Brandon hurried down the steep, narrow path in the jungle. He moved his stash every morning to a different spot on the vertical incline, so he was able to avoid all the losers who wandered down the main path in the woods.
He’d become more cautious after a street drunk told him that the police sometimes came with sniffing dogs, but he wasn’t sure whether they were looking for bombs or bongs. Brandon hoped the cops weren’t searching for ammo, but for drugs or criminals. He assumed the canines weren’t trained for bomb sniffing, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had only five days to go and God help him if he fucked up now.
He stopped when he heard voices below him on the main track. He distinctly heard a woman’s voice. God, he hoped it wasn’t that pimp who brought his women to the isolated area to beat them into submission.
He slowed, careful not to draw attention. They were really close to his hideout. His scalp tingled with the threat.
Hiding behind the trunk of a large tree, he peered down on three people talking.
Red rage exploded behind his eyes like a nuclear blast. It was Grayce Walters, the veterinarian, from the newspaper and the 65th Street house. What the fuck was she doing in the jungle? But of course he knew the answer to that. Obviously she had come looking for him.
The same nelly dude was with her, but the tatted woman wasn’t. This woman was dressed and stood like a soldier. What the fuck? It was the woman who had been in his house and now she was looking for him, too.
Grayce Walters, the meddling whore, was talking about the police. She turned her head and he missed the rest, but he definitely heard police. Panic raced into each of his nerves and then pummeled his heart.
Throwing caution aside, he left his hiding place and painstakingly made his way down through tree roots and low bushes, trying not to make noise until he loomed twenty feet over them.
The other woman was definitely military. Why were she and Grayce Walters together?
Grayce Walters was going on—just like his mother. Now she asked questions about the hunter.
The guy was nattering about something as he reached into his shoe.
The soldier said FBI and CIA. Fuck. He felt like ants were running up his legs. He couldn’t stand still. He fisted his hands around the tree. He wanted to choke the shit out of Grayce Walters, the meddling bitch.
Suddenly the damn poodle ran from the hill below the track.
He stopped breathing and stood frozen. The sound of his heartbeat reverberated in his ears. He waited with his Glock drawn.
Stupid dog didn’t look up, but ran up the path with the three people following. They continued their conversation about the hunter as they walked up the trail.
He waited, taking his breaths in fast pants. He wanted to take a deep breath, but was afraid to move, make a sound.
Had they found his belongings? There was nothing to find—only his sleeping bag. He needed to calm down. He was too close to let two snooping bitches interfere.
He had to take care of Grayce Walters. The newspaper made it so easy. She practiced in Fremont. It was time for Gator. He’d stop the bitch, oh, yeah.