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AMOS AWOKE WITH A START, every sense on instant, nail-biting alert. Outside the cave, the darkness was absolute, the profound silence eerie.
Something had interrupted his sleep. Something more disturbing than the chaotic memories of the Tracker ambush.
He stretched his arms and legs, feeling the protest in his aching limbs, eyes riveted on the forest outside. The stony surface and cold temperature were no help to his stiff body, but his mind was crystal clear.
He rose to his hands and knees and crept to the cave’s entrance, poking his head out to survey his surroundings.
The wind gusted for a moment, the tall pines creaking in response. Amos panned back and forth. Once, twice. He was on his third pass when he spotted the darker-than-dark silhouette advancing on his position.
The anonymous figure was taking its time, moving with great stealth. Amos squinted, wishing the moonlight would provide better illumination.
There was no warning. The terrifying circle of red light flared to blazing intensity. His pursuer recklessly abandoned any attempt at camouflage.
Amos’s heart skipped a beat, and then began to race in concert with the adrenaline in his veins. How did it find me? My Implant’s been gone for months.
A shadow passed between Amos and the moon’s surreal glow. Startled, he looked above the skulking Tracker, in time to see a dark shape dropping like a stone. There was no time to react.
The Tracker was flattered under the impact of the falling shadow. An arm was raised, clutching a round object, and then struck downward with vicious intent. Once. Twice. The Tracker lay where it had fallen, unmoving and lifeless.
The shadow rose to its feet, both hands held out, palm up. A round object fell from one of its hands, landing with a solid thud on the ground.
The shadowy figure crouched, holding its empty hands up and away from its body. A voice carried to him, hardly above a whisper.
“Good welcome, Amos. I trust you slept well?”
Amos crawled out of the cave, hampered by the stiffness in his cold limbs. Taking a cue from his unexpected visitor, he kept his voice down. “Mateo? I guess I should start with ‘thanks,’ but . . .”
He gestured at the Tracker at Mateo’s feet. “How’d you know where to find me?”
Mateo hastened to join him, signaling they should stay low. They crouched in front of the cave.
“I seem to have made a tactical error,” Mateo said, his voice a husky whisper. “I followed you after the attack. I failed on one account. The Givers are now aware of my continued existence, as a result of our unfortunate incident yesterday.”
“Unfortunate incident?” Amos repeated, eyebrows raised. “That’s what you call a surprise visit by a Tracker kill-squad?”
Mateo cocked his head to one side, his odd expression accented by the moonlight.
“This Tracker wasn’t pursuing you. And for that, I must apologize.” He gestured at the lifeless form a few meters away. “It was hunting me, and by trailing you, I’ve exposed you to the same threat.”
He straightened, the red light under his skin coming to life as he pivoted in a slow circle, surveying their surroundings with painstaking care. Once he completed his scan, he nodded as the red glow faded into obscurity.
“We’re alone for the moment.” Mateo’s voice held an unfamiliar note of anxiety. “But I’m afraid my error may have complicated matters. As I said, the Givers are now aware I continue to exist. They’ll seek to correct that.”
“If the Hoarders don’t get you first,” Amos replied. “I got the impression Darcy doesn’t like you very much.”
Mateo lifted his head a fraction, a puzzled frown crossing his face. “Only together can you hope to defeat the Givers. The alliance must survive.”
Amos shrugged, the tension between his shoulder-blades morphing into a headache. “So you keep telling us.”
He gestured at the dead Tracker. “Well, if they’re now hunting for both of us . . . Where to next?”
Mateo straightened to his full height. “The Enclave, of course.”
Amos shook his head, wincing at the sharp pain answering from his neck. “Somehow, I knew you were going to say that.”