Tracker Read Free

rampant.
    And, at the moment, was he on the right side of the law or the wrong ?
    As he stood, he studied the scared eyes of the woman. Her fear seemed genuine, based on confusion and panic. He remembered how she had crossed the plaza, offering so open a target. Whoever she was, she wasn’t some criminal mastermind.
    He had to trust his instincts. One of the reasons he had been paired with Kane was his high empathy scores. Military war dog handlers had a saying— It runs down the lead —describing how emotions of the pair became shared over time, binding them together as firmly as any leash. The same skill allowed him to read people, to pick up nuances of body language and expression that others might miss.
    He stared at the woman and recognized she was in real trouble.
    Whatever was happening was not her fault.
    Committed now, he took her hand and headed quickly for a back alley. His hotel was not far off—the Hilton Budapest, right around the corner. Once he got her stashed somewhere safe, he could figure out what was really going on and do something to end it.
    But first, he needed more information. He needed ears and eyes in the field—and in this case, a nose, too.
    He recovered his cell phone, tapped a button, and radioed a command.
    K ane hears the word in his ear, spoken with authority.
    “TRACK . ”
    He stands and tugs free of the leash, ignoring the clatter of the clasp on the pavement behind him. He slinks behind the bench to where the shadows will hide him. He lifts his nose to the night, senses swelling outward, filling in the world around him with information beyond mere sight, which is keen enough in the dark.
    The ripeness of garbage rises from a pail . . .
    The tang of old urine wafts from the stone wall . . .
    The smoky exhaust of cars tries to wash through it all . . .
    But he stays focused, picking out the one scent he was told to follow. It is a blazing trail through all else: the smell of leather and sweat, the salt of skin, the musky dampness held trapped beneath the long coat as the man walked in front of him.
    He follows that trail now through the air as it hangs like a lighted beacon through the miasma of other scents. He hunts along it from the bench to the stone corner, staying to shadows. He watches the prey come running, circling back into view.
    He slinks low.
    The prey and another man rush past him, blind to him.
    He waits, waits, waits—only then does he follow.
    Belly near the ground, he moves from shadow to shadow until he spots the prey bent over another man. They pick him up, search around, then head away.
    He flows after them, a ghost upon their trail.
    T ucker hurried the woman through the main entrance to the Hilton Budapest. The historic structure was just steps away from the Matthias Church. They had no trouble reaching it unseen.
    He rushed her into the lobby, struck again by the mix of modern and ancient that typified this city. The hotel incorporated sections of a thirteenth-century Dominican monastery, integrating a pointed church tower, a restored abbey, and gothic cellars. The entire place was half modern hotel and half museum. Even the entrance they passed through was once the original façade of a Jesuit college, dating back to 1688.
    He was allowed a room here with Kane because of a special international military passport that declared the dog to be a working animal. Kane even had his own rank—major, one station higher than Tucker. All military war dogs were ranked higher than their handlers. It allowed any abuse of the dogs to be a court martial offense: for striking a superior officer.
    And Kane deserved every bit of his rank and special treatment. He had saved hundreds of lives over the course of his tours of duty. They both had.
    But now they had another duty: to protect this woman and discover what they had stumbled into.
    Tucker led her across the lobby and up to his guest room: a single with a queen-sized bed. The room was small, but the view looked