Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series)

by Kristine Mason

  “I’m sorry if I was underwhelmed, but you have to admit that you stated the obvious. A sane person wouldn’t hunt a human being. He clearly feels no guilt over what he’s putting us through. And as for violent tendencies?” She held up her injured hand. “I think he’s covered that, too.”

  Smartass. “Then I guess you know it all, don’t you,” he said, not hiding the bitterness in his tone. Did she think he could easily profile the man and give her a definitive description of who he was and why he was hunting them? With more information, he could. At this point, he could, without a doubt, classify the bastard as a revenge killer. Whether he’d killed others, he couldn’t be sure, but with what he’d planned and how he’d executed that plan, it was clear to him that the man would not stop until the object of his anger was destroyed. And that object of hatred was him.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. You know damn well I didn’t say that.”

  “Let’s see…you said you were underwhelmed and that I stated the obvious, which gives me the impression that—”

  Splinters of wood burst from the tree near Cami’s head. She jumped, then ducked. “What the hell was—” Leaves hanging above her rustled as a branch hit the ground, followed by another.

  He crouched and rushed for her. Keeping their bodies low to the ground, he forced her to move. “Go,” he ordered, hoping to God the next shot didn’t hit its mark.

  “Were those bullets?” she asked, her voice laced with panic. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  More tree bark splintered above them. Birds he hadn’t realized were around them began squawking. The clearing they’d been heading toward would have them sitting in a fish bowl, leaving them without cover. He led Cami to the right, then shifted to the left when another bullet knocked leaves off a tree, sending them fluttering to the ground.

  “We need to hide,” she said, breathless.

  Where? Without knowing where the bastard had fired from, or at what distance, he had no idea in which direction to go except forward. “No place to hide,” he panted. “Keep running.”

  A bullet buzzed past, moving the air next to him. Terror ripped through his body, giving him a boost of adrenaline. His feet grew numb to the pain as they hurried through the thicket. In the distance, he saw another small canal leading into more mangroves. He looked to the left, searching for a way to evade the predator, then to the right.

  “We can hide there,” she said, pointing to a large tree with Spanish moss hanging off the branches in thick layers. The tree was at least thirty yards away on the other side of the canal. From this distance he couldn’t be sure if there’d be enough moss to cover them both. Worse case, he’d hide Cami and lead the bastard away from her. Without having to worry for her safety, he might find an opportunity to unarm the man. He might even—

  Another bullet whizzed past. Cami suddenly slumped against him, and quickly covered her mouth. She groaned, and gripped her right arm with her free hand where blood oozed from the tear in her robe. Son of a bitch. The bastard had shot his woman. Spurred by fear and hatred, he half-carried, half-dragged Cami toward the water, then rushed them to the opposite shore. He looked over his shoulder, didn’t see the man, but noticed large bushy weeds and smaller mangroves intertwined along the edge of the canal, giving them natural cover. To avoid leaving tracks, he sloshed them through the calf-deep water. After about ten or so yards, he hoisted Cami onto shore, making sure she stepped on the huge ferns growing along the edge.

  “Stay with me,” he said. “Try to stay on anything green and avoid the mud and dirt.”

  She uncovered her mouth and arm, and grabbed onto his shoulder. Her hand, slick with blood, slid along his bare skin. Hatred, primal and unlike nothing he’d ever experienced, rushed through him. He wanted to kill. He wanted to drain the life from the bastard’s body. Make him bleed. Make him suffer.

  “I need to stop,” she panted on a quiet sob.

  The tree blanketed with Spanish moss loomed ahead. “Almost there. You can do this.”

  Her soft cries added to his hatred. Cami shouldn’t be crying, she should be laughing and smiling. Enjoying her vacation, enjoying her time with him. She should hate him for what was happening to them. In the end, she very well might. But she needed to be alive to hate, and he’d rather that than the alternative.

  When they finally reached the tree, he realized the side they couldn’t see had a dense layering of the moss that brushed the ground. Next to it were several bushy plants that came to chest level and could easily help hide them. Unsure if an animal used the plants as a nest, he went first, knocking the leaves and flimsy branches, hoping to scare what might live there. When nothing moved, he took Cami’s hand, led her into the bush, then pushed her to the ground. He quickly moved some of the Spanish moss, blanketing the plants and them, then joined her on the ground. The fit was tight, and forced them deep into the bush, where he held her and shielded her with his body.

  She pressed her head against his chest. He squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head. “Stay still,” he whispered.

  Seconds passed. The bushes and moss grew suffocating. Sweat trickled down his spine, while Cami’s warm body and hot breath made his skin slick wherever she touched him. His fingers were coated in her blood and he wished he had the chance to look at her wound and see how badly she’d been shot.

  His toes began to itch. He shifted his gaze to where his feet pushed into the soft ground. Fuck me.

  Dozens of tiny ants moved over and around his toes. Knowing Cami hated bugs, he imagined her leaping from the bush in hysterics and giving away their location. He shifted his mouth against her ear. “There are ants on the ground. Don’t look at them or move. We’ll get out of this soon.”

  She nodded against his chest, just as a splash came from the water. Since the canal was a good twenty-five to thirty yards away, either the bastard thought he’d lost them or, in his arrogance, he didn’t care how much noise he made. But Ian had the element of surprise. Without moving his head, he shifted his eyes to a small opening between the bush and the moss and watched the ground. Maybe when the bastard neared their hiding spot, he could attack and unarm him. At fifty-nine, he was in good shape, but the bastard was bigger and stronger, and it had been years since Ian had been involved in a physical altercation. Plus, he had Cami to consider. The shots fired hadn’t been aimed at him, but her. Why the bastard chose to go after Cami, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t allow her to be left vulnerable if something were to happen to him.

  Indecisive over how he should proceed, he stayed still and kept his breathing shallow. The ants continued to tickle his feet in a way that bordered on torture, while his heart raced and sweat cooled his skin.

  Sticks cracked. Leaves rustled.

  Cami dug her nails into his bicep. In a matter of seconds he could be right on top of them.

  Ian drew in a deep breath when the bastard stomped near the tree. Keeping his eyes locked on the sliver of the ground he could see, he waited. On a slow exhale, he tried to drown out the other sounds in the forest and focused on only one.

  The thump of the hunter’s boots neared the tree, then stopped. Cami burrowed her nose against his chest and he prayed to God she’d remain silent, especially when the footfalls shifted to the opposite side of the tree, near the bushes where they hid.

  A number of images rushed through his mind. Him jumping from the bush and knocking the bastard onto his ass. Ian countered that image, and added the bastard ready and waiting, then plunging a fifteen-inch hunting knife into the center of his chest. What the man would do to Cami afterward…he refused to consider. As much as he hated cowering in the bushes, he had to keep Cami safe. He had to—

  She tensed. He did, too. It sounded as if the man was urinating against the tree. Would he do that? Did he know they were there and was taunting with them?

  Cami nudged him slightly, but he didn’t dare acknowledge her or make a move. If the bastard knew they were there, he could be draining water instead of
urine. But, if he was peeing, this would be the opportune time to rush him. Only, what if he wasn’t and the hunting knife was ready and waiting for him. Damn it, he didn’t know what to do. Go for it or stay in the bushes, like a scared and cowardly rabbit?

  Piss, water…whatever the sound was, it stopped. Heavy footfalls suddenly moved in the opposite direction. Still tense, still unsure, he held Cami tighter and waited.

  The ants had crawled up underneath the bottom of his jeans and progressed to his calves. The urge to move was so damned strong, but not worth giving away their hiding spot.

  Time passed, how much, he didn’t know, but it had been long enough that his confidence slowly returned. He brushed his lips against Cami’s forehead, then shifted, causing the ants to move farther up his leg. She tightened her hold on his arm and met his gaze, then shook her head and mouthed, “Don’t.”

  He’d endure ants. Hell, he’d take on tarantulas and scorpions for her. Waiting a few minutes longer, to be sure the hunter had moved in another direction farther from them, was worth dealing with the damned bugs.

  More time went by and, instead of worry, hatred clawed at him, making his legs jumpy and restless. Cami slid her leg to his bent one, which jerked. The ants, her touch or the lack of whatever nutrient his body needed—didn’t matter. If the bastard had, as he suspected, moved in another direction, staying in the bush could buy them time. They could eventually backtrack and try to reach the road they’d come by. But without a compass they could become lost. Still, that was a better option than continuing—

  A large hand reached into the green leaves and grabbed Cami by the hair. She let out a scream and hung onto Ian. Her nails raked across his skin. He gripped her by the waist and, rising to his knees, pounded a fist against the bastard’s wrist.

  The barrel of a rifle pressed against his temple. “Don’t fucking move.”

  He tightened his hold on Cami, who’d gone deadly still. They were both half out of the bush, the masked man pulling her hair so damned tight, her eyes grew watery and the skin along her forehead stretched back. He shifted his eyes to the gun, then loosened his hold on Cami.

  The bastard hauled Cami out of the bush by her hair and took several steps back. She screamed again, but was silenced with a quick punch to the head. When she dropped like a cement block, Ian dove from the bush and landed on his knees.

  The hunter quickly aimed the rifle at him. “Did you really think you could hide from me?” he asked. “I could end this now. Pow. One shot to the center of your forehead. But you haven’t suffered enough.”

  “We’ve suffered. Please, do what you want to me, just leave her out of this.” Damn it. He hated groveling. If only he had a weapon. If only he could overpower this giant of a man.

  “You call this suffering?” The man glanced around. “You and the screamer have been in the Glades for less than twelve hours. Talk to me about suffering when you’ve been here for over fifty-two thousand hours.”

  Ian shook his head, fighting a wave of dizziness, while trying also to fight back the fear and focus on the bastard’s words. “I…I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Aww, poor big, bad boss man doesn’t understand. Fucking pathetic. Do the math. How many years does fifty-two thousand hours equal?”

  He shifted his gaze to Cami’s still body. “I don’t know. Please. I’ve offered you money. Maybe you’ve changed your—”

  “I don’t want your money. I want you dead. But before you die, you need to know what it’s like to agonize and…grieve.” The bastard jerked his head toward Cami. “Will you grieve for her?”

  Despite the ants crawling up his pant leg, Ian went utterly still. Of course he would grieve. If he lost Cami, no matter the circumstances, he’d be devastated. After so many years of being alone, he’d finally found someone he could love and trust. But if she were to die because of him, that devastation would be tenfold. The guilt would kill him, if the bastard didn’t put a bullet in his head first.

  God, he was so damned tired and drained, he had difficulty coming up with an answer to counter his question.

  Think, damn it. Think.

  “Maybe she doesn’t mean much to you after all.” He turned the rifle on Cami. “Maybe I should just shoot her in the back of the head and—”

  “No,” Ian shouted, and rose to his knees, holding his hands high. “Yes, I would grieve for her. I would die for her.”

  “Touching. Sucks to be in a position where all of your choices have been taken away from you, doesn’t it? You always were a big proponent of choices.” He let out a chuckle. “Isn’t it ironic that the shitty choice you once made landed you here? Never mind. I don’t care what you have to say to that. It’s been years since I’ve been hunting and I don’t want to waste time talking to you.”

  “But you’ve already found us,” Ian countered. “Does this mean you’re going to let me take care of Cami so you can continue your hunt?”

  “Nope.”

  Frustration tore past his fear. “But you just said—”

  “I know exactly what I said.” The man ripped the mask off his head, then tossed it to the ground. “Remember me?”

  “Fuck.”

  “That’s right, boss man.” He took several aggressive steps forward. “You’re so fucked,” he said, then swung the butt of the rifle at Ian’s head.

  Chapter 9

  Steven Weir’s Farmhouse, Wilmington, Illinois

  Thursday, 12:44 p.m. Central Standard Time

  JOHN DROVE ALONG the winding, narrow gravel driveway, which was flanked by large naked oak trees and tall pines. A dusting of snow covered some of the branches and the driveway, leaving the tire tracks from his Infiniti Q50 visible. But he wasn’t worried. Fat snowflakes had begun to fall a few minutes ago, and the forecast claimed that the entire state of Illinois would be dumped on by late afternoon. Within hours, a thick layer of snow would cover any tracks he and Hudson might leave behind.

  “This is a great place to hide,” Hudson said. “If you don’t mind living in a dump.”

  Rachel had looked up the property after they’d left CORE and had called to inform them that the twenty-five hundred square foot farmhouse sat on five acres of land. There was also a garage, a small barn and a couple of even smaller sheds on the property. As they neared the house, it looked as if no one had been in residence in years. The ugly brown paint on the rotted wood siding had peeled away in many sections. The front porch sagged and was missing several posts, and the window on the main door had been boarded with plywood.

  “If Steven’s here, he hasn’t been out today. We would have seen tire tracks.”

  Hudson looked out the passenger window. “He’s not here. But just in case, let’s be polite and use the front door.”

  He hoped to God Steven wasn’t here. The man had every right to hate them. He’d lost six years of his life and had missed his dad’s funeral. Rachel had also informed them that Steven’s wife had divorced him within the first few months of his incarceration and he’d lost custody of his two children. Other than the house and the little money his father had left to him, Steven had no bank accounts or credit cards. He also hadn’t taken a job. How Steven had survived these past two months, he hadn’t a clue. Based on the state of the house, he assumed the man lived in poverty and off the land.

  After John parked the sedan and killed the ignition, he slipped on a pair of leather gloves, then pulled out his gun.

  Hudson gave him a quick grin as he did the same. “Ready?”

  They exited the car, then made their way to the front porch. Weapons ready, Hudson knocked on the door. When no movement came from within, they hurried to the back of the house. The bitter wind smacked him in the face. Each breath he released came out in a stream of vapor and hung on the icy cold air. In the backyard, the barn was worse off than the house and had a slant to it. Several windows were broken. The wood was warped and, in some places, missing. The sheds Rachel had mentioned were set farther back and reminded him of l
ean-tos. With the trees devoid of leaves, he saw an elevated deer stand that Steven and his dad had likely used for hunting on their property.

  “Not much of a lock,” Hudson said, as he approached the back door. “Gimme a sec.” He produced a lock pick kit from his coat pocket, then went to work. In less than a minute, he turned the knob.

  John pulled a pair of boot covers from his back pocket. “Put these on. We’re not supposed to be here.” Once he had the covers over his boots, and Hudson had done the same, they both drew their guns, then entered.

  He immediately winced and fought from gagging. After a quick glance around the kitchen, he discovered the source of the smell and swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. Maggots moved along a plate of food sitting on the counter, as well as the dirty food-stained dishes piled in the sink.

  Hudson tapped his arm, then silently motioned toward the next room. They moved together, and once they entered the empty family room they split up—Hudson heading up the stairs, while he remained on the lower level.

  John checked the den. Light from the frost-covered window revealed dust motes, along with eerie animal heads hanging along the walls. A rusty metal desk stood in the corner, opened file cabinets adjoining it on either side. Papers had been scattered across the desk and onto the floor, which was covered in ratty and stained dark-green shag carpet. After checking the closet, he left the room, looked into a filthy half-bath, which was missing chunks of dry wall, then moved down the hall back toward the kitchen. When he came to another door, he slowly opened it, cringing as the hinges squeaked. He stood at the basement landing, his eyes watering from the foul odor drifting up the steps.