Hunted (4 page)

Walking back through the snow at night seemed to take ten times as long as it had on the way out. The sky was almost pitch-black now, except for the stars clearly visible overhead. The temperature was dropping steadily, and the chill of the Arctic cut through Hamilton’s parka like icy knives. If only he knew more about navigating by the stars, he’d have a better chance of making it out of here alive. But astronavigation hadn’t exactly been a high priority on Eisenhower Holt’s training regimen. Hamilton could have been walking in circles for hours and he wouldn’t have even noticed.

He looked back down and was startled to see a light not too far ahead of him, bobbing up and down. A flashlight! Hamilton started for it, picking up speed as he went. Maybe his family was looking for him. But as he drew closer, he slowed down. The man in front of him wasn’t wearing a purple parka. Whoever it was, it wasn’t another Holt.

“Hello?” Hamilton called.

The flashlight beam swept over and landed directly on him. Hamilton shielded his eyes and squinted, trying to see the man’s face, but it was hidden behind a black ski mask. He couldn’t even be sure the person was male.

For a moment, the two stared at each other, standing motionless in the night. Then the man turned and started running away.

“Hey!” Hamilton called. “Hey, wait!” He started after the figure, though the wind was blowing harder now, and Hamilton had to struggle against it to keep going. This person had to be one of the backpackers Eisenhower saw earlier.

Of course, the guy didn’t seem too interested in helping Hamilton. It pained Hamilton to admit it, but maybe his father was right. Maybe that group had been other Cahill agents, trying to beat the Holts to the Clue.

As he ran through the Arctic night, Hamilton fought an intense battle with the wind and the snow just to keep going. The man was several paces ahead, just out of reach, and the way he moved through the snow told Hamilton he had a lot of practice with navigating frozen climates.

“Wait!” Hamilton yelled again. “I just — want to talk!” He was starting to gasp for every breath. Slogging through the snow on beat-up snowshoes was wearing him out, in spite of his Holt training. Hamilton could sprint for miles in the sun without slowing down, but the cold seemed to draw the strength right out of him. His sides were splitting, a feeling Hamilton hadn’t experienced since he ran his first marathon at the age of eight. Whoever this person was, his training rivaled even Eisenhower’s.

But Hamilton would not give up. He couldn’t. This man was his only chance of escaping the Arctic.

He wasn’t sure how long they ran. Hamilton’s vision was a little blurry. Sweat was starting to drip from his brow, and the longer he ran, the less chilly he felt. In fact, his body was getting unpleasantly warm inside the parka now. But Hamilton didn’t dare take it off. He’d have to discard it to keep up the pace, and if he left his parka behind, he’d die in the cold as soon as he stopped running.

And then, without any warning, the man in front of Hamilton disappeared.

Ham ran a few more steps, then slowed to a stop, squinting into the darkness. The man he was chasing had been holding a flashlight, which made it easy for Hamilton to stay with him, but now the light was gone. Ham’s eyes readjusted to the dark, trying to see into the inky blackness of the snowscape around him.

No. He couldn’t be gone. He
couldn’t
be. Another unfamiliar sensation gripped Hamilton’s heart, as if an invisible hand had reached through his chest and started squeezing. It was panic. He was alone in the Arctic, and he’d completely lost any sense of where he was going. Hamilton was utterly lost.

He sank to his knees in the soft snow beneath him. Sweat began to freeze into icy droplets on his face, and already, he felt the chill returning to his body, creeping along his skin, settling deep into his bones. For a moment, Hamilton Holt did not move.

He wasn’t sure exactly what made him look up. There was no sound, exactly. It was more like a feeling that he wasn’t alone. But when Hamilton dragged his eyes up from the snowy ground, it took a moment to register what he was seeing. Because standing directly in front of him was an enormous polar bear.

Hamilton’s mind seemed to have frozen along with his body. By the size of it, the bear was a male. They weighed on average 1,500 pounds, and this one was nearly as tall as Hamilton while still on all fours. But the most noticeable thing about the bear was how skinny it was. It may have been big, but it was clearly hungry.

As Ham watched, the bear lifted its front paws out of the snow and raised itself up on its back legs. It loomed above Hamilton, a towering white giant stretching toward the Arctic sky. The bear opened its mouth and roared. The sound echoed for miles in all directions.

Hamilton’s heart froze in his chest.

And then the bear lunged.

Ham didn’t have any time to think. He threw himself backward with all the force he could muster. His heart started working again, his survival instincts kicking in with renewed energy. Hamilton landed in the snow a few feet away, and the polar bear crashed into the ground, just missing Ham’s leg.

Hamilton rolled backward onto his feet and started running as fast as he could, back the way he’d come. He wasn’t sure how fast polar bears could go, but he knew they couldn’t keep moving for very long. Their fur retained heat easily, allowing them to survive in such a cold climate, but if a polar bear ran too much, it would overheat, just like Hamilton in his parka.

Hamilton only hoped he could keep out of its reach long enough.

Behind him, the bear was galloping along, and another bone-shaking roar issued from its mouth as it gained on him. Ham couldn’t move fast enough in his snowshoes. Pretty soon, he was going to be polar-bear breakfast.

Think, Hamilton, think.
The bear was hungry. It wanted food. Right now, it thought Hamilton would make a tasty meal, but maybe there was something else, something in his pack that would interest the bear, or at least distract it long enough for Ham to get away.

Up ahead, Hamilton could see a small outcropping of snow-covered rocks.
There. That’s the best place to get the pack off.
He could take cover behind the rocks, slow the bear down. All he had was a few dehydrated meals and some beef jerky, but Hamilton still thought there was a chance this could work. Polar bears were naturally curious, and tended to try to eat anything unfamiliar, which was why human trash was so dangerous to them. Maybe the jerky and some dehydrated chicken casserole would be enough to make it forget Hamilton, at least for a moment.

Hamilton reached the rocks and dove behind them without hesitation. The bear kept coming at him, straight at the rocks, and Ham knew he had only seconds. He wrenched the pack off and took hold of the zipper with his teeth — his gloved hands were too thick and clumsy to use — and then turned the pack upside down. His entire food supply came tumbling out. One glance up at the bear and Ham didn’t have any more time to think. He dropped the pack and dove to the side, fighting against the snow, which seemed to want to hold him back, slowing him down as his knees scraped against the frozen ice and rocks beneath it. At any moment, the polar bear would reach out and swipe at him with those huge black claws. . . .

But nothing hit him. Hamilton only dared to glance back once as he got to his feet. A short distance away, the polar bear was nosing around by the rocks, examining the dehydrated meals and nudging Ham’s pack. Then, quite suddenly, the bear ripped right into the pack itself, sinking those sharp teeth into the material and shaking it back and forth. The fabric of the pack ripped apart like tissue paper.

Hamilton didn’t bother to watch more. He raced away as quickly as his trembling legs would let him, and as he went, his mind began trying to make sense of what had just happened.

There was only one explanation. He’d been set up. That man, whoever he was, had tried to get him mauled by a polar bear.

Hamilton Holt had performed admirably. He’d demonstrated great athletic prowess, running almost superhumanly fast while wearing snowshoes, and he’d figured out how to distract the bear in time to avoid being mauled.

Even better, Hamilton Holt was obviously on the outs with his immediate family. Though the boy eventually rejoined them, the watcher knew it was only a matter of time before Hamilton got fed up with his boneheaded father again. The boy was smart, unlike the rest of his family, and he needed to be around people who were a bit more . . . stimulating.

Perhaps the next time Hamilton Holt stormed off on his own, the watcher would be waiting. Ready to welcome the young Cahill into a very different kind of family.

Even from his cold and dark hiding place, Ian Kabra could tell that night was falling. Soon it would be time to move, which was good, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take this waiting. The water surrounding Angkor Wat was grimy and cold. Ian could almost feel pond scum creeping into every pore on his skin, and it took all of his willpower not to leap out of his hiding place and run screaming for the nearest five-star hotel. From the moment he’d accepted Grace Cahill’s challenge, he’d known the Clue hunt would be demanding, both mentally and physically, but somehow, Ian never imagined it would be quite so filthy.

Getting onto the grounds of Angkor Wat without being seen had been difficult. As the largest religious building in the world, it was visited by tens of thousands of tourists each day. But Ian had managed to slip inside, pretending to be part of a tour group. He had, of course, come prepared, wearing a state-of-the-art wet suit underneath his clothes, which would keep him dry while he waited. He carefully surveyed the area, walking casually around the grounds near the temple’s moat, even though the equipment in his backpack weighed so much that it made his whole body ache to carry it. When the moment came, Ian simply stepped off the side and let himself sink silently underwater, fitting goggles and a snorkel over his head as he did so. His heavy pack, full of five-pound weights, pulled him down, just beneath the surface. The snorkel stayed slightly above water, allowing Ian to breathe.

Waiting was a big part of the Clue hunt, but Ian could never get used to it. He tried to clear his mind and use the time to relax, imagining that he was back home in London, perhaps spending a lovely afternoon in his personal Jacuzzi while the servants brought him fresh delicacies from the kitchen. But his brain kept taking him back to the day before, to the reason he was here in Cambodia, visiting this temple.

His mother’s shouts still rang in Ian’s ears.
Worthless. Pathetic. Useless. No good.
The day before, his mother, Isabel Kabra, had spent nearly an hour berating Ian and his sister, Natalie, for their performance during the Clue hunt. It had been over a month since Grace Cahill’s death had set the hunt in motion, and from the way Mum talked, Ian and Natalie were the worst Clue hunters in Cahill history. It had been bad enough to bear in the daytime, but after Ian went to bed that night, all he heard were those words echoing through his mind. And that was when Ian had sneaked out of his room and hopped on a plane to Cambodia. It was a true sign of his desperation that he’d accepted a business-class seat, the only one left, for the long flight across Asia.

No good, am I?
he thought, as he stared up at the surface of the murky water.
I’ll show her just how good I can be.
He was a Kabra, whether Mum liked it or not. And the Kabras were the best of the best, even among the Cahills.

The sky overhead was finally dark enough for Ian to risk looking around. He pushed himself up toward the surface, taking care that his face broke through the water gently. A quick glance told him that the temple had been emptied of tourists for the day. The night was quiet.