Savage (Apex Predator Book 2)

by David Meyer

Gingerly, she touched the top of her head. A slow grimace crossed her face as she felt the grime packed into the layers of carefully pinned locks of hair. It would take her personal hairstylist hours to clean it. Hours!

  Her feet screamed in protest. Reaching down, she slipped the heels off her manicured peds. Slowly, she massaged the soles of her feet. Then she rose to a standing position.

  Her stomach grumbled, but the only thing resembling food—the yellow-green fruit, much of which lay rotting in the marsh—creeped her out. They might’ve smelled like oranges, but they looked like bumpy tennis balls. Plus, they appeared to emit some kind of milky white sap.

  Gross. Just … gross.

  A cool breeze chilled her mud-drenched torso. Tiny flies buzzed around her, nipping at her perfect skin, ignoring her repeated attempts to drive them away.

  The more she thought about her situation, the more confused and frightened she felt. The Galeton Charity Ball was always held at the historic Quimros Hotel on the Upper West Side, not far from Central Park. But this wasn’t Central Park. Not even close. It was an honest-to-goodness forest with nary a skyscraper to be seen.

  Panic engulfed her, stretching through her veins and streaking deep into her heart. Clutching her shivering shoulders, she turned in a circle. There was no way she’d wandered into a forest by herself. Someone had taken her here. But who? And why?

  “Ohhhh, my head … hot damn …”

  Heart pounding, Mills whirled toward the unfamiliar voice. A grizzled older man stood about ten feet away, wobbling on unsteady legs. He sported thick glasses, a fat face, and a gray beard.

  He wasn’t cute or stylish and he didn’t project much in the way of wealth or power. No, he was the sort of hapless loser Mills would’ve ignored as she and her besties swished their way down Madison Avenue. But here, in this strange, ancient forest, she was grateful for his company. “Hey,” she called out. “Over here.”

  The man gave her a suspicious glance. “Who the hell are you?”

  She blinked. “You don’t recognize me?”

  “Should I?”

  “I’m Bailey Mills.”

  He stared at her.

  “You know, the Bailey Mills.”

  “Well, I’m the Brian Toland.” He cleaned his glasses on his shirt. Looked around. “Where the hell are we?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “Last I recall I was in my office. Hunched over my keyboard, pecking away in the dark.”

  Mills frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “You’re a writer?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “I hate writers.”

  A smirk crossed his wrinkled face. “A hatred for the humble scribe, my dear, is clear evidence of a pathetically primitive mind.”

  “I … what?”

  “Uhhh …” A new voice, feminine and hard-edged, drifted out of the clearing.

  Toland’s head swiveled to his right. “Who’s there?”

  After several seconds with no response, he trekked toward the voice, his shoes squelching repeatedly in the marshy soil.

  A bit of reflected light caught Mills’ eye. Casting a glance at the ground, she saw her purse, a one-of-a-kind black clutch. Falling to her knees, she popped it open. Her pulse slowed a bit as she caught sight of her satphone.

  She pressed a button and the screen came to life. The battery was low, less than ten percent of full power. Wasting no time, she initiated a call to her bestest bestie, Rachel Crossing, and lifted the device to her ear. A slow frown creased her face. She tried another bestie. And then another one.

  “Where’d you go?” Toland called out.

  Ignoring him, Mills tried to make another call. But the battery died and the screen faded to black. Frustrated, she threw the satphone into the muck and climbed to her feet.

  Right away, she spied two women standing with Toland in the deep grass. The first woman, at least from the chest-up, was a hot mess. She wore a baggy green sweatshirt, no accessories, and not even a touch of lipstick. Her hair, clipped close to her scalp, was dyed canary yellow.

  The second woman was older, in her mid-forties, and gave off the vibe of an overworked businesswoman. She wore a cheap blue jacket, likely part of a pantsuit, and a bobbed hair cut. Her makeup—pale red lipstick and severe eyeliner—was boresville.

  “My phone didn’t work.” Mills felt her jaw begin to quiver. “All I got was static.”

  “That’s not surprising.” The businesswoman glanced over both shoulders. “From the looks of it, we’re a long way from the nearest cell tower.”

  “This isn’t some cheap smartphone,” Mills retorted. “It’s a satphone. It gets coverage anywhere on Earth.”

  The businesswoman arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got a satphone?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s interesting.” Toland stroked his jaw. “My phone’s acting funny too.”

  Mills cocked her head. “How so?”

  “I can’t call anyone. Can’t email or text either. Plus, the date and time are all messed up.” He chuckled half-heartedly. “It thinks we’re in a different century.”

  “Which one?”

  “One that won’t happen for about 4,000 years.”

  Mills didn’t know what to say.

  “I know you.” The hot mess’ eyes widened. “You’re Bailey Mills.”

  “That’s right.” Mills offered her a sweet smile. “I’m glad at least one of you knows who I am.”

  “Yeah, I know you alright. I despise you.”

  Mills’ smile faded.

  “Enough.” Toland waved at the hot mess and the businesswoman in turn. “This is Tricia Elliott and Randi Skolnick. Ladies, this is Bailey Mills. Apparently, she’s famous if you care about that sort of thing.”

  A low growl rang out.

  Mills’ spine turned to jelly and she rotated in a quarter-circle. Some dense berry bushes occupied one edge of the clearing. The bushes rustled as if a breeze had caught hold of them.

  But there was no breeze.

  Another growl filled the still air.

  Mills took a step backward.

  The bushes rustled again and she saw an animal, shrouded in green leaves, little red berries, and shadows. Its shoulders were roughly four feet off the ground. Its body was five to six feet long. It possessed a stubby tail, high shoulder blades, and short, powerful limbs.

  Mills backed up farther, joining the others in a tight group.

  “What is that thing?” Elliott whispered.

  “I think it’s a cougar,” Toland replied tightly.

  “Are cougars dangerous?” Mills asked.

  “Of course, they’re dangerous, you dolt. Cougar is another name for a mountain lion.”

  The bushes parted before Mills could reply. The creature emerged. Paws stomped on wet leaves, crushing them underfoot. Its body curled and curved, pulsating with life. Its head turned. Its jaw lifted upward. A roar filled the pale night sky.

  Mills wanted to rub her eyes, to erase the terrifying vision before her. But she couldn’t even blink.

  “That’s no cougar,” Toland whispered as the group ducked their heads beneath the tall grass. “It’s a … hell, I don’t know what it is.”

  “I know what it is.”

  Mills’ eyes flitted in the direction of this new voice, a low-pitched smooth sort. She saw a man in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven and wore stylish eyeglasses. His outfit, skinny jeans and a t-shirt featuring a cartoon T-Rex complaining about short arms, screamed hipster.

  “Well, what is it?” she mouthed.

  “I’ve only seen something like it once before.” The hipster stared at the creature’s long, curving teeth. “But not in the wild.”

  “Where then?”

  “In a museum. Those teeth are a dead giveaway. They could only belong to a Smilodon fatalis.”

  Mills shivered at the name.

  “In other words, it’s a saber-toothed tiger.” The hipster’s voice rang cold. “And it’s bee
n extinct for more than 10,000 years.”

  Chapter 2

  Date: June 19, 2016, 4:06 a.m.; Location: Upper East Side, New York, NY

  The sudden cry, brimming with terror and anguish, reverberated through the steel and concrete canyon. It was the cry of the helpless, the cry of the pathetic. The cry of a creature who’d nearly run out of options, nearly run out of time.

  It was the cry of fleeing prey.

  Zach Caplan halted at the corner of 73rd Street and York Avenue. His eyes closed over. His head tilted skyward and he perked his ears. The cry had rung out from half a block away, filling his brain with its strangely pleasing resonance. There was something horribly wonderful about the cry of prey, about the roar of a pursuing predator. Horrible because of death’s finality. Wonderful because death, in so many ways, fostered new life. For the first time in forever, Caplan felt at home.

  Another cry—the cry of now-hopelessly cornered prey—rang out. Caplan’s fingers, thick and heavily calloused, curled tightly around the rungs of several cotton tote bags, stuffed with canned goods, peanut butter, apples, and other items from his weekly late-night shopping trip to Jerry’s Emporium. The cry belonged to a man, heavily wounded by time’s arrow. A man who once might’ve bested the predator—most likely a mugger—that now accosted him.

  But a man who now stood no chance.

  Caplan’s eyelids snapped open. A tall brick building, grayish from years of neglect, filled his line of sight. Five stories up, he saw a familiar window, caked with dirt and dust. A tiny light behind the window called out to him, begging him to ignore the cries. Begging him to do what he always did on nights like this one, namely drag his groceries up several flights of cracked stairs to his sorry excuse for an apartment. To eat a late-night snack in front of his old television. To grab a few restless hours of sleep on his lumpy, threadbare couch. To dream of a do-over, of a chance to get things right this time.

  A third cry, far more desperate than the first two, filled the air. Caplan had heard that same cry thousands of times in his life. It was a final grasping of straws, a last-ditch call for help. In less than a minute, it would be over. The mugger, suddenly richer, would flee the scene. At best, the old man would lose his valuables.

  At worst, he’d lose his life.

  Caplan’s face grew piping hot. Yes, this was how nature worked. The strong and the smart survived, the weak and the stupid died. But it wasn’t right. It hadn’t been right five months ago. It certainly wasn’t right now.

  His fingers uncurled. The cotton bags dropped to the sidewalk, crashing against the concrete. Spinning toward 73rd Street, he broke into a mad dash.

  His powerful arms pumped like pistons. His breaths came in short, brief bursts as his long legs carried him down the sidewalk. He didn’t look like a runner. But similar to the antelope, he possessed quiet, deceptive speed.

  Caplan didn’t match any of the popular stereotypes for handsome men. He wasn’t, for instance, blonde with blue eyes. Instead, his hair was jet black and curly to the point of untamable. As for his eyes, they were as green as freshly watered grass.

  On the other hand, he wasn’t tall, dark, and handsome. He stood an inch shy of six feet. His skin, although darkened from years of sun exposure, wasn’t too many shades removed from that of an albino. And his face, rugged and weathered from the elements, was a far cry from the youthful pretty-boy look so prevalent in modern media.

  Halfway down the block, he heard light scuffling and heavy grunts. Turning right, Caplan raced into a dark alley. He ran in near-silence. His breathing was barely audible. His waterproof trail-runners slapped the concrete with the lightest of touches.

  Fifty feet away, he saw two shadowy figures struggling behind a couple of metal garbage cans. Light glinted wildly as they fought for control of a large handgun. The predator, outfitted in a black hoodie and dark jeans, was gigantic. Easily six foot four and possessing the powerful neck and shoulders of a linebacker. The other man—the prey—was frail and old. Outfitted in bright-checkered pants and a sleek green polo shirt, he looked like a wealthy golfer far removed from his natural habitat.

  Caplan’s senses kicked into overdrive, focusing on the alley as a whole. Spilt trash—pizza boxes, opened envelopes, wadded-up diapers—littered the ground, indicating the trashcans had been recently moved. The air smelled of body odor, but it didn’t seem to come from the struggling combatants. Rather, a curious mixture of expensive colognes surrounded predator and prey. Metal groaned as the western fire escape, one of two abutting either side of the alley, shifted back and forth.

  Caplan knew what it meant. And his primal instincts told him to break off, to rethink his strategy. But he was no longer listening to them. He was listening to new instincts, ones that had formed five months earlier. Ones that told him to dish out as much pain and anguish as humanly possible.

  Lowering his shoulder, Caplan crashed into the predator. Jets of fire shot down his arm, across his chest. Ignoring the searing pain, he kept at it, pushing forward with all of his strength.

  The predator didn’t yelp or moan. Rather, a surprised grunt escaped his lips. Releasing the gun, he toppled to the ground with all the force of a full-grown tree trunk.

  The prey stumbled backward, trying to maintain control of the gun. But he jolted as his rear struck the concrete and the weapon, a 9mm pistol with fully supported ramped hammer-forged barrel, hit the ground and skidded into the darkness.

  Caplan rolled to his feet. The predator jumped up to face him. Lips twisting into a sick grin, the predator stepped forward. Forming a fist out of his right hand, he reared back like a baseball pitcher.

  The heavy fist slammed into Caplan’s jaw with bone-breaking force. Caplan whirled in a circle and dropped to the ground. Stars exploded in his head and a dizzy spell nearly sent him into the land of darkness.

  The predator appeared, hovering over him like a wraith. Caplan picked himself off the ground. Rose unsteadily to his feet. He had no strategy, no plan of attack or retreat. All he had was an overwhelming desire to release months of pent-up aggression.

  Before the predator could launch another attack, Caplan ran forward, throwing fists with reckless abandon. A right one slammed into the predator’s stomach. A left one struck the man’s right cheek.

  Absorbing the blows, the predator backed up a few feet. His eyes tightened into tiny orbs.

  Rage took over Caplan as he threw more punches. A right cross to the belly. A left uppercut to the chest. The predator hunkered down, trying to ward off the barrage. But a fist to the mouth stunned him and another one to the solar plexus sent him reeling toward the old trashcans. Metal clattered as he smashed into them and fell to the ground.

  Shifting his gaze, Caplan saw the prey crawling into the darkness. Hurrying forward, he grabbed the old man. Pulled him to his feet and stared into his eyes.

  “What are you doing?” the prey said. “The gun—”

  “Who are you?”

  The prey opened his mouth to respond. But rattling metal bars stopped him short.

  Caplan didn’t need to look to know what was above him. He’d noticed the signs. The shifted trashcans, the misplaced odors, the groaning metal. But he had no desire to flee. Just to fight to the bitter end.

  Twisting around, he ran toward the west wall at full speed. At the last second, he kicked his feet against the brick and shot upward. His fingers closed around a rusty metal bar.

  Fire escapes were an increasingly rare feature in New York City. Aesthetically unpleasing and considered highly unsafe, many architects had replaced them over the years with fireproof interior stairwells. The ones that remained, the dinosaurs, had been reworked to allow easier ladder deployment.

  Caplan pulled himself onto the fire escape. Two men, wide-eyed as all hell, stood before him. One was short with curly black hair poking out from under his hoodie. The other was basketball-tall with long legs.

  Caplan jumped. His hands closed around an overhead bar. With a sudden lurch, he laun
ched himself forward. Feet extended, his body soared like a missile into the curly-haired man.

  Screaming like a banshee, the man stumbled backward. He lost his balance and seconds later, his head slammed into the metal bars. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell still.

  Caplan landed in a crouching position. He started to get up but a sharp kick struck his side. His pain sensors erupted and he stumbled to a knee. A second kick, a brutal one, caught the top of his skull and he crumpled to a heap on top of the metal bars.

  A hint of copper snaked into his nostrils. He touched the side of his head. It felt tacky, sticky.

  The fire escape rattled and trembled. Caplan felt a breeze and rolled to the side. The baller’s sneaker slammed into the bars, narrowly missing his head.

  Caplan lashed out with a kick. It missed its mark, but managed to drive his attacker back a few feet.

  Fighting off dizziness, Caplan lifted his back off the bars.

  The baller backed up another foot. His eyes glittered like gold.

  Caplan shot a quick glance at the ground. The predator remained still among the fallen trashcans and mounds of garbage. The prey remained glued to the concrete, seemingly frozen with fear.

  A surge of anger appeared in the pit of Caplan’s stomach. It swirled upward, outward, spreading to all corners of his body.

  Rushing forward, the baller unleashed yet another vicious kick. Caplan could’ve blocked it. But he was too angry, too enraged to think straight. Wading forward, he ignored the sneaker, letting it crunch against his left thigh. And then he was on top of the man, overwhelming him with his weight. The baller lost his balance and toppled over the safety rail.

  Caplan fell with him.

  Air rushed in Caplan’s ears as they hurtled to the ground. Less than a second later, the baller’s side smacked sickeningly into one of the trashcans. The impact sent Caplan flopping onto the concrete and he slid forward, knocking aside rotten vegetables, beer bottles, and slimy tissues before coming to a halt.

  For three full seconds, he lay on the concrete, dazed and bloodied. His pulse raced non-stop. His pores, opened wide during the fight, caused sweat to streak down his grime-covered face.