It was Kowalski. He held a Desert Eagle at low ready. The weapon’s .50-cal round must have taken out the front tire.
The truck’s passenger door popped open, and Radic tumbled out. He staggered a few steps, looked in both directions, then dove through the broken fence and into the dark garden.
Goddamn it...
Tucker turned and ran to the gate with the broken chain. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Kowalski sliding over the SUV’s hood on his hip, clearly intending to follow Radic through the broken fence.
Tucker radioed him. “There’s a captive. In the truck. Check on them. Kane and I’ll deal with Radic.”
Tucker dashed into the botanical gardens. Kane kept pace alongside him. Tucker turned to his furry partner. Still gripping the Makarov, he touched two fingers to his own nose, then pointed in the direction that Radic had rabbited away.
“SCENT TRACK,” he ordered.
Kane leaps off the sandy path and into the dark bower of tall trees. He rushes past bushes. He breathes deeply, drawing smells into the very back of his throat and sinuses. After an hour of tracking, the reek of his prey burns brightly behind his eyes. The breeze from the dank river carries that same scent.
He catches it and races along it.
He hears the crash of footfalls behind him as his partner gives chase, too.
Pride fuels him, as does a dark lust. The iron of blood is still on his tongue. His heart hammers with fiery rage. He has not had time to shed that fire. The hunt is still on. He races onward, drawn by the scent as he closes in on his prey.
As he does, a growing pain lances up his right forelimb. He ignores the old injury. It is familiar, known. He refuses to slow.
Especially as branches break ahead of him, drawing him onward.
He hears a panted breath, wheezing with panic.
The bitter salt of fear traces to him.
He aims toward it.
Then comes a faint tinkle of breaking glass—and all sounds muffle away.
Still, he remains confident. He has the trail locked in his nose—then in another three bounds, it all washes away in a single breath.
A sweet, cloying odor fills his senses, wiping out all else.
Kane is forced to slow, knowing he is defeated.
His partner reaches his side.
Kane whines his frustration and shame.
But a hand pats his side.
“It’s okay, Kane.”
Tucker had chased after his partner, following in the shepherd’s wake through a spread of tall trees, flowerbeds, and manicured shrubbery. The path had led into a corner of the park that had been transformed into a Japanese garden, with ponds and arched bridges. A dense grove of cherry trees covered the grounds, all in early bloom. Pink and white petals drifted everywhere, carried on the night breeze. The sweet scent of those blossoms hung heavy in the air.
The smell must’ve overwhelmed and erased Radic’s scent.
Tucker cursed the Serb’s luck.
“Stay with me,” Tucker said and took the lead through the Japanese garden.
After several meters, they finally cleared the cherry grove, but Kane’s nose remained bunged by the heavy saccharine smell. From past experience, Tucker knew it would take the shepherd a few minutes to regain his finer senses.
Still, an obstacle rose ahead of them. It was a towering six-story glass arboretum, one of the garden’s many elaborate greenhouses. It sprawled the length of a football field, enclosing an acre of grounds.
