
separate cabins had brought the three of them to the gate, the youngest,
at fourteen, with a genius for things electronic; she had taken care of
the trip wires, a simple matter of misdirection to give them just enough
time to slip through the fence and into the cover of the trees.
Nonetheless, there had been a moment of near panic, a guard appearing not
more than twenty yards from them just as the two thin beams of light
disengaged. Each girl had frozen, facedown in the brilloed grass; but he
had moved on, unaware of the three figures lying within the shadows.
Evidently, their jet black leggings, turtlenecks, and hoods kept them well
hidden.
Now, the first minutes into the woods were passing with
relative ease. A few sudden ruts in the soil ripped at their ankles,
branches everywhere tore into the soft flesh of their cheeks, but they
were moving—an undulating column of three bodies dipping and slashing
its way through the onslaught. The intermittent streaks of light were
making the ruts easier to see; they were making everything easier
to see. One guard on the deep perimeter and they knew they would have
little chance of making it through. They had hoped for pitch-black, or
perhaps even a heavy cloud cover. No such luck. At least the downhill
gradient was helping to propel them along.
Coming into a small clearing, the last of the trio was the
first to hear it. Distant at first, then with greater urgency, the sound
of pursuit. For a moment, she thought it might be an echo, but the cadence
was uneven, the tempo accelerating with each step. There was no need to
tell the others. They had heard it as well. As one, they quickened their
pace, arms and legs less controlled, knees buckling under the strain. With
a sudden burst, beams of light began to crisscross the trees around them,
instinct telling them to bend low, lead with their heads as they pushed
through the mad swat of limbs that clawed at their faces with even greater
intensity.
“Split,” whispered the girl at the front, loudly enough
for the others to hear. They had talked about it weeks ago, had understood
that one of them had to get through, explain what was going on inside.
Their best chance for that would be alone, apart. One by one, they flared
out, no time even to glance back at one another, no place for such
thoughts. The road. Get to the road. A moment later, the first
barrage of gunfire erupted overhead.
A stooped figure stared out into the night sky, hands clasped to his chest
in an attempt to gain a bit of added warmth. The thin cardigan draped over
his ancient shoulders had been the only piece of clothing at hand when the
message had come through. For some reason, though, he was enjoying the
cold, perhaps as penance for his failure. The young ladies had compromised
the fence, just as he had predicted. The team was closing in; and yet, he
felt only the loss. He had hoped they would have learned. He had never
liked these moments, the few occasions when fate forced him to hunt down
his own. The three boys in Arizona. The two in Pennsylvania. And now this.
Especially at so crucial a moment. There was no time for such
distractions. But then, what other choice was there? They had been
foolish. They had failed to understand. Or perhaps he had failed to
awaken them to the possibilities.
A voice crackled through the radio clutched in his hand.
“We’re closing in on two of them. Do we shoot to kill?”
The old man slowly drew the radio to his mouth. “You are to
stop them. You are to bring them back.” The delivery precise,
meticulous, without a trace of emotion. “The method is unimportant.” There must always be a place for sacrifice. The words
he had read so long ago, whose truth he had accepted without question,
once again flooded back. Somehow, though, their certainty could never
explain why it was always the ones with the greatest gifts, the ones with
the greatest promise, who ultimately disappointed. Fate seemed to be
mocking him at every turn.
Several shots rang out, angry streaks through a silent sky.
He waited, eyes fixed on the distant trees, the wide expanse shrouded in
darkness. A moment later, silence. It was finished. He nodded and turned
to the house, aware of the light flicking on inside the first-floor guest
room. He had hoped not to awaken any of his visitors. He had hoped not to
trouble them with tonight’s little episode. No matter. They had always
understood. They had never disappointed. They would understand again.
The first volley strafed across a tree not more than five feet from her,
the bark ricocheting in all directions, a single piece glancing off her
thigh as she dove to the ground. An instant later, a second burst rifled
past her, the bullets seemingly inches from her head. Every instinct told
her to scream, her throat too tight to offer little more than gasps of
air, her chest heaving in abject terror. She wanted to move, but again a
wave of bullets sliced into a nearby tree. The road. Get to the road. She
tried to remind herself that she had been trained for such things, had
spent nights in the freezing cold preparing herself for such moments, and
yet now, with her own life hanging in the balance, she lay frozen, unable
to move, unable to think. The road had become a hollow refuge amid the
frenzy around her.
Another wave erupted, this time accompanied by a muted shriek
off to her left; she turned, and a moment later watched as a figure
staggered out from behind a tree. There, hands held out at her side, eyes
wide, stood the youngest of the trio, a strange smile etched across her
face. She looked dazed, almost peaceful, swaying ever so slightly with
each step. It was impossible not to stare at her, the moonlight cutting
across her torso, her entire body streaked with blood as she moved up the
incline. She was reaching for a branch to steady herself when a final hail
of bullets drove through her tiny frame, almost lifting her off the ground
before collapsing her into a pile at the base of a tree. Only her arms,
thin reeds draped around the trunk, lent the image a human quality.
Every flashlight seemed to zero in on the lifeless mass;
instantly, figures appeared higher up on the incline, making their way
down to the kill. For several seconds, the girl who had witnessed the
macabre scene stared at her friend’s corpse, unable to tear herself
away. Finally, though, after what seemed an eternity, she sprang to her
feet and clambered through the rapid descent of trees and underbrush, her
fingers digging deep into the soil to grant herself an added leverage. She
could give no thought to the lights that, almost at once, cascaded all
around her, her only image the vague outline of a border, the road beyond
drawing her closer and closer.
The first of the bullets pierced her upper arm, the momentary
shock blocking out the surge of pain that, seconds later, drove up through
her stomach and ignited her flesh in icy flame. The next tore into her
thigh, jolting her legs out from underneath her, her torso and head dashed
to the rock-hard ground, pummeling her body over roots and gnarls until
her chest collided with the trunk of a tree.
And then silence.
She lay perfectly still, aware of the racing activity behind
her, her eyes focused on the strip of road not more than fifteen feet
beyond her. The road. A gleam of light appeared in front of her, her first
thought the flashlights from above. With what little strength she had, she
raised herself up and turned toward her pursuers, expecting to feel the
probing glare of their high beams on her face. Instead, she saw only
darkness. For a moment, she didn’t understand; she then turned back.
Lights on the road. Lights from a car. The pain in her leg now pulsed
throughout her left side, but still she forced herself to crawl along the
ground. The grassy embankment lay just beyond the tree line, only a few
feet from her grasp. She looked to her right and saw the headlights bob up
from the distance, the car now no more than a quarter of a mile from her.
She tried to stand, but her leg would not respond.
The last wave of bullets drove into her back and pinned her
to the embankment. Strangely enough, she did not feel them. Instead, they
seemed to lift the pain from her body, the grass now warm, inviting, the
lights bathing her in a soft caress. Everything weightless, still. Numb,
save for the sweet taste of blood on her lips.
“And there was nothing you could do?” asked the old man. “The driver
pulled over before you could get there? You had no chance to retrieve the
body?”
“None.”
“I see.” He shifted the pillow under his back and took a
sip of water from the glass at his bedside table. “And the two
others?”
“Secured.”
He nodded. “You say she was dead?”
“Yes.”
“But not when the driver arrived?”
“I said I couldn’t confirm—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted, the first signs of
frustration in his tone. “You said you could not confirm that a
sixteen-year-old girl whom you had just shot several times in the back was
dead.”
“If she wasn’t dead when he arrived, she was dead within
a minute. At most.”
“Marvelous.”
“It was an absolute fluke that the car—”
“Do not try to excuse your incompetence. You permitted her
to get within five feet of that road. Fluke or not, the car was there.
Which means that our young lady friend is now at some hospital, some
morgue, or some police station, under the watchful eye of one of our local
law-enforcement specialists. Not exactly what I had asked of you.”
Silence. “You will leave here at once. All of you. Weapons, clothing.
You will see to it that the grounds are taken care of. No tracks. I want
nothing that might lead them here. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“You will then remove yourself until I call upon you. Is
this also understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The old man sat back against the pillow, the
brief tirade at an end. “Your mistakes, of course, will not be
impossible to correct. Difficult, yes, but not impossible.” He nodded.
“Still, you did well with the other two.” The younger man nodded.
“That is, perhaps, worth something.”
A minute later, the old man lay alone in the dark, his eyes
heavy, though as yet unable to rekindle sleep. A fluke, he thought.
Only a fluke. How many times had he heard it? Once again, fate
has played her ace. Drifting off, he knew it would be her last.
