REMATCH

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BY STEVE PERRY

Something is wrong.

The old sense hadn’t been active much, only a twinge now and then, since the disaster in Alaska nine years back, but it was here, now, as strong as it ever had been.

Something is wrong. Danger! Death!

Sloane didn’t pause, he kept moving, took the turn that circled the big oak, where the old deer path veered into the woods. Birds chirped, but he didn’t hear anything else save his own breathing and soft footfalls.

Somebody was out there.

Who? The bikers? From the meth lab set up in the old RV parked by the pond deeper into the forest?

Nope, not them. Those clowns tromped through the woods like a herd of rhinos; you could hear them a mile away. They were stupid-dangerous, but, no, not them.

It was an overcast Oregon summer morning, and he was still a little stiff—these days, it sometimes took twenty or thirty minutes before he worked the kinks out. Back in his heyday, he’d slogged through the jungles of Vietnam carrying a full backpack, extra ammo, his rifle and scope, fifty, sixty pounds of crap, and he could come out of a dead sleep, ruck up, walk ten miles without blinking, set the sight, and center-punch Charlie from five hundred meters with a cold shot. He’d been good at his job. Long gone, those times. Had a birthday coming up, with a big number in the front and a zero following that, and he’d lost a step or two…

Somebody was watching him. He knew it.

He didn’t want them to know he had any idea they were.

The path descended a little, weaving into the scrub fir and alder. Usually the mosquitoes weren’t bad this time of morning, and he had planned to get five miles in and be back before Mary got up.

Not now. Now, he needed to cut his walk short and get home, where he had resources.

It had been a long time since he felt the need to carry a gun. He had a pocket knife, a little ZT tactical folder clipped inside his jeans pocket, but it wasn’t a serious weapon, it had a three-inch blade. As a forest ranger in Denali, he had slung rifles that could hit hard enough to stop a charging brown bear the size of a small pick-up truck. Necessary there, not here.

These days, he saw squirrels or rabbits, and there didn’t seem to be any bears locally, not even the little black ones you could shoo away by waving your hat.

He was good enough in the woods that he should have been able to spot a casual stalker, and he couldn’t, but he knew they were there.

Bad. And he knew why.

They were back. The killer aliens who had stalked him and Mary back in Alaska. The ones whose mysterious presence had been hushed up by the government, even though they had killed more than a couple of people.

And if they were here? It was because they had come looking for him. Too much of a coincidence otherwise. He had killed some of them, and they had tracked him down, years later, to repay him for it. No discernible reason to believe it, but that’s what it was.

Every step he took, he expected one of those energy-bolts the predators used, waited for it to spike and burn a fist-sized hole through him. Be dead before he hit the ground.

He made the short loop and headed home. They didn’t shoot.

Why?

The hairs on the back of his neck settled as he left the woods and headed toward the house, the sense of being watched fading.

It was them, but they didn’t kill him.

Why not?

* * *

Mary was up, dressed in her old blue flannel nightgown, scrambling eggs in the black skillet. Still gorgeous at fifty-five, best thing that had ever happened to him, despite how they’d met. Her dead brother, the killed bears, the creatures…

He walked past the kitchen, straight to the junk room’s gun safe. He twirled the dial, opened the heavy door, and pulled out his MegaBeast, the short-barreled custom in .610 GNR, and loaded it. One round, falling-block, based on the Ruger #1.

Only one round, but a solid hit would stop a charging elephant dead in its tracks. Punch a hole through a brick wall.

From the kitchen, Mary said, “Babe? What is it?”

He pulled the BFR from the safe and loaded that, too: five rounds of .500 Max. He felt better. He could hit back now.

Mary came down the hall. “Sloane? What?”

“They’re back,” he said.

“Oh, shit!” she said.

No need for him to say who.

* * *

Nakande chirred absently to himself.

<What?> Vagouti said.

<This is the Sniper? He is old, he moves slowly. Not even armed. Two of us? A child could take him.>

<Looks can be deceiving. You know what he did. It is why we hunt together.>

He nodded. Yes, yes. It was well known and often told, the story. A hunter of Hunters, the ooman. Fragments of recordings had been sent back to the ship when it happened, enough to tell the tale. But—look at him. He dodders. The victory would be hollow, the trophy meaningless. All the interstellar travel, for… this?

<I would stretch a little,> she said.

He looked at her.

<The wheeled house, with the great stink. They are all armed and young.>

He nodded again. <It would be good to stretch.>

* * *

“What are we going to do? Call the law?”

Sloane shook his head. “And tell them what? More of the alien space critters who look like Wonder Wart-Hog and who killed a bunch of bears and people in Alaska nine years ago have come to call? They’d lock us up. If they could get here in time.”

“The feds know about them.”

“Yeah, but which feds? And how long would it take for them to put a black ops team on the ground here? I don’t think we can wait.”

She dressed, put on her jeans, laced her boots, shrugged into a flannel shirt.

“We run,” he said. “Pack the truck and go, far away and fast.”

“How did they find us?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. They have spaceships, they have superior technology—doesn’t matter, they tracked us down.”

“You think they came to kill us?”

“I do. I don’t know why they didn’t take me out in the forest.”

“You were unarmed. That wouldn’t be sporting, would it?”

He looked at her. Of course. The predators took on giant brown bears using only their blades. No real hunter would get any joy from shooting a sitting duck. They wanted prey who could fight back. He had demonstrated that well enough.

“Okay, here’s the deal. We grab the go-bags. When we get to Portland, I’ll drop you off, you get a room, and I will—”

“No,” she said. “You aren’t going to draw them away from me. We live together. If we die, then we die together.”

“Mary—”

“Not open for discussion, Sloane.”

He grinned. Well. Never any question she was as good as they came, far too good for him.

She said, “If it took them nine years to find us, maybe we can throw them off our trail longer, now that we know they are looking. New names, new place.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he said.

But when they went to open the pick-up, all four of the tires were flat, shredded, and that vehicle wasn’t going anywhere.

“Well, shit,” he said.

* * *

Harvey banged his shoulder on the frame of the fucking RV as he went out the door. Again.

“Fuck,” he said, without any particular anger. Happened all the time: narrow-ass door, and him being six-six and two seventy-five.

He scratched at his bare chest; the new “88” tat itched. Fucking tattoo artist musta had a dirty needle; thing was more’n two weeks old and it still itched. Ought to be worth a discount when he got the next one.

He walked to the big Douglas fir tree, unzipped his crusted jeans, and pissed on the bark. Damned toilet in the RV was stopped up again. Martin was supposed to have fixed it, but Martin liked his own product too much and was stoned most of the time.

From behind him: “I need a new valve. To fix the crapper.”

Speak of the devil.

“What, I’m your mother? Go and fucking get one,” Harvey said.

“Money, dude, I ain’t got no cash.”

“Look in the drawer next to the sink, right where it always is. Should be plenty.”

“Oh, yeah, right.”

Harvey shook his head, tucked his package away and zipped up, turned to look.

Martin was on the skinny side, all the crystal, but he was still buffed. Liked to hit the iron, habit he’d picked up in the joint, and he was passing strong, but getting mush-brained—

Chirrr.

“What was that? Sounds like a giant fucking squirrel.”

Harvey looked around. He pulled the cocked-and-locked .45 tucked into his back pocket, thumbed the safety off.

“Wadn’t no squirrel,” he said. “We got company.”

Martin reached inside the doorway and came out with the Savage 12-gauge pump. He said, “Hey, Beau! Wake up!”

From inside, Beau said, “What?”

“Visitors!”

Martin stepped down, shotgun pointed ahead of him. After a second, Beau emerged, buck naked, hairier than Bigfoot, carrying an Uzi. “What? Cops?”

“I don’t think so,” Harvey said. “They would have been all over us by now. Might be some competition lookin’ for free product.”

“I’ll give ’em some free buckshot,” Martin said. He laughed.

Harvey was looking right at Martin when there was a flash, a loud sizzle, and a hole just… appeared in the middle of Martin’s gut—!

“Motherfucker!” He pointed the .45 at the woods and cranked off rounds, as Beau started to hose the trees with his Uzi on full-auto—

Beau screamed, and Harvey looked over to see Beau’s arm get blown off—!

* * *

Sloane heard the gunfire, a distant echo. Pistol. Full-auto subgun. Two shooters.

“The bikers,” he said. “We need to get out of the house. We know the woods better than the aliens. We’ll use the ghillie suits.”

Mary nodded.

* * *

In his unit cruising, Mac got the call from Loretta. “Mac? We got a report of shots fired out toward Crown Pond.”

“Copy that, dispatch. Bikers are probably target shooting again.”

“You want me to get Charlie and Arnie to meet you there?”

“Nah. The bikers know better than to screw with us. I’ll check it out. If I need help, I’ll call you.”

“Be careful, Mac. They are probably drugged-up. No telling what they might do.”

“I hear you.”

* * *

<Little sport here,> Nakande said. <Target practice.>

<They were inept,> his mate said. She shrugged. <But they were what was available. Better than nothing.>

<We didn’t come all this way to slaughter such poor prey.>

<The day is yet young,> she said. <Shall we go find the Sniper?>

<Yes. And with hope he still has some of his former skill.>

He didn’t believe it, though. Sad.

* * *

Been a long time since he’d worn a ghillie suit but it was like riding a bicycle. Still smelled like moldy canvas overlaid with cat pee.

He smiled at Mary as she zipped up her suit.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“A little bit, yeah. You’re cute. Well, you would be if I could see you.”

She grinned back at him.

“Which rifle you want?” He was taking the Beast and the BFR. Extra ammo. A big sheath knife. He wished he had some grenades. A rocket-launcher. A tactical nuke.

“The Winchester .308.”

“Sidearm?”

“No. Anything big enough to stop one of them would probably break my wrist.”

“Ah, you are tougher than you look.”

She glanced down at the suit. “Right now, I look silly.”

“Well, yeah. A little bit. Silly ghillie.”

* * *

Mac could smell the burned meat when he rolled up on the trailer, and he saw the bodies quick enough.

Jesus Christ!

“Loretta. Send Charlie and Arnie. Call Sheriff Perkins. Call the state police and tell them to get a SWAT team out here.”

“Mac?”

“I got three biker corpses, look like they were killed by death rays. We got big trouble here.”

* * *

Vagouti said, <The dwelling is quiet.>

Nakande nodded. <Yes.>

<I see no signs of life. I cannot hear them.>

<The vehicle is disabled. They cannot have left.>

She stared at him. <And how did we come to be here? Do you think their legs are disabled, too?>

He shook his head. She had a barbed tongue, his mate, and never did she let him forget it. Fortunately, she had other virtues. An excellent Hunter, she was.

<I will go look,> she said.

<I can do that,> he said.

<One would think so. Nonetheless, I will go.>

He shrugged. Not worth the argument.

It wasn’t long before she returned. <They are gone.>

<Well. They are on foot. Probably armed. We can hunt them. More sport that way.>

<Yes.>

* * *

“Sloane, do we have a plan?”

He nodded. “Yeah. We work our way through the forest, to the bikers’ RV. They have a truck, and motorcycles. We will borrow a ride.”

“You think they’re dead?”

“Bet on it.”

“After that?”

“One step at a time. If we hear pursuit, we’ll take cover and knock ’em over.”

“If we can see them.”

“There’s that. But, we did it before.”

“We barely survived.”

“Barely is better than not at all.”

* * *

Mac should have waited for backup, but the place was as still as a tomb, and whoever had slaughtered the three bikers had to be long gone.

He unracked the shotgun and chambered a round. Not that doing so made him feel a whole lot better—he saw a .45 pistol, an Uzi, and a 12-gauge pump next to the dead men, and enough expended brass to see they had gotten off more than a few rounds. Somebody had killed them anyway.

In the damp ground near the biggest one’s body, there was a footprint. It had a pebbled pattern to the sole, and when he put his boot next to it? Jesus, he wore a twelve, and that print was almost twice as long, and easily twice as wide.

Good Lord! The big biker’s boot prints were all over, he had to be pushing three hundred pounds, and this print was way deeper. How big a man would that be? Seven feet? Four hundred pounds?

Bigfoot, armed with a weapon that punched a fist-sized hole through and through, same size front and back of the body?

“Loretta, where is that SWAT team?”

“On the way from statie base, forty-five minutes ETA. Charlie and Arnie should be there in ten.”

“Turn our guys around. I don’t want them showing up here and getting ambushed. The bikers got slaughtered by somebody with way more firepower than we have. I’m gonna move my unit and find a spot to lay low. Tell the staties to call me on tach-three when they get close.”

“Copy that, Mac. What is going on out there?”

“Wish to hell I knew. But it’s bad.”

* * *

“Hear that?”

He looked at Mary. “What?”

“Listen.”

He strained his ears. Yes. A faint noise, behind them, toward their house. Not really close, but not that far away.

“I should have gotten those hearing aids,” he said.

“Remember that you said that later.”

If there is a later.

“They are behind us. Or maybe it’s just one. We need to get off-trail and hunker down.”

“They have that stealth gear.”

“Yeah. But it’s not perfect. If you know what to look for, you can see it. My eyes haven’t fogged over that much. Come on.”

* * *

<We should proceed with more caution.>

<For an old ooman and his untrained mate?>

<Remember the story.>

<I am Nakande, who has stalked and slain kiande amedha in single-combat! I am not cowed by a story!>

For once, Vagouti kept her silence, which was good, because he was not going to be warned off by his mate in this matter! Two old oomans, one step from the grave? Bah!

<They cannot be far,> he said. <I will spike the male. You can have the female.>

Again, she held her voice. Which was as it should be.

* * *

Sloane hadn’t fired a weapon outside the Tricounty Gun Club in years, and even then, not as often as he should. The Beast wasn’t a tack-driver at distance, but they were only fifty meters off the trail where it narrowed, and he could make that shot blindfolded.

He hoped.

He slowed his breathing, soft-focused his vision, taking in the trail. His weapon was ready. He was ready.

As soon as he fired, Mary would also shoot. All she had to do was line up on the twisted trunk of the little madrone tree and fire, because, if he saw the air blur, that’s where he was going to take the creature.

As soon as they fired, they would roll and scrabble, in case anybody managed to figure out where the shots came from.

There was no talking now, no distractions. Only waiting.

Time passed slowly, slowly…

“I see it,” he whispered. “In three… two… now—”

He squeezed the trigger, sights lined up on the rippling air in front of the madrone—

Mary’s Winchester roared.

“Go!”

They rolled, heard an unearthly scream, and a bolt of energy blasted the spot three meters behind them—

“Go, go, go!”

Either they missed, which Sloane didn’t think likely, or there was at least one other out there.

Damn!

* * *

Vagouti knelt by Nakande. He was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long. He had been hit twice by projectile weapons, rifle pellets, one through the lungs, the other near the hip.

His voice was full of fluid. <You… were… right,> he managed to say, before a hard cough wracked him. He brought up bright green blood. <I underestimated the ooman—>

He coughed again and offered his death rattle, just like that.

Gone.

She grieved, but only for a moment. She deactivated his self-destruct. At this range, it would kill the oomans, but she wanted to live long enough to do that herself.

Yes, indeed.

* * *

Mac heard the shots, one much louder than the other. Big boom, high-caliber rifles. Who was shooting at whom?

There wasn’t anybody else out this way, middle of nowhere, except for the senior couple who’d bought the McGee place a few years back. The old boy had guns; Mac had seen him at the range a couple times. Retired forest ranger or something, white hair, skin like old rawhide.

He didn’t hold out much hope for them, they were shooting. Not if three heavily armed bikers couldn’t survive against them. Whoever they were.

Shit. He should wait for the SWAT team, but if somebody was in trouble out there? He had to check it out. That’s what they paid him to do.

Well, shit…

* * *

Sloane and Mary moved as quickly as they could through the forest. Their pursuer would be looking for another ambush now, and he’d have superior weapons to clear out any suspicious spots. Speed was what mattered. If they could make it to the bikers’ RV, get their truck or even a bike running, they could leave it behind. It probably had transportation somewhere, but an open road with the pedal to the metal was better than beating your way through the woods on foot.

“Sloane?”

“He’ll be moving slower now, he doesn’t know if we’ll take another shot. Be a mistake for him to risk it.”

“You hope.”

“What I would do, and he’s a hunter going after prey that just seriously wounded or killed his buddy. We should be able to stay ahead of him.”

* * *

Vagouti mourned Nakande even as she was angry with him. His dying breath he had admitted it. He’d dismissed the ooman as serious prey because he was old. Age took strength and speed, but it didn’t always take skill. Firing a weapon with which you had practiced ten thousand times? A squeeze of one digit, no strength or speed needed for that.

She would not make the same mistake. They were running for the wheeled house that stank, where the other, less-skilled oomans had died. It made sense—there had been transportation there, and they would think to outrun her that way.

Her mandible twitched.

It was a risk, but it made sense: Trying to follow them through the forest was not the best action.

Best would be to arrive where they were going before they did, and have them walk into her line of fire.

Though maybe she would use her blades. It would be more satisfying that way.

* * *

Mac stayed off the trail, working his way through the brush carefully. Concealment wasn’t cover, but if they didn’t see him, they’d have a harder time zapping him with their lasers or whatever. He moved deliberately, not trying to hurry. Either the old couple had killed the bad guys or they had been killed; there hadn’t been any more firing, save those two shots. Likely whatever had happened was a done deal, and really, when he thought about it, he should wait for the SWAT team, but, no. On the off chance somebody still needed his help, he had to go look.

* * *

Sloane slowed down.

“What?”

He took a deep breath, let half of it out. “Thinking here. If the creature behind us killed the bikers, then they know about the place.”

“So? Oh. Wait.”

“Yeah. They would know about the truck and bikes there.”

“You think they shredded tires there, too?”

“If they knew the bikers were dead and they expected to catch us at home, maybe not.”

“Then what?”

“They know we are running, and the nearest quick escape would be the bikers’ truck or motorcycles.”

“Yeah? And?”

“If I were tracking us and I thought I knew where we were headed? Moving slowly to keep from getting shot would be relatively safe, but circling around and moving fast to get there ahead of us? That would be my preference.”

“Crap.”

“If they have hunted people before, they have figured out how we think; that’s the first thing you do with dangerous prey. You make it play your game.”

“I am guessing that it might not be in our best interests to walk up to the bikers’ place without great care. Well, maybe—what’s that?”

He listened. “Somebody ahead of us, coming this way. Off-trail.”

“The monster?”

“I don’t know. Not making as much noise as I would think. Let’s hunker down. Maybe it will step in front of our guns again.”

* * *

Mac had worked up a pretty good sweat. The trees shaded him, but the marine layer was burning off, it was getting warmer—probably hit ninety today—and he was wishing he had brought a water bottle or a canteen.

There was a stream not far, and if he wanted to risk getting sick from sipping water full of beaver and duck crap, he could get a drink. Should have brought his filter straw, back in the unit’s trunk.

Should have brought the Marines and the Air Force, while I’m thinking about it.

He looked at his intended path ahead. Mostly trees and bushes and blackberry brambles.

He stepped into a small clearing.

* * *

“Don’t shoot,” Sloane whispered. “It’s a deputy.”

Mary said, “I’m not blind, I can see that.”

“Let’s see if we can warn him without him blasting the trees.”

He started whistling the alien theme from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

“Really, Sloane?”

“Who’s there?! Sheriff’s office! Come out with your hands up!”

“Deputy, this is Sloane and Mary. We bought the old McGee place. You saw me at the shooting range.”

“Come out where I can see you! Put your weapons down!”

“Deputy, we really have to hurry this up. There’s somebody else in the woods and they are killers.”

“I saw the bikers. Come out!”

“We are wearing ghillie suits. We stand up, we are going to look like bushes. Our weapons are down. Don’t shoot us.”

“Slow and easy.”

They did that. Sloane already had his head cover shoved back, as did Mary.

“Jesus! How did I miss you?”

“We didn’t want you to see us.”

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Step a little closer, we don’t want to be yelling at each other.”

“SWAT is on the way.”

“We’ll need them,” Sloane said.

“Why did you whistle that tune?”

“To make you wonder just that, and not spray the woods with your shotgun.”

“Ah.”

* * *

Mac said, “You are fucking kidding me!”

“No. We ran into these things in Alaska, almost a decade back. The feds know about them. There was a big explosion afterward, wiped out the evidence. They are back.”

“You’re crazy.” But he thought about the footprint. Bigger than any man’s he’d ever seen.

“You ever see anybody killed like those bikers?”

“No, but maybe it’s some kind of black ops thing. A rival gang, maybe.”

“Does it really matter, if they are killing people?” Mary said.

He looked at her.

“Where did you park your car?”

“Couple hundred yards from the camper. Off the logging road.”

“Good, maybe we can get there without it—or them— seeing us. You can take us in; we can talk about it somewhere safer than here.”

“I’ll need your guns.”

“No. If that thing pops up, you probably won’t see it, it’s got some kind of electronic camouflage, and we need to tag it before it does us. Three shooters are better than one.”

Mac considered it.

“We need to get moving, Deputy.”

“Mac. Call me ‘Mac.’”

“If it is ahead of us or behind us, either way, we can’t stay here.”

* * *

Vagouti arrived, and a quick scout of the area revealed that, save for the dead ones, she was alone.

Good.

She used her wrist-blades to disable the vehicles, a four-wheeled one and three two-wheelers. Slashed the tires on the wheeled house, too. Should have done that earlier.

She found a perfect place where she could watch the dwelling, then decided it was too perfect. Were she in the oomans’ minds, she would note that spot upon arrival.

There was a second location, not as good, but sufficient. She went there. Even enstealthed, they had killed Nakande. How? It did not matter, only that it had happened. She had to assume they might spot her unless she had complete cover. Nakande had made a fatal error. She would not. She must control her rage. Her mate was gone, and a foolish gesture on her part might gain her similar results. The old ooman and his mate seemed no less deadly than the stories.

* * *

Sloane said, “We’re thinking that it—or they—will probably have beaten us to the RV and set up there. Can we get to your car without being seen if they are there?”

“Yeah, we need to circle to the east, through the gully. Harder going that way.”

“Beats the other option.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Vagouti settled, calmed her breathing, and waited. A Hunter had to be patient. Nakande had been a good Hunter and fighter, but patience had not been high on his list of virtues. He was strong and fast, and that had been enough. Until now.

She would spike them. Skewering and carving would have been more satisfying, but she was not going to underestimate them. All the Yautja who had done so thus far, including her mate, had died for so doing. Quick and clean, take the skull, and go home, where she would have to explain to her young why their sire was not with her.

He made a mistake, she would say. Learn from this.

* * *

The gully was more or less dry, but fairly steep descending and climbing. The RV was a hundred or so meters to the west, not visible through the thick forest. With luck, they would climb out, work their way down the dirt road to the deputy’s cruiser, and get the hell away before their stalkers knew they were gone.

Sloane and Mary had never spoken of what happened in Alaska to anyone, but that cat was out of the bag, now.

Whoever in the federal government was in charge of alien clean-up would have to come and do some work here, but that was something to worry about later. First, they needed to get clear.

They climbed the slope up the other side of the gully. Come the October rains, this would be a river, but that wasn’t something he needed to worry about either.

Almost at the top, Mac grabbed a dry sapling for support and the wrist-thick bole snapped off just below his hand.

Made a loud crack! in the quiet morning.

“Shit—!” Mac said. He caught at a low branch on a big fir tree and stopped his slide down the slope.

Sloane held a finger to his lips for silence.

They listened. He was trusting Mary’s and Mac’s ears more than his own, but he held his breath, straining to hear…

Nothing.

It was a long way off, maybe the sound hadn’t carried.

“Go,” he said. “Quickly.”

* * *

Vagouti heard the noise from the forest. Not close, not that far. A branch breaking, she knew the sound; she’d heard more than one large prey animal fleeing her make such sounds.

They were circling the dwelling. They sought to come in from an unexpected direction, because they suspected a trap. This was the mark of prey who was also a hunter. Smart.

She considered her strategy and tactics. She could easily change her position and find a better vantage to cover that arc of the perimeter.

Or, she could go to meet them, when they didn’t expect her.

Surprise might still exist there, but no longer here, not as much. They might not know exactly where she was, but they would be alert. Two of them, both armed? They would separate as they arrived, and if she lanced one, the other would have a target. That is what she would do in their place.

She needed them together.

She stood.

* * *

Mac said, “The cruiser is just around the turn ahead.”

Sloane nodded. “Why don’t you give me the keys, I’ll go get it, bring it back. No point in all three of us getting closer than we need.”

The deputy frowned. “I’ll do that. My car.”

Sloane said, “We’ll cover you.”

* * *

Vagouti smelled the vehicle before she saw it, the odor of burned petroleum distillates they used for fuel hanging thick in the air.

She frowned. There had been no vehicle there before when she had scouted the area. Someone had arrived since.

There were others.

That was where the Sniper was going, not where the dead oomans were. He meant to flee.

She saw the automobile. Recognized it. It was one of their law enforcement vehicles, they had a particular appearance.

More armed prey. How many?

She edged closer.

* * *

As Mac made his way toward the cruiser, Sloane said, “We need to separate. You stay here, I’m going across the road.”

“Why?”

“Because if one of them is about, he’ll have to shift his aim fast to get both of us. If you see a flash, shoot at the source.” Mary nodded. “Be careful, Sloane.”

“I will. Stay low and concealed.”

* * *

An armed ooman approached the vehicle.

She couldn’t spike him, the others would mark her. She might be able to get them all, but that was not the wise choice. There were at least three, perhaps more.

If their intent was to flee in the vehicle, as it seemed it was? All she had to do was wait until they were all inside, unable to shoot back or dodge; then she could spike the automobile and be done with it.

Not as sporting as she would have it, but she would have the head of the ooman who slew her mate. And who, at a far remove, could criticize her for it? One against multiple? All armed? And as deadly as they came?

She crept back a bit, looking for a better angle. The vehicle would be departing along the dirt path away from her. The others must be farther along that way, waiting for the ride to come to them. You couldn’t spike a target if you didn’t know where it was. Again, they were behaving as a Hunter would behave.

She had taken dangerous prey on a dozen planets. She would take these as well.

She needed a better vantage point. She looked around.

* * *

Mac unlocked the car’s door and opened it. Took in the surroundings.

Nothing.

He put the shotgun into the rack.

He slid onto the seat and cranked the unit. Did a U-turn and started down the road, slow and easy, didn’t want to raise dust or make more noise than he had to.

* * *

Sloane saw the deputy’s car roll slowly toward his position. He looked past it, into the woods.

So far, so good.

But—he had that feeling of being watched again.

Were he the alien predator, if he were there observing, how would he assess the situation? Three armed people. Dangerous to shoot, if there was only one of them.

Wait until everybody is in the car, then blow the car apart.

He nodded to himself.

The cruiser pulled to a stop.

“Get in,” Mac called.

Line of sight, Sloane thought. Where would I set up to hit the car?

He had to assume they could see the car. And anybody who went to get into it.

“Mary. Crouch, and get into the back seat. I’m going to pretend to get into the front seat.”

“Pretend?”

“If I squat low and open the door, then close it, they might not see what I did. Depends on the angle they have.”

“Did you see something?”

“No. But they are there.”

“You sure about this?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Mac said, “What are you doing?”

“I think we have a watcher. Give me five seconds after I close the door to get back to concealment, then stomp it, kick some dust up, and zig-zag.”

There was a short pause. “Okay.”

Sloane watched Mary creep toward the car’s rear door. She opened it and hopped in.

Sloane took a deep breath and moved in a low crouch, duck-walked to the passenger-side front door. He opened it, then shut it quickly.

Either they see me or not. If they do, they won’t take the shot. If not?

He scooted back into the brush and dropped prone.

Three… two… one…

Mac tromped on the gas pedal and the tires threw up dirt and dust. The car fishtailed, got traction, and took off—

—Sloane scanned the road and woods, looking, looking—

* * *

Vagouti targeted the vehicle. It spewed dust, obscuring her vision, but they were all inside—now was the time—

* * *

Nothing, Sloane didn’t see that shimmer he was looking for. Maybe he was wrong—

—a cone fell from the big Douglas fir tree across the road. He saw it drop, followed the line back up—

* * *

You were a challenge, Sniper. I offer respect, but in the end, the Yautja are better Hunters. Death comes for you—

* * *

In the tree! It’s in the tree! Where—?!

Had to be that thick branch, five meters up. Nothing smaller would support the thing’s weight.

He couldn’t see it. No blur. Shit!

Close to the trunk, squatting on the branch, leaning against the bole. Had to be.

No time. If it was going to shoot, he had to beat it.

Sloane lined his sight up on what looked to be empty space and pressed the trigger—

* * *

Vagouti started to command the spike, and then felt a terrible, terrible pain in her left side. She fell—

* * *

Sloane heard the impact, felt the ground shake, and he had already drawn his revolver.

No death rays.

Was it just the one?

He waited, handgun pointed at where the invisible thing had hit the ground—

* * *

Vagouti couldn’t breathe; the impact had knocked the air from her lungs. Blood gouted from the wounds, front and back. A rib was broken, the shock had wrecked her insides, but she wasn’t dead yet.

She managed to climb to her feet.

The stealth confounder shut off, damaged by the fall. She became visible to the shooter. She knew roughly where he had to be. She sent a spike, low, because he would be prone—

* * *

The ground half a meter to Sloane’s left erupted as the energy weapon dug a two-meter long trench deep into the earth.

Dirt and heat sprayed him.

He lined his revolver sights up, center of mass, and fired.

Sixty meters, not that hard a shot with this handgun.

The predator went down.

No other energy bolts came his way.

Just the one. More would be shooting.

He came up.

* * *

Behind him, Mary said, “Did you get it?”

“Yes.”

Mac was just behind her. “Think there might be others?”

“No, I’d be dead.”

The three of them walked to where the dying or dead alien lay sprawled on the fir needles.

It was smaller than the others. A young one? No, wait, it was a female…

She looked up at Sloane, said something in a truly foreign language, laughed—sounded like a laugh—then coughed and died.

“Man,” Mac said. “Look at that! Never seen anything like it!”

Sloane saw something. It was wearing a… watch? Flashing something.

Oh, hell!

“Get in the car, go, go!” Sloane said.

“What?”

“It has some kind of self-destruct device! It is going to blow up, a big explosion! Go!”

They ran.

* * *

They were half a mile away when the bomb went off, and the shockwave spun the car sideways on the road, as if shoved by a giant hand.

After a moment, when they realized they weren’t going to die, Mac laughed nervously.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of that just happened.”

Sloane looked at Mary, who smiled. Then he turned back to the deputy.

“After a couple times, it gets easier to believe,” he said.