Prey

  Maybe Davis had believed in his own reputation, which had in the end been a fatal weakness. No one stole from Davis and walked away unscathed. Unscathed, hell; you didn’t steal from Mitchell Davis and survive—unless you were smarter than he expected, unless you could catch him with his guard down. Davis hadn’t expected Chad to be armed; he hadn’t expected the accountant to be faster to commit murder than he himself was, which had been a serious, serious miscalculation.

  Krugman one, Davis zero. Final score.

  Now all Chad needed was to make sure Angie was taken care of, then get a five- or six-day head start. He’d be safe—he’d be someone else entirely—before anyone thought to look for the bumbling accountant.

  He had to figure out how to make that happen. He had no doubt that he could, he just had to settle down and let his brain start working. He could still make this happen to his advantage. Wounded or not, Angie wouldn’t be riding off the mountain, because he had all the horses. He’d like to think that taking the animals was enough to ensure his safety, but he knew it wasn’t. No, he had to make sure she was dead before he made his escape. He needed that head start.

  It was a shame, in a way. He liked her. Angie Powell was a nice person. She’d treated him well even when she’d thought he was a world-class schmuck. She hadn’t flirted with him—women didn’t flirt with men like him, unless they were desperate—or put on a fake smile and a false front; she’d been decent to him, which was more than he got from a lot of people. Unfortunately, nice people ran to the cops, which was why he couldn’t let her live.

  Too bad, but he wasn’t going to let her interfere with years of planning. He had a fortune socked away, and he’d be damned if he’d let Angie Powell or anyone else get in his way now. He’d lived on the edge, dealing with murderers, torturers, drug dealers, the scum of the earth, to get that money, and he deserved to spend the rest of his life enjoying it.

  So. What were his options? What were the possibilities? Best-case scenario, and worst-case scenario?

  That last one was easy. The best-case scenario was if the bear had killed Angie. Not only would it mean there was no evidence linking her death to him, but that would also throw a lot of doubt on what had happened to Davis. Add that to the body Angie had found, and any investigation would focus so sharply on the bear that they might completely overlook whatever evidence remained showing Davis had been shot. He guessed it depended on how much of Davis the bear ate. If they hunted the bear down and killed it, would they analyze its digestive system? If the bear ate a bullet, how long would it take for it to crap it out?

  For that matter, would the bullet still be in Davis anyway, or would it have gone straight through? Chad’s pistol was a 9mm, but all he knew about it was how to use it; he hadn’t studied damn ballistics. Point and shoot, and hit what you aim at. What more did he need to know?

  Worst-case scenario was if Angie wasn’t wounded, she’d gotten away from the bear, and she was heading back toward the rancher’s place as fast as she could.

  Chad listened to the god-awful storm roaring around him, and calculated the odds. No, she probably wouldn’t try making that trip in the dark, in this weather. She had the rifle, so she probably wasn’t worried all that much about the bear, and in fact, the bear might already be dead. Would she then stay at the camp?

  No, because she wouldn’t know where he was.

  An edge of excitement curled in his stomach. If not for his pressing need to get out of the country, he liked the idea of pitting his wits against Angie’s in a real man, or woman, hunt. She was way more savvy about these mountains and this kind of life, but a big plus for him was that she’d underestimated him the way everyone else did.

  Back to the scenario: She’d hole up somewhere, then, when the weather improved, she’d head down the mountain. His advantage was that he knew where she was going.

  But his disadvantage right now was that he didn’t know where he was, exactly. He sat there and concentrated, forced himself to tune out the storm, the restless horses. He wasn’t a great outdoorsman, but he did have a general sense of direction. He and Davis had been to the left of and behind the camp; the bear had come from that direction. When he’d fled the camp he’d raced to the right, away from the bear, which had taken him generally north. He needed to go back south, then east. He had no idea how long he’d ridden, driven by panic, but he figured he couldn’t be more than a couple of miles from the camp.

  He’d oriented himself with some visual landmarks when they’d arrived, so he was pretty sure he could find the campsite again if he needed to. Did he need to? Did he really need to make sure Angie was dead, or should he just get to Lattimore’s as fast as he could and get out of the country? He was riding, she was on foot. He’d be at least a day ahead of her, right?

  Was a day long enough?

  Maybe, maybe not. He’d rather have that week he’d planned on.

  Then suddenly a horrifying thought occurred to him, and he groaned aloud. Fuck! How could he have been so stupid? He’d lost his head, panicked, and now … double fuck! He had to go back to the camp, and this had nothing to do with Angie and tying up loose ends.

  He didn’t have the keys to the SUV.

  Davis had had them. They might have been in his pocket, or they might be somewhere in his tent, but one way or another Chad had to get those keys or his whole plan evaporated beneath him and left him sitting in a big pile of shit.

  He’d have to go back to the camp, pick a position from which to watch, and see if Angie was still there. If she was, he’d have to wait for his chance to pick her off, then he’d go after the keys. He only hoped they were with Davis’s belongings in his tent, and not in his pockets … or in the belly of a black bear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Angie hugged the ground and dragged herself along, over rocks and bushes, through rivulets of water that had already turned into rushing streams as the runoff from the mountain storm threatened to turn into a flood. Going through that water required her to check her common sense way back somewhere along the trail, because only an idiot would try to crawl through fast-running flood water without being tethered, but all in all she figured flood water was the least of her problems. If she got swept down the mountain and drowned in three inches of mud and water, well, to her that was more acceptable than getting mauled to death by a bear, or letting that murderous twerp Chad Krugman get the best of her.

  So she made up her mind that she wasn’t going to drown. The only way to get through this was to focus on only the moment, not letting herself think about how far it was to Ray Lattimore’s place, or how long it would take her to get there, or how cold she was, or how much her ankle hurt—none of that had any place in her head right now, because she had to concentrate on surviving.

  She’d always loved the smell of rain, the freshness it brought, the promise of life, the renewal. She’d loved to listen to it beating on the roof, lulling her to sleep at night. Oh, she’d worked out in the rain many times and that wasn’t any fun, but livestock had to be taken care of regardless of the weather, and doing so was simply part of life and she hadn’t wasted any time or effort fretting about it.

  This was different. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to enjoy the rain again.

  She moved forward inch by painful inch, her ankle throbbing so much sometimes she simply froze in place, her teeth grinding together, as she fought through the waves of pain. Her hands were like clumsy chunks of ice, so cold from the water that she could barely feel them, but at least the cold would slow down any bleeding and the water would wash away the scent of her blood.

  Survive.

  She would. No matter what. She made that promise to herself.

  And she kept going.

  One moment became another. Every muddy inch was a victory. Every breath she took could be counted as a win.

  That son of a bitch Chad Krugman was not going to get the best of her.

  Whenever lightning flashed she lifted her head and looked around,
trying to keep track of her direction and progress, and keep a sharp eye out for any pitfalls and obstacles ahead, because without the lightning and not daring to turn on her flashlight, she was literally moving forward blind. She also looked for movement, of any kind in general, but specifically Krugman or the bear. So far all she’d seen were trees whipping wildly in the wind.

  Lightning didn’t operate on command, so there were times when she needed to see what was ahead of her and she simply had to stop and wait for the next flash before moving forward again.

  Gradually it occurred to her how well-camouflaged she was. Unless she did something to give away her position, such as turning on her flashlight, Chad wasn’t likely to see her. She was covered in mud from head to toe, crawling along so close to the ground she’d effectively become a part of the landscape. The mud and water should also disguise her scent, at least to some degree, protecting her from the bear’s sensitive sense of smell.

  Terror could be sustained for only so long; it took too much energy. After a while the body would push it away and concentrate instead on the mundane, and that was what she was doing now, her world narrowed to each inch she crawled, and how the inches became feet, and the feet, yards. Eventually she would reach her destination. All she had to do was not quit.

  For a while her progress had been so slow she would have been discouraged if she’d let herself think about it, so she hadn’t. Her biggest asset was her will to live. She’d get through this. She’d survive the storm, the cold, the pain. Her injured ankle, whether it was sprained or broken, wouldn’t kill her in and of itself, but it could sure as hell contribute to her death if either the bear or Krugman crossed her trail. She’d never felt so vulnerable, and she didn’t like that feeling any more than she liked the physical pain.

  She made an effort to become a part of the earth, to use the mud and the darkness to make herself invisible.

  After an unknown length of time—an hour, a lifetime—the fierce heart of the storm moved on. The rain continued, but less forcefully, abating from a physical bombardment to a mere downpour. Not feeling as if she was about to be fried by lightning at any second was a plus, but the lack of lightning also meant she couldn’t pick out her points of navigation—crawl to that bush, then that rock—and had to go purely by feel. Unfortunately, she couldn’t feel much in her hands at all. Her pace slowed from a literal crawl to agonizingly slow.

  Without the brilliant lightning that revealed everything in stark black and white, obliterating everything else, the pinpoint of light off to her left immediately caught her attention. She froze, not moving a muscle, blending into the earth. Krugman. No one else would be out in this storm, with a flashlight. He was searching for her.

  A sense of unreality washed over her. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved that he obviously didn’t view her as any sort of threat. He had no way of knowing she was hurt, no way of knowing that her rifle was so encrusted with mud it was useless, and still he was out there with a flashlight looking for her, giving away his own position.

  The stupid asshole. She’d be damned if she’d let someone like him get the best of her.

  He had a horse. She needed that horse, but unless the perfect moment presented itself she had little or no chance of somehow getting it. She had her pistol, but that was for short-range targets, which meant Chad would be just as close to her. She couldn’t chase him down and she sure as hell wasn’t going to try to bait him into coming after her, not with her mobility so severely limited, but if he stumbled on her she wouldn’t hesitate to use the pistol.

  Knowing she was pretty well camouflaged didn’t make her feel as secure as she needed to feel; laboriously she crawled to a tree, then pulled herself to a sitting position with the trunk between her and the pinprick of light, and pulled the muddy saddlebags close. At least the flashlight let her know that wasn’t the bear after her. The pistol would do against Krugman; she’d rather have the rifle, but the smaller weapon was sufficient for a man, while it would only annoy a bear, especially one as big as the one that had attacked the camp and eaten Davis.

  Memories flashed, much like the lightning, only much more gruesome, and she shuddered. For a while she’d been able to focus on survival and push those images out of her mind, but now they were back, curdling in her stomach, bringing the black edge of fear closer and closer until it threatened to destroy her control.

  Taking deep breaths, she pushed it all away again. She could not let panic take over, or she’d never make it through this alive.

  Resting her head against the tree trunk, she watched the almost fragile beam of light move closer. She didn’t pull the pistol from her saddlebag, not yet, because there was no point in getting it wet when she might not have to use it, but she put her hand inside the saddlebag and rested her icy palm on the handle grip, so she could have the weapon out in a split second if she needed it.

  Now that she’d stopped moving, waves of exhaustion swept over her, leaving her trembling in every limb. Until she’d stopped to shelter behind the tree trunk, Angie hadn’t realized how tired she really was—or maybe she’d realized but hadn’t let herself feel it, because if she’d let it get too close she might never have been able to push through the pain and effort, and she’d have stopped trying. This went beyond merely being tired. This was bone-deep, dragging down every cell in her body. Abruptly she felt as if even breathing might be more than she could ask of herself. The wavering of the flashlight beam might be because she was so exhausted she literally couldn’t even see straight.

  And cold. God, she was so cold. Every stitch she had on was soaking wet, and though the weather was mild for November, that didn’t mean summer temperatures, it merely meant there wasn’t a foot of snow on the ground. It was warm enough to storm. But the rain and her wet clothing were stealing warmth from her body, obliterating her ability to generate heat, and now that she wasn’t moving she knew that she was in a life-and-death situation, that she was already suffering from hypothermia and might not be able to manage on her own. She needed shelter more than she needed to keep crawling down the mountainside. She needed warmth, she needed to be dry, and she didn’t see how she was going to accomplish either of those goals … unless she could manage to kill Chad Krugman and get his horse … her horse.

  She summoned the strength to peer around the tree trunk. The beam of light was moving closer, coming straight at her, bobbing up and down. She couldn’t tell by the movement if Krugman was walking or on horseback. If he continued on that course, straight at her, she’d know in a few minutes.

  Her heartbeat picked up, began to pound, and her stomach twisted with nausea. She’d been around hunting all of her life. She was good with a rifle, acceptable with a pistol. She’d hunted her own food before. But she’d never thought she’d be in a situation where she would have to shoot a person, and yet here she was, her hand gripping a pistol while she waited to see if tonight was the night she crossed a line she’d never before even considered. She’d do whatever she had to in order to survive. If it came down to her or Krugman, if it was kill or be killed, she wouldn’t hesitate.

  She had always thought she would have serious doubts about taking a life, but in this situation … no. She had none.

  She had the advantage here. She knew Krugman was coming; his flashlight gave him away, while she was all but invisible. Unless a flash of lightning at just the wrong moment gave her away, she could stay hidden here for a very long time while he searched all around her. She was reasonably safe from discovery until at least dawn. The problem was, she didn’t think she could last that long. By dawn, hypothermia would long since have brought her down.

  She waited. Her body felt both heavy and empty, weighed down yet floating. She couldn’t take action, she could only react, and hope she had enough strength left for it to matter. After a long stretch of complete darkness, lightning lit the sky. Angie took a quick peek around the tree, toward Krugman, hoping she could tell exactly where he was. He wasn’t a good en
ough rider to hold both the flashlight and the reins in one hand and his pistol in the other, especially if … A memory stirred, of those hellish moments after the bear entered the camp and Krugman had taken the horses and bolted. He hadn’t had time to saddle one of the horses. He’d be bareback. There was no way he could control a horse and hold a flashlight with just one hand, and likewise no way he could hold both a pistol and a flashlight in one hand while holding the reins in the other.

  Would he even try to ride, under those conditions? Or was he more likely to be on foot, flashlight in one hand, pistol in the other? She needed to know what was coming.

  The flash of lightning was too brief, and she wasn’t able to locate him. Instead of drawing back she stayed in position, eyes straining, until once more she saw the sweep of the flashlight beam. Then she waited, gaze locked on that beam as it came closer and closer. The next flash came several seconds later, exposing a figure on horseback, as starkly revealed as a photo negative. The flash of light was brief, and when it was over she was blinded—and would be until her eyes adjusted to the darkness again—but she’d seen enough. Though the angle and trees disguised the rider, the flashlight was in the hand of someone on horseback, in a saddle … and it wasn’t one of the horses she’d taken to the camp less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Someone else was out here in this storm. Good God, why? No one would be searching for her other than Krugman, unless there was a lot going on that she didn’t know about, and someone was looking for Krugman. But doing so in this weather, at night, was so unreasonable she couldn’t think of any scenario that would fit. Either that, or her exhausted brain couldn’t grasp the obvious.

  She had to allow for that, that she might possibly be so exhausted she couldn’t think straight, which made her decision more difficult. If the rider somehow found her, and it was someone she didn’t know … could she, should she, shoot? She didn’t know. She needed help, but what if this was a bad guy? She didn’t want to make a wrong decision, so she focused on making herself small, on disappearing into the earth, so whoever it was wouldn’t find her and she wouldn’t be forced to make that choice.