The Hunted

73

Some may say that coming face-to-face with a man whose sworn purpose in life is to kill you is a form of suicide. But for Harper Payne, it was his only means of staying alive.

His feet landed firmly on the front seat, but his buttocks struck the open window hard and sent a shockwave of pain up his spine. He grabbed on to the top of the doorframe — and the Glock flew from his right hand. Where it landed — inside the cab, outside on the asphalt — he didn’t know. What he did know is that the person behind the wheel was Anthony Scarponi, and he was smiling. Smiling, no doubt, because the man he had struggled to find for so many years had suddenly delivered himself.

Scarponi pressed two buttons on the steering wheel and then swung at Payne, whose attention was diverted for an instant by the clearly dead bodies of two men in the backseat, their torsos punctured quite thoroughly by Payne’s forty caliber rounds.

The punch landed squarely on Payne’s jaw, sending him backward into the door. Scarponi climbed out from behind the wheel and grabbed Payne’s arm — the Navigator was obviously tooling along on cruise control, as stopping meant coming under attack from the agents in the helicopter.

Payne shook his arm free and landed a jab to Scarponi’s nose, driving him against the steering wheel. Scarponi bounced right back at him and was about to throw a punch when the Navigator abruptly careened off the road, crossed the shoulder, and continued on through dense underbrush. Scarponi fell backward against the dash.

They both grabbed each other by the throat, hate seeping from their pores like perspiration.

“Die, you fucking bastard!” Scarponi croaked, Payne’s hands cutting into his vocal cords.

The pressure was building inside Payne’s head. He could feel the veins in his temples bulging and he began feeling light-headed. He tried to kick with his feet, but one leg was pinned beneath the dashboard and the other was caught by the steering wheel.

Just then, the Black Hawk circled around to the front of the SUV; banking and side slipping so its spotlight could burn through the windshield and illuminate the two men as if they were actors on a stage.

Although Payne was aware of the helicopter, he knew they could do nothing to help him. The stench of burning oil and a thin fog of smoke began bleeding into the car’s interior, stinging his eyes. Through the haze, Scarponi’s eyes were filled with fury. “I treated you like a brother!”

“I was… doing… my job.”

“I’ve got a job to do, too,” Scarponi said. As if the anger had infused him with a sudden burst of strength, he lifted Payne up by the neck and smashed his head against the door.

Pinpricks of agony exploded in Payne’s mind as he fought to maintain consciousness.

“My job,” Scarponi yelled, “is to kill you.”

The Navigator banged and thumped along the rough brush, each jolt forcing Scarponi’s hands deeper into his adversary’s neck. Payne struggled to maintain his own grip on Scarponi’s throat, but he felt his grasp weakening. Thoughts screamed through his oxygen-deprived brain.

Do something now or die

Squeeze harder or pry his hands away

He chose the latter.

But the instant he released his grip from Scarponi’s neck, he realized it was the wrong decision.

With Payne’s arms no longer restraining his head, Scarponi coiled back, then rammed his skull into Payne’s forehead.