Stolen

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Nice scream, Tyrone," I said as I brushed straw from my jeans. "Very macho."

  Clay strolled through the doorway. "Sounded more like a shriek to me, darling."

  Winsloe jerked around to stare at Clay.

  "Yes, that's Clayton," I said. "Looking pretty good for a dead guy, eh?"

  As Winsloe struggled to stand, Clay strode over, grabbed him by the neck, slammed him against the wall, and patted him down.

  "Unarmed," he said, dropping Winsloe.

  "What?" I said. "No grenade? No nail gun? And you call yourself a hunter."

  "How much do you want?" Winsloe said. His voice was steady, edged more with anger than fear. "What's a life worth these days? One million? Two?"

  "Money?" I laughed. "We don't need money, Tyrone. Jeremy has plenty and he's more than willing to share."

  "A combined net worth of maybe two million bucks?" Winsloe snorted. "That's nothing. Here's the deal. You caught me fair and square. I'm willing to pay a forfeit. Ten million."

  Clay frowned. "What's this? You never said nothin' about a deal, darling. You promised me a hunt."

  "I'm sorry, Ty," I said. "Clay's right. I promised him a hunt, and if I don't deliver, he'll sulk for days."

  "Hunt?" Trepidation flashed through Winsloe's eyes, but he quickly doused it. "You want a hunt? Okay. That's fair. Like I said, you caught me. Here's the deal, then. Let me get my equipment and we'll have a real hunt. If I kill both of you, I win. You corner me and you'll get fifteen million."

  "The man has balls, darling," Clay said. "Gotta give him that." He hauled Winsloe up by the shirtfront. "You wanna deal? Here's the deal. We let you go. You run for your fucking life. You make it off the game field and we let you go. We catch you first, we kill you. Okay?"

  "That's not fair," Winsloe sputtered.

  Clay threw back his head and laughed. "Hear that, darling? It's not fair. Weren't those your rules? The rules you planned to use if you hunted Elena. She'd be released and hunted by a team of trained professionals. If she escaped the game field, she'd live. Otherwise, she'd die. Am I missing something?"

  "It's not the same," Winsloe said, glaring. "I'm not a werewolf. A human can't fight without weapons."

  "What about those equipment lockers you have out there?" I said.

  "They're locked."

  "Fine," I sighed. "Let's make it 'fair,' then. We wouldn't want it too easy. No challenge, no fun."

  I walked into the adjoining cage and picked up the gun. Upon examining it, I figured out how to open the chamber and dumped the bullets onto the floor. Then I returned to Winsloe and handed him the empty gun.

  "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?" he said.

  Clay shook his head. "I thought this guy was supposed to be bright. Let's think about this. We need to Change forms to hunt you. That means we'll be occupied for a while. We're not going to leave you with a loaded gun so you can shoot us while we're Changing."

  "You could find us and beat us over the head with the empty pistol," I said. "But I wouldn't recommend it. We'll take turns Changing. If you come near us, we'll kill you. While we're busy, you'll have time to do something. How much time? Well, I'm not going to tell you that. What I will tell you is that you have time to do something. You can run for your life. Or you can go back into the compound and find ammo for that gun. Or you can race to the nearest equipment locker and try to spring the lock. Or you can head for the garage and see if you can get one of the disabled vehicles running."

  "There," Clay said. "We spelled it out for you. Fair enough?"

  Winsloe stood eye to eye with Clay. "Twenty million."

  "Twenty seconds," Clay said.

  "Twenty-five mil--"

  "Nineteen seconds."

  Winsloe set his jaw, looked from Clay to me, then stalked from the kennel.

  "He's taking this remarkably well," I said when Winsloe was gone.

  "Disappointed?" Clay asked.

  "I must admit, I had hoped he'd piss his pants. But this isn't so bad. At least he'll try. More challenge."

  Clay grinned. "More fun."

  We weren't stupid enough to Change in the kennel. We went outside and found a clearing about fifty feet into the forest. Clay Changed first while I stood guard. Then we switched. When I finished, we returned to the kennel, where I picked up Winsloe's scent and followed it.

  Winsloe hadn't returned to the compound. Nor had he tried the garage. He'd gone straight into the woods, either running for his life or entertaining the pitiable hope that he could jimmy the lock on an equipment shed before we caught up with him. Worse yet--at least, worse for Winsloe--he'd taken the main path. Had he cut his own trail through the undergrowth, he'd have slowed us down. On the wide path, we could run full-out, side by side. Which we did. There was little need for caution. With only an empty pistol, the worst Winsloe could do was hide in the bushes and pitch it at us as we raced past. Not exactly cause for grave concern.

  We passed the lookout tower. Halfway to release point two I caught a whiff of metal. My memory looped through that initial hunt with Lake, and I remembered the next landmark: an equipment locker. So that was Winsloe's plan? Unless he had lock picks handy, he was in for a big surprise. And we were in for a very short hunt.

  I rounded the corner and saw the locker ahead. No sign of Winsloe. Had he given up and run? As I drew closer to the shed, I noticed something on the ground. Night-vision goggles. Beside them, a carton of ammunition. And binoculars. I skidded to a halt. The locker doors were open. Sunlight glinted off a metal key in the lock. Winsloe had had a key all along, or he'd known where to find one. Now he was armed with god knows what kind of artillery.

  As I stared at the mess, Clay slammed against my shoulder, knocking me into the bushes. A round of gunfire shattered the silence. Clay prodded me farther into the undergrowth. When I didn't move fast enough, he bit my haunch. I scrambled into the bushes, belly scraping the ground. Clay followed. Another round of automatic gunfire showered bullets in a wide arc far above our heads. Wherever he was hiding, Winsloe couldn't see us and was aiming by sound alone. I slowed to a crawl, slinking noiselessly through the brush. When we were out of range, I found a thicket and stopped. Clay crept in behind me. He snuffled along my flank, up to my neck, sniffing for blood. When he finished, I checked him over. We'd both escaped unscathed ... so far. How many guns did Winsloe have now? How much ammo? Any grenades or other surprises? When I'd said I wanted a challenge, this wasn't what I'd had in mind.

  We huddled in the thicket, not so much hiding as staying still and safe while we pinpointed Winsloe's location. After a few minutes, Clay nudged my shoulder and pointed his muzzle northeast. I lifted my nose, but the wind blew from the south. Clay flicked his ears. Listen, don't sniff. I closed my eyes, concentrated, and heard a faint shuffling, the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric. Winsloe was northeast, at least a hundred feet away, back by the equipment locker. Judging from the sound, he was arranging his equipment or shifting to a better vantage position, but staying close to one spot. Good. I indicated to Clay that we should split up and circle around. He snorted softly and eased from the thicket. By the time I got out, he was gone.

  From Clay's scent, I could tell he'd gone left, so I went right. Giving Winsloe a wide berth, I crept through the bush until I calculated I was directly north of him. Then I slowed, slunk down, and crept south. Now the wind was in my favor, blowing Winsloe's scent into my nostrils with each breath. I should have sent Clay this way. His sense of smell was poorer than mine and the wind would have helped. It didn't matter. Clay would manage fine without the extra aid. He always did.

  Another twenty feet brought me close enough to see flashes of Winsloe's gray jacket as he moved. Hunkering down, I sniffed for Clay and found his scent. Homing in on it, I squinted through the trees and picked up the faint sparkle of gold fur against the drab undergrowth. Clay was closer to Winsloe than I was, so I slid forward until I'd made up the difference. Now I could poke my muzzle through the brush and se
e Winsloe clearly. He was crouched in a clearing, hands wrapped around a large automatic weapon, eyes darting from left to right. As I watched, he shifted position, turning south, surveying the forest, then rotating north and checking from that viewpoint, never leaving his back to any direction for long. Smart. Very smart. As he moved, I scanned his clearing for weapons but could see only the gun. I was sure he had more, likely hidden in or under his jacket.

  As I watched, I heard a soft growl to my left. It was Clay, warning me he was there, rather than suddenly appearing at my side and scaring the crap out of me. As I turned, he stepped through the last stand of trees between us. This was not part of the plan. I huffed and glowered at him. He shook his head. With one look, I knew what he meant. The game was over. Winsloe was heavily armed, tipping the odds too far in his favor. Time for a quick kill. Clay made a circling motion with his muzzle, then jerked it toward Winsloe. Again, I understood. We use the usual routine, boring but reliable. Clay would circle south again. I'd scare Winsloe and drive him into Clay's waiting jaws. I exhaled a canine sigh and lay down to wait until Clay got into position. But he didn't leave. Instead he prodded me to my feet and motioned from Winsloe to me. Ah, a change in routine. Clay would roust Winsloe from the south and drive him into my waiting jaws. At first, I thought Clay was being considerate, granting me the kill I'd asked for. Then I realized he wanted us to switch roles because scaring Winsloe would be more dangerous than killing him. Okay, I guess he was still being considerate, not wanting me to get blown to bits or anything. I would have argued the point, but I wanted the kill too badly.

  Clay disappeared into the forest. I tracked the whisper of his footfalls. When he was partway around Winsloe's hiding place, Winsloe suddenly stood. I froze. Had he heard Clay? Tensing for the attack, I listened. All I heard were the normal chirps and rustles of the forest. Still, if Winsloe so much as pointed that gun in Clay's direction, I'd be through the bushes in a second, caution be damned. Winsloe straightened, rolled his shoulders in a stretch, then looked up into the trees, craning his neck and surveying the sky. Was Clay in position yet? If so, this would be the perfect time to attack. But I didn't smell Clay on the breeze, so he must still be working his way south. Damn! Winsloe rubbed the back of his neck, then checked his gun, gave a last look around, and stepped from the clearing, heading west.

  I edged closer to the now-vacant clearing. When I reached the perimeter, I saw Clay on the southeast side, partially hidden in the bushes. Noticing me, he pulled back and vanished. Seconds later, he reappeared at my side. I looked at him. Now what? Our quarry was on the move. Scaring him and steering him in the proper direction would be ten times more difficult. An ambush would be our best bet, but that meant circling in front of Winsloe, conjecturing his path, and finding a well-hidden place to lie in wait. Difficult enough when we knew the terrain, near-suicidal when we didn't. From the look in Clay's eyes, he couldn't think up a decent plan either. Finally he snorted, brushed against me, then headed in Winsloe's direction. We'd wing it.

  We emerged from the clearing into a thick stand of forest. Ahead, Winsloe's jacket bobbed among the trees. Moving carefully to avoid noisy piles of dead leaves, we crept after him. He didn't turn. He was moving fast. As we picked up speed, the forest thinned. Late afternoon sunlight pierced the thick canopy overhead, speckling the ground with ever-widening pools of light. The forest was ending. We broke into a slow lope. Winsloe disappeared in a flood of sunlight. A clearing. A big clearing. I sniffed the air. Water. We were coming to the river. I glanced at Clay. He grunted, telling me he smelled the water and wasn't concerned. Did Winsloe think he could lose us in the river? Swim away or douse his trail? It wouldn't work. We could swim just fine, doubtless much better than Winsloe. As for losing his trail, it was true that we couldn't track him through water, but we were so close that it didn't matter. Even if we lost sight of him, I could pick up his scent in the air.

  Winsloe walked to the water's edge, stopped, and wheeled fast, flourishing his gun. Seeing nothing behind him, he turned to the river, looked up and down it, then began pacing the bank. Clay snorted impatiently. So long as Winsloe was thirty feet from the forest's edge, we didn't dare move closer or he'd have time to shoot before we brought him down. If he waded in and started walking, we could move alongside him, staying in the trees until the forest weaved nearer to the river-bank, bringing us close enough to attack.

  Winsloe finally stopped pacing. He stood at the foot of a huge oak, tilted his head back, and shaded his eyes to look up at it. Then he grasped the lowest branch and gave an experimental tug. As he slung the gun over his shoulder, Clay shot from the forest. Winsloe didn't notice. With his back to us, he grabbed the branch again and hauled himself up. It was then that I realized what Winsloe was doing. Climbing the tree. Okay, so I'm a bit slow on the uptake. By the time I leaped from our hiding place, Winsloe was ten feet off the ground. Still running, Clay crouched and sprang. Only then did Winsloe see him. He glanced over his shoulder a split second before Clay's teeth sunk into his knee. Winsloe howled. He kicked with his free leg, knocking Clay in the side of the skull. Clay hung on. Blood sprayed his muzzle as Winsloe flailed, shouting and fighting to keep his hold on the tree. I was still several yards away, running full-out. I could see deep furrows in Winsloe's calf where Clay's teeth had ripped through his leg clear to the bone. As the flesh tore, Clay began losing his grip. He danced on his hindlegs, not daring to release Winsloe long enough to get a fresh hold. I covered the last few feet and leaped at Winsloe's free leg. He kicked at exactly the right moment, catching me in the eye. I yelped and fell back. As I got to my feet, Clay's grasp slipped to Winsloe's shoe. Before I could jump at Winsloe again, his shoe slid off and Clay tumbled backward. Winsloe swung his legs out of reach, scrambled to the next branch, and grabbed his gun. We bolted. A round of gunfire rang out, but we were well clear, hidden in the forest again.

  We stopped behind a thick stand of trees. Clay motioned for me to stay put, then turned and headed back for a better look at the situation. I didn't follow, not because Clay had told me not to--I'd never been good at taking orders--but because it was safer for only one of us to venture out. As much as I hated to admit it, Clay was the better stalker. If I tried to help, I'd only triple the likelihood of making noise and getting us shot.

  Winsloe climbing a tree posed a problem. A big problem. Next time, I'd be a lot more careful about asking for a challenge. I knew Winsloe was smart, but I hadn't expected him to keep so cool under pressure. Given what I'd seen of Winsloe--that cocky self-importance masking an easily bruised ego--I'd thought he'd panic when he realized his life was in danger. Maybe he didn't think it was. Maybe this was all still a game to him. Unfortunately for us, it was a game he was winning. Talk about ego-bruising. First, he'd tricked us and armed himself. Now he'd gone up a tree, the one place we couldn't follow. The tree not only provided him with safety, but it was the perfect vantage point for shooting. How could we even get close--

  The forest exploded in a flurry of gunfire. I bolted from my hiding place, then stopped in mid-run. I shouldn't go out there. I was safer here. Clay was safer with me here. But what had happened? Was Winsloe shooting blindly? Or had he seen Clay?

  Another rapid-fire round of shots. Then silence. I stood there, legs trembling as I listened. When Winsloe fired again, I nearly jumped out of my hide. That did it. I barreled down the incline toward the river clearing. More shots. I stopped on the edge of the clearing, hunkered down, and crept forward until I could see what was happening. Ahead was the old oak with Winsloe perched twenty feet up, squinting south, gun poised. Other than that, the clearing was empty. Empty and quiet. Suddenly a crackling of leaves broke the silence. I swung my head north. A flash of gold darted through the trees. Winsloe turned and fired, shooting at the noise. Clay was long gone. A waste of bullets. I realized that was the idea. Get Winsloe to empty his gun firing at phantasms. A good plan, and one I would have thought of ... eventually.

  I considered retreating to
my hiding place, but couldn't do it. I knew it would be safer to let Clay do this alone, but I'd go crazy with worry if I couldn't see what was happening. Before long, Clay smelled me there. He came over and tried to prod me deeper into the woods, but I wouldn't budge. I lay down, put my head on my front paws, and stared into the clearing. He got the idea. I needed to watch, to be sure he was safe. He settled for a quick nuzzle, then grabbed the back of my neck in his jaws, not biting but pinning my head, telling me to stay here and stay down. I grunted my assent. He brushed his muzzle against mine, then disappeared into the forest.

  Winsloe emptied his automatic quickly, going through several reloads of ammunition. Then he pulled a pistol from under his jacket. He was more careful now, less willing to waste bullets on mere noises in the woods. So Clay had to be more daring. At first, he'd only come near the edge of the clearing, allowing Winsloe to see a flash of fur. Eventually, though, even that didn't work and he had to dart into the open. By that point, my eyes were firmly closed. My heart pounded so loudly I almost expected Winsloe to hear it. Eventually, though, it was over. The last shot was fired. After several minutes, Clay slipped from the forest. He stood there, in plain view, muscles tensed, and waited. Winsloe threw the empty pistol at him and cursed. Clay walked closer, slowly, presenting the perfect target if Winsloe should have another weapon stashed under his jacket. Nothing. Winsloe was done.