But the hybrid was doing his best to prove her wrong.
Lynx bared his pointed teeth, reveling in the opportunity to give his animal nature free rein, and buried his nails several inches in the boar’s muscular tissue.
The beast ran in a zigzag pattern, whipping its body from side to side, striving to dislodge the bantam hybrid causing it such torment. Sensing that its tactics were of no avail, the boar instinctively decided to try a maneuver that worked for removing troublesome burrs from its coat and alleviating a bothersome itch. It ran straight for the forest and the nearest tree.
Absorbed in slicing and dicing the swine’s back, Lynx didn’t realize the new danger until he dimly realized that someone was yelling his name. He glanced up, startled to behold an oak tree not six feet away, and he began to vault to safety.
Too late.
A low-hanging limb appeared out of nowhere and caught Lynx in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs and lifting him from the wild boar. He fell, stunned, and felt his left side strike the earth. In the recesses of his mind his own consciousness shrieked at him to get up, to get out of the way, because at any second the boar would come back for round two.
It did.
Lynx heard the hoofbeats first and swung his head to the west. The beast was streaking toward him, its beady eyes radiating hatred, its back and sides coated with a spreading crimson stain. Lynx rolled frantically to the north, and it seemed as if an earthquake rattled the ground as the boar thundered past.
Get up!
Inhaling raggedly, his chest in exquisite agony, Lynx stood and staggered, feeling woozy, disoriented, and he shook his head to clear the mental cobwebs.
The wild boar was already racing toward him again.
Lynx backed up, stumbling, almost going down, until he bumped into something hard. His eyes on the beast, he reached behind him and brushed his palm against the trunk of the oak.
The tree!
A crazy idea blossomed in his pain-racked brain, a means of turning the tables on his incensed adversary if only he could muster the strength.
The boar was 20 feet away, its driving hoofs throwing up clods of dirt, its head lowered in anticipation of goring the feline with its tusks.
Come and get me! Lynx thought, and focused on the beast’s snout.
Timing would be everything. If he misjudged the distance, if he miscalculated by a hairsbreadth, he was as good as dead. Those tusks would disembowel him as easily as one of Blade’s bowies could carve up a melon.
Only ten feet separated the hybrid and the boar.
“Lynx! Look out!” Eleanore DeCoud shouted.
What? Did she think he didn’t see it? Lynx would have laughed, but there was no time left for anything except putting his plan into effect He took a deep breath, waited until the absolutely last instant, waited until those pointed tusks were spearing toward his midsection, and sprang straight up, leaping for a branch close at hand.
The boar couldn’t stop.
Lynx looked down and saw the beast’s head slam into the trunk with titanic force. The entire tree swayed, and the branch he clasped bobbed as if in a strong wind.
Stunned, the boar slumped, its front legs buckling.
“My turn!” Lynx hissed, and let go of the limb. He dropped onto the boar, angling his fall to land astride the animal’s front shoulders, and before the boar could rise he bent forward and sank his nails into the swine’s neck.
The boar squealed and struggled to stand.
A frenzy seized Lynx, an uncontrollable impulse to rend and rip, and rend and rip he did, concentrating his energy on the boar’s throat, slashing flesh and severing veins and arteries, his hands a blur, his arms coated with crimson and gore up to the elbows.
Blood gushed from the beast’s neck in red torrents, spraying the grass and soaking the ground. The boar thrashed and tried once again to regain its footing, but it slipped in its own life fluid and fell.
Lynx kept tearing at his foe. Both sides of the beast’s neck were thin ribbons. He tore a chunk of tissue free and drove his nails even deeper.
The boar’s movements became weaker and weaker. It sluggishly lifted its head and thrashed, grunting feebly.
Die! Die! Die! Lynx screamed in his mind. He was winning and he wasn’t about to stop for anything. His nails tore and shredded tirelessly.
The boar’s head lay on the earth, yet he had no intention of stopping. His shoulders began to ache, but he continued. Cutting, always cutting, until a hand touched his shoulder and a voice spoke gently in his ear.
“Lynx! You can stop! The thing is dead!”
Dead? The word registered through the scarlet haze enveloping Lynx’s consciousness and he paused, breathing deeply. “What?” he blurted out, the word seeming to echo hollowly as if spoken by someone else at a great distance.
“The boar is dead,” Eleanor repeated.
Lynx blinked and stared at the ravaged carcass underneath him, at the strips of dangling flesh and the exposed spine. “Oh.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Lynx mumbled. “Just peachy.” He slid from the swine and straightened slowly. His chest felt like he’d just been run over by a military convoy truck.
“Are you sure?”
“Quit naggin’ me, woman,” Lynx said. He shuffled to the north and sat down on a log, suddenly overcome with a pervading weariness, his arms and legs leaden.
“I just asked,” Eleanore stated testily.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Lynx told her. He touched his chest where the branch had struck him and flinched.
Eleanore came right over. “Are any bones broken?”
“Don’t think so,” Lynx replied. “Just hurts like hell.” He looked up at her, surprised at the genuine concern reflected on her features, and felt a shade guilty at the gruff treatment he’d dispensed since capturing her.
“You were magnificent. I’ve never seen anyone do what you did.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” Lynx reminded her. “It was either Ugly or me. And my wife would be ticked off if I went and got myself killed by an overgrown pig.”
“Can I get you something? Do you need some water?” Eleanore inquired.
Lynx almost said yes. He was terribly thirsty. But he envisioned her going near the swamp and being jumped by one of those big gators. “No,” he answered hoarsely. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t mind getting some.”
“No,” Lynx reiterated sternly, then softened when he saw her frown.
“Thanks anyway.”
“Anytime.”
Lynx placed his hands on the rough log and leaned back to study her intently. “You know, I guess I was wrong about you.”
“How so?”
“I think I can trust you.”
Eleanore smiled. “Thank you. I’m really not one of the bad guys.”
“Then you’d better figure out who is.”
“What?”
“Who else knows about the shortwave radio and the cabin?”
“Only a few people,” Eleanore said, her forehead creased, contemplating the significance of his remarks. “Surely you’re not suggesting that someone in the Resistance is a traitor?”
“I’m not suggesting nothin’. I’m flat out tellin’ you that you’ve got a snitch in your organization.”
“Impossible.”
“Then how’d those voodoo bozos know where to find you?”
Eleanore’s lips compressed. She had no answer for that one.
“Think about it,” Lynx advised, and looked down at the tissue, hair, and blood caking his arms. “What a mess. They sure don’t make wild boars like they used to.”
“You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”
“Nope. I’ve never tangled with a boar before.”