I wrap the strap of my rifle around the barrel and bite down hard on it so there’s no chance the weapon will sway and bump a branch as I climb. Holding the gun this way keeps my arms free. I’m lucky my hands and feet are unharmed. I’m able to scamper up the tree fairly quickly. It’s the tallest tree in the area, and I don’t stop until I’m two hundred feet above the floor of the forest. I snuggle inside a handful of tightly placed branches, hoping the raw wood will offer some protection. Because I assume he has infrared equipment, I use the damp leaves to smear my bare skin with as much liquid as possible, trying to reduce my heat signature. I concentrate on my head; it gives off the most heat.
My view of the woods is vast, but I cannot see my opponent, not even using the infrared feature on the rifle’s scope. Still, I can hear him approach, and I notice he’s veered in the direction of my previous position. My blood, I think, he must smell my blood. That’s good—he’s heading toward a spot I have a clear shot at.
The waiting seconds are hard on me, and I wonder if I’ve grown soft in my old age. I keep flashing back to Teri and Matt. If I die tonight, I’ll never have a chance to get to know them, and they’ll never know what became of me. I’ve no doubt my foe is anxious to collect my body and my blood.
He’s two hundred yards from my previous position when he stops. I note how he slows his breath. He’s probably trying to scan the woods with a similar infrared scope. I wish I had more water to soak in. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s stopped along the way and drenched his entire body in a stream. He’s still not showing up in my scope.
But I can still hear him. I know when he starts to move again. To my surprise, he’s now heading directly toward me! Chances are he has better heat-sensing equipment than I do. He must have caught a glimpse of me in the tree. Very slowly, I turn in his direction, trying to catch even a flicker of him in my scope. All I need is one shot. . . .
I catch a glimpse of his foot, but it quickly disappears behind a tree before I can take aim. The move reassures me. He’s moving like a hunter who knows approximately where his prey is, but I doubt he’s seen me in the tree. I have chosen my spot well. The damp compactness of the branches is also dispersing my heat signature.
I make a bold decision. I turn off the laser sighting on my scope. I can aim better with it on—like most people—but I fear he’ll spot the laser even at its lowest setting.
For a long time, he stands behind a tree, then he suddenly leaps behind another. He moves too fast for me to get off a shot. I continue to follow his movements more with my ears than my eyes. I assume he knows in which direction I wait, because he’s careful not to let a vulnerable limb stick out. Still, there’s a huge difference between knowing my general direction and knowing my actual position.
He continues to head straight toward me!
The gap between us shrinks. A hundred yards, fifty yards, twenty yards . . . He stops thirty feet from my tree, and it’s obvious he still doesn’t know where I’m hiding. But I can’t see him! I can’t get off a shot!
However, his close proximity makes me rethink my strategy. From the start I’ve only been interested in killing him and surviving. Unfortunately, his death will tell me nothing about who sent him. But if I could disarm him, take him alive, question him, I might learn a great deal. I need information; I especially need to know who he’s working for.
My knives. I love knives, and I applaud my wisdom in removing three sharp ones from my vault and tucking them in my belt. If my foe truly does not know where I am and he steps from behind the tree where he’s standing, then I’ll have a clear shot at him. I can easily take his head off with my rifle. But to use my knives, to have full use of my arms, I’ll have to stand.
He’s so damn close he’ll probably hear me.
The decision weighs on me. Should I just kill him and survive the night, or should I risk dying but maybe find out how to survive the next year? It’s really a question of how quietly I can move and how sensitive his ears are.
I decide to risk it. Slowly standing, I jam my rifle against a nearby branch. I’ll reach for it the instant I release the knives. Of course, if the knives don’t stop him, the rifle will do me no good. There’s no question his reflexes are as good as mine. He’ll shoot me before I can reach for the gun.
I hold a knife in either palm. Right-handed, left-handed—both hands work the same for me. My goal is to cut the nerves between his shoulders and his arms. If I’m successful, he’ll lose control of his hands and be helpless. The armor-piercing bullets in my rifle are too powerful for such delicate surgery. A hit with one round would blow off his arm. The knives it must be.
Quietly, I suck in a breath and raise my arms over my head.
I stand still as a statue.
A minute later he tries slipping between two trees.
I let the knives fly. He hears me move, there’s no question, and I’m pretty sure he hears the knives approaching. But he hesitates a fraction of a second, and that’s all it takes. The knives catch him on the front side of both shoulders. The blades are long, eight inches each, and I’ve thrown them with such force that they sink all the way through his body and poke out his back.
But he’s a fighter, this guy, I have to admire that. Even with the knives cutting off his nerves, he tries to twist his body so his rifle’s pointed at me. He almost succeeds, but before he can fire, I have my rifle in hand and blow out his left knee. The bullet almost amputates his leg. The combination of wounds, to his upper and lower body, sucks the life out of him, and he drops his rifle and falls to the ground. Still, he reaches for a weapon in his belt.
“Stop!” I shout from the tree. “Move and I’ll take off your head!”
He freezes. Quickly I climb down, but I’m not in such a hurry that I relax my aim. He’s clearly an experienced killer; he’s still dangerous. Once on the ground, I circle cautiously, my rifle held ready, keeping a distance of ten yards.
He’s tall, extremely well muscled, with bronze skin and dark hair cut close to the scalp. His thick black eyebrows and eyelashes remind me of someone from another time and place. He’s dressed completely in black. He sits on the ground with a hand pressed over his wounded leg. He’ll have to possess my rejuvenating powers not to lose his leg.
His expression’s difficult to read. He breathes heavily; he must be in terrible pain. Never mind his leg, the knives piercing the nerve bundles in his shoulders must be agonizing. Yet he doesn’t moan or whimper. He shows almost no emotion. He’s spent half the night trying to kill me, but to my surprise I feel a wave of sympathy for him. I admire a worthy adversary, and he’s one of the finest I’ve come up against.