Three. A fireteam.
"This isn’t a random psycho." I turn to my brothers. My hands curl into fists. "This is professional."
"Why?" Logan asks. "She’s a biologist, Tristan. She looks at martens."
"The martens were a smokescreen; her data on their colony was the only thing stopping a multi-million dollar expansion. She stumbled onto something lethal."
I walk to the gun locker. I punch the code. The metal grate swings open. I grab the Remington 700 with the thermal scope.
"I don't care who paid them." I rack the bolt. Empty. I grab a box of .308 rounds and start loading.Snick. Snick. Snick.
"Tristan," Austin says. "We need a plan."
I look at him. My eyes feel dry. The beast inside my chest claws at my ribs, demanding blood for the fear in Alexandria’s eyes.
"You handle the defense. Lock down the compound. Nobody gets near that Vault."
"And where are you going?" Logan stands.
I sling the rifle over my shoulder and sheath a Ka-Bar knife at my hip.
"I’m going to the ridge. They took pictures of her. They invaded my home. They scared my woman." I pause at the doorframe. "I’m going to cut off their hands. Then, I’m going to ask who sent them before I bleed them out."
"Tristan—"
"Let him go," Blake says. "The leash is broken, Pres."
I step into the cold afternoon. Big, fat flakes of snow fall, covering tracks. Good. I don't need tracks. I can smell them. I slip into the gray shadows of the forest. Death is coming for them, and it’s wearing my face.
The climb up the eastern ridge burns my lungs. The terrain is steep, a jumble of granite boulders and slick pine needles.
I move silently. No snapped twigs. I become part of the mountain. The constant stream of data in my head goes silent. It only happens when I’m with Alexandria, or when I’m hunting. Wind direction: North-Northwest, 10 knots. Visibility: Dropping. Target: Three hostiles.
I reach the plateau. The thin layer of new snow is disturbed. Deep lugs. Military issue. I crouch, digging my fingers through the slush to touch the cold mud beneath.
Inside the tread mark, the earth is darker. Fresh. They’re still here.
A glint of metal flashes fifty yards up. A scope. My heart rate slows.Thump... thump... thump.
I unclip the knife.
I circle, closing the distance with the silence of a grave. It takes twenty minutes to cover fifty yards. I belly-crawl through thefreezing slush—the previous days of heavy rain turning into a jagged, icy slurry as the snow begins to settle over the mud. I don’t feel the cold biting into my chest. I only feel the phantom heat of Alexandria’s pussy and the way she arched when I claimed her in the loft.
I come up behind the rock formation. Two of them. Spotter and shooter. They lie prone, weapons trained on the clubhouse. Waiting for a target. Waiting for her.
The third man must be on the flank.
I rise behind the spotter. Thick neck. He never hears me. I clamp my hand over his mouth and drive the knife into the soft hollow between his collarbone and neck. He thrashes once. I ride him into the ground as life spurts out in a hot gush over my hand.
The shooter hears the scuffle. He turns, reaching for his sidearm. Too slow.
I drop the dying spotter and lunge. Two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and rage hits him like a freight train. His head cracks against the granite. He goes limp.
Good. Alive.
I pin him, forearm crushing his windpipe. His eyes bulge. He sees the patch on my chest. He sees the blood on my face.
"You took pictures." I lean close. "You watched her."
