Hunter/Prey
(An Allie Krycek Thriller)
Sam Sisavath
“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
— Confucius
Chapter 1
He was going to kill her, there was no doubt about that. That was, after all, the whole point of tonight for the both of them. The question was: Who wanted to kill the other more?
He took her with the kind of practiced ease that could only come from having done it many times before: Running her car off the highway, yanking her from her seat before she even had a chance to recover from the crash, and then throwing her to the ground. All of that was to show her he meant business. He needn’t have gone the extra mile; she knew his intentions as soon as he began ramming his truck into her back bumper.
He pounced quickly, so quickly. She hadn’t expected that, and it threw her timing off until she realized that everything had worked out just as she had planned — which was both exhilarating and horrifying.
He’s done this so, so many times before, she thought as he threw her to the soft, damp ground. It had rained yesterday, and the wetness seeped through her jeans and blouse instantly. Thank God it wasn’t as slippery as it could have been; she was going to need every bit of her agility against a man his size.
“Don’t fight it; it’s just going to make things worse,” he said. Or hissed. This beast in man’s clothing. He even looked monstrous against the canvas of moonlight pouring through the trees around them.
“No,” she said, the word coming out as a loud gasp.
The heavy breathing, the feel of drowning, wasn’t part of the plan. She really did find it difficult to breathe at the moment because this was it. This was the night she had been waiting for.
Ten years of research, six years of training, and three years of getting ready for this moment.
God help me.
“I know who you are,” she said. Those words came out easier. Much, much easier.
It was all going according to plan. Mostly.
Ten years of research…
She could see it on his face. He hadn’t expected that response. She knew what he was waiting for — begging, crying, smeared makeup, and groveling at his feet. When he didn’t get any of those things, he cocked his head to one side as if to get a better view of her.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m exactly everything you wanted,” she said, and kicked out with her right leg, connecting with his crotch. It was such a “girl move,” as one of her instructors would say, but given her current position — on the ground, with him hovering over her — it was the most viable and effective option open to her.
…six years of training…
Before he could gather himself, she grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in his face. He batted at it awkwardly, the knife gripped tightly in his right hand (Where the hell did that come from?) gleaming in the moonlight. The blade was long and sharp, with a serrated section for tough cutting.
She scrambled to her feet and dived forward, back toward the car, aiming right at the open driver-side door. She didn’t go for the keys dangling from the ignition. Instead, she grabbed the lever next to the seat and yanked it, heard the pop! as the trunk opened in the back, the soft, metallic echo like a ringing bell against the quiet countryside.
He was wincing, parts of his eyes still clogged with dirt while simultaneously trying to fight through the pain from between his legs. Girl move or not, men lived in mortal fear of getting kicked in the scrotum because it hurt.
She pulled away from the open door and backpedaled along the length of the vehicle. She gave herself a brief second or two to enjoy the confusion clouding his eyes (they were light brown, but she didn’t know how much of that was dirt) as he attempted to follow her movements while the mind behind them tried in vain to understand what she was doing — why she was still here and why she hadn’t tried to flee yet.
…and three years of getting ready for this moment…
By the time he gathered himself and took his first stumbling step after her, she was already at the back of the car, reaching into the open trunk. She pulled back the rug, ignored the spare tire, and went right for the pump-action shotgun hidden inside its compartment.
It was a Remington model, the kind used by cops around the country. The guy who had sold it to her, then taught her how to use it over the course of two months for a flat fee, said the SWAT guys liked carrying it for the firepower and accuracy. Training on the weapon had caused her a lot of bruises and painful mornings, but she had gotten good at it. When she put her mind on achieving something, there were few things in this universe that could stop her.
He must have sensed that something had gone wrong, because when she stepped away from the trunk with the shotgun, he had already paused his pursuit of her. By the time she reappeared in the open, revealing herself (and the shotgun in her hands), he had already turned around and was running in the other direction.
She fired.
The flames that stabbed out of the Remington’s barrel lit up the darkened woods for less than a second and illuminated the sight of him darting to his right and over the hood of the car. He was sliding across the vehicle as she ran after him, racking the shotgun as she went, and fired again.
The driver-side window exploded and the ping-ping! of buckshot slamming into the side of the Ford echoed back and forth against the trees, the gunshot ear-splitting against the quiet night. She hoped the noise didn’t go further than the woods. She didn’t need strangers butting in on them right now. Not yet. Not until she had finished what she had come here to do.
Ten years of research, six years of training, and three years of getting ready for this moment…
The man wasn’t on the hood anymore. He had probably dropped down on the other side. Which was slick of him. Like something out of a TV show about a couple of brothers and an old souped-up car. Something about Dukes…
She skirted around the vehicle, racking another shell into the shotgun as she did so. Her finger anxiously tested the trigger as she moved sideways, feeling her way without looking. Then she finally circled the hood and lifted the shotgun, ready to fire—
— except there was nothing on the other side to shoot at.
He was gone.
She spun in a circle, searching the woods around her, chest tightening.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
They were less than twenty yards from the state highway, but light out here was scarce except for the generous glow of the moon above. One of her vehicle’s headlights was still working, but it was shining in the wrong direction. Both of her taillights had gone out about the fifth time he rammed his truck into them.
She could barely see, much less make out the trees from the branches from the shadows. And if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t shoot. And if she couldn’t shoot, then all of this would be for nothing.
Ten years…
She hurried back around the hood of the Ford to the driver-side door. She slipped inside and used the ceiling light to reach across the seats, opened the glove compartment, and came back out with a heavy Maglite. She clicked it on, the bright LED beam showering the woods around her and illuminating what was once hidden.
She had light now, but he was gone. Disappeared into the darkness. She turned the beam left, right, then all around her.