Hunter/Prey

Chapter 5

The trail of blood led her all the way to a clearing, but even before she reached the edge, she could already see the bright LED lights filtering through the line of trees. She instinctively clicked off the flashlight duct taped to the barrel of the shotgun so it wouldn’t give away her position.

A minivan sat in the front yard of a log cabin. There were two windows, both splashed with bright lights, and she could make out figures moving on the other side of one of them. She traced the blood to the minivan, where, judging by the circling pattern of the drips, she guessed he was hoping to find a way into the vehicle. Not finding one, he had decided to go to the cabin instead.

A cabin meant people — even all the way out here, far from the highway — and she didn’t need people right now. She had hoped to have a full night to hunt him down and finish it, but that wasn’t going to happen now.

So stop bitching about it and adapt. You trained for this, remember?

She darted out of the woods and to the side of the van, keeping as low as possible to avoid detection. The black clothes helped, and though she had tied her hair in a ponytail, it was still blonde, which made it stand out in the darkness.

The side of the minivan was cold against her back even through the sweater and T-shirt underneath. She moved alongside it and peered into a back window but couldn’t make out very much through the tinted glass. If he hadn’t seen anything worthwhile in there, it was doubtful there would be anything for her to find, so she moved on to the cabin just as he had…how long ago? How much of a head start did he have on her?

At least ten minutes, maybe more…

She heard voices and moved quickly to the side of the closest window.

There was definitely more than one voice, which meant he wasn’t the only one inside the cabin. Which made sense. Someone had to have come in the minivan.

So how many? That was the question. How many civilians did she have to deal with? And how would they react to a woman in black barging in on them with a loaded shotgun?

Can’t be helped. Gotta finish it tonight.

First, she stood quietly in the darkness and listened.

At least two men, including him, along with a woman’s voice. Maybe a girl. Young.

She moved closer to the window and peered in from the side.

Sonofabitch.

He was inside, all right, and he was wearing a state trooper’s uniform. Just the khaki shirt and brown pants. The shirt was partially unbuttoned, the tail pulled out of the waistline, and he was sitting in a chair as a young brunette tended to him. Another woman, a blonde, stood next to a young man with brown hair and watched. They all looked in their early twenties, which made him stand out even more.

He was grimacing as the brunette dabbed at the buckshot wounds in his side. She was treating it with some kind of ointment before taking a roll of gauze tape and wrapping it around his waist. The girl seemed to know what she was doing. It was just her luck he would stumble into the arms of a paramedic. Or a medical student. Something medical-related, probably.

She pulled back and stood against the wall, gathering herself. She could feel the heat from inside pulsating through her sweater.

What to do, what to do?

She was so close. And he was injured; a wounded animal. All that was left was to go inside and finish him off. Put him out of his misery. It was the humane thing to do. Civilization would thank her for it.

So go do it already.

She unclutched and clutched the Remington.

It would be easy. She had the weapon. What would three twenty-something kids do against that? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. She could try to convince them, but that might prove fruitless. She would have to spin one hell of a story, and there was too much background to fill them in on. It would take all night.

And she didn’t have all night.

She had one night.

No. She didn’t have time for that. She had come this far, gotten this close, and—

Goddammit.

She pushed off the wall and bent over as she moved across the window, staying under the windowsill. She made it to the other side unseen (or, at least, she hoped she had) and walked straight up the rest of the way.

Instead of going around the porch and using the steps, she climbed up from the side. The door wasn’t far away from the edge, but the wooden planks creaked loudly under her as she tiptoed across them.

The door had a lever with a hasp lock, probably for the owners to lock the place up when the cabin wasn’t in use. She gripped the metal lever and twisted. It moved slightly and without resistance.

She let go and took a step back, then sucked in a deep gulp of the chilly night air.

He’s in there. Go get him.

She gripped the lever again with her left hand, her right holding the shotgun at her side.

Finish it.

Finish it!

On the third deep breath, she yanked the lever down and the door moved out of its frame. She pushed it forward as hard as she could—and it snapped against a chain on the other side and refused to open any further!

No, no, no!

Alarm bells flooded her senses and she took a quick step back, angled her left shoulder against the door, and threw her entire body into it. The chain snapped and went clink-clink-clink as pieces of it sprinkled across the floorboards.

The door swung open in a wide arc and she stumbled inside, losing her balance temporarily. Got control, raised the shotgun, and reached for the forend with her left hand. Got a firm grip and spun to her right, where the four people were gathered in the living room in front of a fireplace that hadn’t been lit in God knew how long.

Wide-eyed, they stared back at her. The two girls and their male friend, and him, still seated in the chair with one hand over his bandaged side and the other reaching for a knife in its sheath against his left hip.

She smiled at him.

Got you, motherfucker.

She started to pull the trigger when she realized one of the girls — the brunette who had dressed his wounds — was standing too close, and if she fired now—

“Get the fuck away from him!” she shouted.

The brunette didn’t get the fuck away from him. She stood frozen in place, paralyzed with fear, that deer in the headlights look the only thing keeping her from being ripped apart by buckshot at any second.

A loud thump! drew her attention, and she swung the shotgun over at the blonde, who had dropped a plastic first aid kit box from her numbed fingers. The young man slid protectively in front of her, throwing up his arms as if that was going to stop the Remington. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted.

“Get the hell away—” she started to say, when blinding pain exploded through her body as something — a tank, maybe — smashed into her from behind, knocking her forward.

Knocked forward? No. More like tossed forward.

She landed on the dirt-caked floor about the same time the shotgun, jostled from her hands by the blow, clattered a few yards from her outstretched fingers. It kept skidding until it bumped up against the point of a steel-toe boot, where it rested.

Her back screamed as if the spine had been snapped. She had landed on her stomach and one side of her face, and the pain was excruciating, though she couldn’t tell which hurt more — her stomach or face or, more likely, her back. But all of that was nothing against the voice screaming inside her head, telling her to Get up! Get up now, before it’s too late! You’re too close! Don’t let him get away!

But she couldn’t get up because something heavy had fallen on top of her, and it took her a moment to realize it was a man sitting down on her back. Large, strong hands grabbed her arms and twisted them backward, and she became aware of someone screaming.

Her. She was screaming.

Because the man was pinning her arms back in a way that the angle was all wrong, and she was certain both arms would snap at any second.

“Stop it!” someone shouted. One of the young women. “You’re hurting her!”

“That’s the point, Sabrina!” a male voice said. It was coming from the heavy thing sitting on her back. “Someone grab that shotgun!”

“I got it,” another male voice said.

No. No, not him. Not him.

She managed to lift her head despite every inch of her body protesting just in time to see the state trooper bending and picking the Remington up from the floor. He held the shotgun and looked down at her, meeting her stare. Her eyes dropped a bit to the nametag over his right breast pocket: “Beckard.”

There was a glint in his eyes — the same brown eyes from earlier in the woods when he was convinced he was the hunter and she the prey. Then, the corners of his lips began to curve slowly until they formed a smile. It was on the sly and meant only for her. And just like that it was gone, before the others in the cabin could see it.

“Thank you, guys,” he said. “You just saved my life.”