Tracker by James Rollins Page A

such a chaotic, unstable upbringing, he seemed to have developed an affinity for animals more than humans.
    Still, Gray sensed there was more to the man than just psychiatric evaluations and test scores. At his core, he remained a mystery. Like why he had abruptly left the service, disappearing immediately after being discharged, leaving behind a uniform full of medals, including a Purple Heart, earned after one of the nastiest firefights in Afghanistan—Operation Anaconda at Takur Ghar.
    Gray cut to the chase as time was running out. “Captain Wayne, during your military career, your expertise was extraction and rescue. Your commanding officer claimed there was none better.”
    The man shrugged.
    “You and your dog—”
    “Kane,” Tucker interrupted. “His name’s Kane.”
    A furry left ear pricked at his master’s voice. The small shepherd lay sprawled on the floor, looking drowsy, inattentive, but Gray knew better. His muzzle rested against the toe of Tucker’s boot, ready for any signal from his partner. Gray had read Kane’s dossier, too. The military war dog had a vocabulary of a thousand words, along with the knowledge of a hundred hand gestures. The two were bound together more intimately than any husband and wife—and together, with the dog’s heightened senses and ability to maneuver in places where men could not, the two were frighteningly efficient in the field.
    Gray needed that expertise.
    “There’s a mission,” he said. “You would be well paid.”
    “Sorry. There’s not enough gold in Fort Knox.”
    Gray had prepared for this attitude, readied for this eventuality. “Perhaps not, but when you left the service, you stole government property.”
    Tucker faced him, his eyes going diamond-hard. In that gaze, Gray read the necessity to speak warily, to play the one card he had with great care.
    Gray continued, “It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars and countless man-hours to train a war-service dog.” He dared not even glance toward Kane; he kept his gaze fixed on Tucker.
    “Those were my man-hours,” Tucker answered darkly. “I trained both Kane and Abel. And look what happened to Abel. This time around, it wasn’t Kane who killed Abel.”
    Gray had read the brutal details in the files and avoided that minefield. “Still, Kane is government property, military hardware, a skilled combat tracker. Complete this mission and he is yours to keep, free and clear.”
    Disgust curled a corner of Tucker’s lip. “No one owns Kane, commander. Not the U.S. government. Not Special Forces. Not even me.”
    “Understood, but that’s our offer.”
    Tucker glared at him for a long breath—then abruptly leaned back, crossing his arms, his posture plain. He was not agreeing, only willing to listen. “Again. What do you need me for?”
    “An extraction. A rescue.”
    “Where?”
    “In Somalia.”
    “Who?”
    Gray sized up his opponent. The detail he was about to reveal was known only to a handful of people high in the government. It had shocked him when he’d first learned the truth. If word should somehow reach her captors—
    “Who?” Tucker pressed.
    Kane must have sensed his partner’s growing agitation and let out a low rumble, voicing his own complaint.
    Gray answered them both. “We need your help in rescuing the president’s daughter.”

 
    By James Rollins
    Bloodline
    The Devil Colony
    Altar of Eden
    The Doomsday Key
    The Last Oracle
    The Judas Strain
    Black Order
    Map of Bones
    Sandstorm
    Ice Hunt
    Amazonia
    Deep Fathom
    Excavation
    Subterranean

 
    Copyright
    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
    Excerpt from Bloodline copyright © 2012 by James Czajkowski.
    TRACKER . Copyright © 2012 by James Czajkowski. All rights reserved