Run (The Hunted) (9 page)

Reid discards his filthy jeans and pulls on the fresh pants, wishing he could manage a shower but feeling better for the clean clothes anyway. The khakis have a ton of pockets, which he fills with more food and a smaller water bottle. Finally, he’s caught a break and he plans to take full advantage of it. The sight of all that stuff makes him greedy and he argues with himself over how much he can take. And run with.

He is just stripping off his shirt when a branch snaps outside, but in the distance. Reid freezes. Could be an animal. Could be the hunters. He isn’t taking any chances.

The fresh T-shirt is on in a flash, his decision made without a thought. He takes the whole bag, the handles firmly grasped in his hand. He can discard what he doesn’t use later, but for now he has to take it all with him.

Reid makes it to the door and peeks out. Movement. People, large people.

Hunters.

He panics and bolts, the bag dragging behind him. He is brought to an abrupt halt, sore right shoulder brutally jerked in its socket, when the duffel refuses to follow him. Reid allows a glance back. The heavy canvas is hooked on the door jam, one corner torn. He is out of time.

With a silent groan, Reid chooses escape over comfort. He releases his death-grip on the bag, letting the handles go with aching regret, and runs for the safety of the tree line. He pauses one more moment to look back as three shadows approach the shack. He sees them discover the bag, crouch over it, mutters growing louder as they communicate.

Time to go. Reid copies his earlier tactic and adds a new element. As he runs, he doubles back on his path, making it as hard as possible for them to follow him. The food in his stomach is just enough to give him energy to run until the moon rises.

Reid finds a thick bed of shrubs and squirms inside. There, he devours two more power bars and half the water. He snuffles the last of the crumbs from the packages, licking every last bit away, the sweet and salt stinging his tongue and making the insides of his cheeks tingle.

This time his stomach cramps for real. Reid lies down on the hard and uncomfortable ground, silently begging his body to hold on to what he has eaten. He breaks out into a cold sweat, waves of nausea beating against him, pain washing over his gut in cycles. He focuses on the moon hovering over the edge of the trees. How beautiful it is hanging there, shining down on him. His stomach clenches tight, punishing him for starving it for so long, before slowly easing and leaving him in peace.

Reid lies there for a while, letting the sweat dry in the beginning of the gentle breeze rising from the south. His hands explore his pockets and find only two more bars. The rest of his booty must have fallen out as he ran for his life.

Reid considers the cabin. He could stake it out, wait for another chance to raid it. Problem is, he knows they will be watching for him now. With deep regret, he lets it go and focuses on moving ahead. After all, he now has food and a bottle to hold water when he finds it. He’s in much better shape than he was only an hour ago.

He had no idea his optimism had such resiliency and he finds himself grinning and wishing his father was there.

***

Chapter Eleven

Reid finds himself settling into a half-run, half-lope he finds easier to sustain, like a workhorse so accustomed to his job he doesn’t have to think about it anymore. It’s so easy in fact, he feels like he is on autopilot, the ache in his legs and feet so familiar by now he hardly notices at all. And, in fact, would be thrown off rhythm if the pain went away.

The night slides by a determined step at a time. At one point he starts awake and realizes he has been dozing while running, his body taking over the necessary adjustments needed to make it through the thin underbrush. Not good. Not even remotely good. Anything could happen while he’s in that state and he’d miss it, probably run right into it without knowing what he was doing. It frightens him enough to make him stop and take a break.

A new patch of underbrush in a new part of the forest, and yet it all feels the same to him. Reid devours another power bar, happy to have fuel, but so tired it doesn’t really make much of a difference. He has to find a way to get his edge back, the sharpness that keeps him alert and ready to run for real. Nothing comes to him, no plan or way of forcing himself to focus. Coffee would be nice. Sleep in a real bed. After a shower. And a big, hot dinner. He jerks himself out of his daydream, so close to the real thing he wonders if he was actually sleeping this time.

Reid allows himself another five minutes before moving on.

When he steps out onto the path, swinging his arms and shaking his head in an effort to keep himself alert, he doesn’t notice until he turns to move on that he isn’t alone.

Reid freezes, face-to-face with a mountain lion. The reality of it is so absurd, he laughs.

All this time he has been terrified of the hunters and forgotten there must be natural predators in the forest as well. Bears, wolves, even giant and deadly cats like the one who glares at him are all as real a danger as anything else he faces. It’s painfully obvious this is the case as his weary mind tries to decide what to do.

The cougar watches him, long tail twitching slowly back and forth, slitted eyes locked with his. The moonlight turns her coat into smooth silver, the ripple of muscle settling as she hunches forward, hindquarters tensed for the pounce. Reid’s exhausted mind finds it ironic that it is likely he will now die from a big cat attack and wonders if the hunters will allow her to keep her kill if they find her with his body.

Her muscles settle, not even her tail in motion any longer. Her haunches drop this time as she falls very still. Reid finds her fascinating and stunningly beautiful crouched there in a pool of moonlight. He can’t for the life of him muster any fear. She is amazing and majestic and falling to her will be a death he can accept.

A hunter howls in the near distance. The cat’s attention snaps from Reid and turns toward the sound. Her huge ears swivel, catching the last of the echo while her whiskers ripple. She backs up a step, shaking her head, ears flattening as she hums a low growl in the back of her throat.

“You don’t like them either, huh?” Reid is startled by the sound of his own voice. One of her ears twitches toward him but her focus, as intense as it was while she plotted him for dinner, is far away.

Her growl breaks off into a humming hiss. She disappears into the forest with one last flip of her tail. Reid stands there, hands shaking, but smiling after her. “Go get them, sweetheart.”

He has to move. Wouldn’t do to waste the gift she gave him and make himself such an easy target. Reid spins and starts out again. As soon as he does, he knows something is wrong with the ground. But he is too late to stop it when his foot slips. He falls, his arms flailing around him, trying to catch something, anything, to save him. His desperate grab only meets empty air. It seems to take forever before he lands on the ground below with a solid thud.

Reid gasps up at what he can see of the sky. At least the dirt under him is flat. Small consolation as he battles to draw air into his compressed lungs. A scattering of branches and leaves patters down on top of him, littering him with debris. He doesn’t bother to swipe it away, instead studying the view above him while his body recovers. That can’t be right. He can only see a small patch of stars.

He lies there for a while, getting his wind back, letting his body rest. As he does, he looks around, turning his head to the right and left. Dirt walls. More dirt walls. Debris he dragged down with him. A few branches, still heavy with leaves or needles. And him.

When he finally makes it to his feet, he approaches the sides of the hole. He feels the crumbling clay with his panic rising fresh to torment him.

The pit is man-made. The dirt is still reasonably damp, as though it was just dug. When Reid looks up again, he sees the criss-cross net of woven branches that remain at the surface, a camouflaged covering. It explains the ones that lie scattered around him.

A trap, then. Maybe it was intended for the mountain lion. It could be the hunters liked all kinds of prey. But whatever the reason for it, Reid is in it and he has to get out. Now.

He digs his fingers into the soil and hoists himself up, the toes of his sneakers slipping across the moist earth. At first the going is very hard, the dirt so crumbly he can’t get purchase. Before too long he is sweating and wrung out from the effort. But about half way up the fifteen or so feet he finds roots exposed and bits of rock, making the climb go much more quickly.

Panting, muscles vibrating from the effort to go faster, he is near the top and can see the edge of the moon. As he reaches for the lip of the hole, a hunter howls. It is so close it triggers his instinctual panic, sending his already taxes muscles into spasms. Reid throws all his weight onto his reaching hand and grasps the side of the gap, heart pounding his terror in his ears as he commits his escape to the fragile earth.

His hand grasps, grips. Holds his body up for a moment. And then it lets go, the thin, grassy roots within giving way with a terrible ripping sound, and he is falling again, out of control, tumbling back to the bottom.

This time Reid lies there for much longer, ready to quit. It’s not fair and he can’t do it anymore. He won’t. Reid has done everything he possibly can to survive, done his absolute best. No one could ask more of him. No one.

When the next howl comes, it is almost on top of him, echoing down into the bottom of the hole, the taunting voice swirling around him on a playful wind. It drives Reid to his feet one last time. He may be lost, the hunters may get him, but he refuses to die in a pit, caught like a rat in a trap.

He digs in and tries again.

***

Chapter Twelve

Reid draws a full breath and pulls himself upward. Every instinct he has prods him to go faster, climb harder, to claw and fight his way to the top, but he forces himself to take his time. It is the hardest thing he has ever done, but if he falls again, he is dead.

The hunters are near, but he has no way of knowing how near. The night air is deceptive, the mouth of the hole sending back echoes and lies. While his mind shrieks at him to hurry, he whispers back to it,
I have lots of time
.

He doesn’t. They’ll be on him in seconds. But it helps just enough to keep his pace steady, to still the shaking in his limbs so he can hang on and give him the boost he needs to reach the top of the hole again.

Time goes so slowly around him, pinching him between anxious fingers, squeezing the air from his chest and the fear out of his very pores. He longs to lunge for the top the same as the first time, but the sight of the missing patch of ground where it gave way under his weight is enough to hold him back. When he realizes his mistake, that in his fear he chose to climb the exact same section of wall instead of looking for a better route up, it almost defeats him.

Reid feels along the edge with his fingers, searching for purchase, something stable to hang onto. He finds only crumbling earth and thin grass. He continues to touch his way along the rim as far as he can reach, despair growing as he realizes there is nothing there to find. His toes burn from the strain of holding him up, his injured right shoulder, still a mass of bruises, threatening to let go and send him plummeting back to the bottom of the pit.

A small patter of dirt falls as his right hand slides over the root it holds. He has seconds to find a way out or he is done. The howl he dreads is so close now he is sure the hunter is watching him, waiting for him to fail, laughing at the pathetic weakness of his efforts.

Reid’s hand starts to fall back and catches on something hard. He grasps at it, grips it tight. Tugs and burrows with his fingers. The root is old and gnarled, the remnant of a long dead tree. But it is solid and well anchored. This is the only chance he has.

With one last pull, the remainder of the strength in his right arm sacrificed to do it, Reid heaves himself up and over the edge of the hole. He feels himself starting to slide, the weakened side giving way under him. Reid desperately levers himself further forward, pulling on the ground to drag himself up, gouging out clumps of earth and grass to do it.

His toes finally catch on the surface and he forgets the ache in them instantly, driving his sneakers into the ground as hard as he can, instincts telling him to get away from the edge.

Reid is on his feet even as a hunter’s howl drives a spike of terror further into his heart. There is a flicker on the path ahead. He is too late, no time to run.

The hunter has found him. But he’s not trapped, at least. Not any more.

Reid sees the man in black flying toward him so swiftly he has no time to react. Or thinks he doesn’t. The survivor in him takes over. He throws himself to the side as the hunter leaps, the image of an attacking cat. Reid’s lungs empty of air in terrified exhalation, sure the blade of the man’s knife is faster. He just registers the tug of the man’s hands on his clothing as the hunter soars over him. Reid spins sideways and hits the ground hard on his right side, shoulder screaming at him, the pain so intense it slows him down. He tries to rise, his only hope that the man didn’t notice the hole any more than Reid had.

Luck isn’t with him. When he turns, he sees the hunter crouched on the edge of the pit, moonlight glistening on his teeth as he smiles at Reid. They look sharp, pointed like a shark’s and very big. But it isn’t the hunter’s teeth he cares about. It’s the strange knife in his hand, made of three blades all razor perfect and glittering silver.

Reid blinks. Wait. Not a knife, or knives. They are the man’s hands. Claws extend from the ends of his fingers like sharpened eagle talons, the edges clearly honed to a deadly edge. Reid’s brain rebels and he freezes, unable to comprehend what he is witnessing or believe it either. His logical mind refuses to accept, to put together the truth of what he is seeing, from the inhuman teeth to the claws for hands and, finally, the slitted pupils in solid silver eyes that fix him as firmly as the mountain lion’s had.