Rather than taking the obvious route along the road headed in the direction he wanted, he first jogged uphill along the maintenance track for the heavy, overhead power transmission lines. While this took him west of his goal, it hid him from the houses that lined the creekside at the foot of the mountain and he could easily enough dart back across the creek once he got past the houses. A short climb later, he found himself on the access road to Montlake and made his way along the switchback up to the brow of the ridge. As he approached the top, he paused and studied the road ahead.
The road made a shallow curve to the left along the edge of the escarpment, then made a sharp right towards the small lake right on top of the mountain. The problem was that a house stood right in plain view at the curve, commanding an impressive view of the gorge and valley below. Behind it, he made out a second house, meaning that even if he got past the first without being sighted, chances were good someone in the second house might.
He walked back down the road about fifty feet and eased off on the downhill side. The way was steep, but by digging in his claws and making his way from tree to tree, he managed to get past the houses and climb back up to more level ground. By staying under cover of the trees, he slipped past the few other houses at the edge of the bluff and returned to the dirt track leading farther back along the edge of the gorge. He ran more swiftly now, the track mostly hidden under trees as he made his way along it, seeking the trail he knew had to lead up to the fugitive’s hideout.
After following the curve of the trail around the lip of a wash and trotting about another quarter mile, he found what he was looking for. Headed steeply uphill, an almost obscured Jeep trail angled back from the edge of the gorge, and he knew from the maps that the trail passed only about a hundred feet or so from the house. He climbed to the top of the rise and stopped, listening and sniffing for any sign of humans in his vicinity. Confident he’d not been sighted yet, he crouched down and, moving on all fours, made his way closer to the house.
He could see the house through the trees, now. A small lawn, not so much mown as trampled and mashed by the two vehicles he saw in the driveway, gave him a clear view of the near side. The back appeared to have a small patch of grass while trees stood almost against the other side. The vehicles were typical utility vehicles, one a battered two wheel drive pickup truck and the other a slightly newer enclosed model, both qualifying as antiques but by no means in any visible condition to have value to anyone but their owners. Just then a man came out the side door of the house. The fugitive.
Tracker eased closer, staying down in a four-footed guise in an attempt to deceive his quarry into believing him simply a big dog. He stopped at the edge of the trees and prepared to spring forward, planning to bring the fugitive down and handcuff him before his quarry knew what was happening. Just as he was tensing his legs, the fugitive spotted him.
“Hey! Jim,” he called back towards the house. “Take a look at this big dog out here!”
“What ya got, Bo?” Through the open door, Tracker saw a second man emerge, carrying a shotgun. “That ain’t no dog. That’s a wolf or somethin’!” With that, Jim raised the shotgun and fired a blast towards Tracker. Fortunately, because his brother stood between Tracker and the gun, he had to aim high, the pellets rattling through the leaves well over his head. Tracker turned and darted back under the trees, putting several boles between himself and the shotgun.
“Shit! That ain’t no wolf either. He’s wearing clothes!”
“Get in the truck, Bo. We’re getting out of here!”
“You’re under arrest!” Tracker shouted. “Come out with your hands up!”
“Come and get us, mutt,” the shotgun wielder yelled back, loosing another spray of buckshot in his direction. A moment later he heard glass breaking. A rifle barked, the bullet smacking into the trunk of a tree just to his left. He scanned the house more closely. Jim, still at the door, was reloading the shotgun and hollering back into the house for someone else. Bo, meanwhile, headed for the utility truck in an attempt to escape again.
Charging up his force field, Tracker drew his sword and dashed into the clearing, diving to put the truck between himself and the gunmen. A quick stab with his blade through the sidewalls flattened both near side tires of the truck. He scrambled around to the front and pierced one of the front tires of the pickup as well before running across the front of the house in an effort to avoid the gunfire at the side. Bullets spattered the ground behind his paws as a third weapon opened up, sounding like a light machine gun.
He dived into the trees at the north side of the house and moved far enough back that the occupants wouldn’t see him yet let him see the yard. Grabbing the police radio from his belt, he called in. “Captain Saynor, Tracker here. Fugitive is where you expected him. Am under fire. Minimum three additional men with rifles and automatic weapons. How soon can you get up here?”
“I can have an aircar up there in five minutes.”
“No good, Captain. No place to land without getting shot at.”
“Ground cars will take about fifteen minutes; maybe longer.”
“Roger. Request permission to call the Defenders for immediate backup.”
“Granted, Tracker. Don’t let them escape.”
“Wilco.” Tracker keyed up his Defenders comm. “Tracker to Defenders. Under fire near Montlake at Soddy. Requesting airborne backup able to take fire. No room to land vehicles.”
“Tracker, this is Base. How many targets?”
“Minimum four, three armed with rifles and automatic weapons. I’ve managed to prevent them from escaping by car, but I can’t take them out alone.”
“Roger, Tracker. Sending duty team to your coordinates.”
“Roger. Switching to homing beacon.”
