Chapter 41
Oren’s left claw raked across the barrel of my rifle, knocking it toward the ground. I managed to block his right forearm before the claws could do their dirty business.
We tumbled to the ground, the rifle pinned down. The ferocious hydraulic jaws snapped. With Oren on top of me, he cocked his arm back, ready to strike with those demonic scalpels.
I managed to buck him off me. Oren wasn’t a big guy. The costume had given him an inflated ego.
I shouldered the rifle and swung the barrel around, taking aim as Oren charged. "Freeze!”
Oren kept coming, buying into his own hype.
I pulled the trigger, and the rifle hammered against my shoulder.
The bullet rocketed through the air, tearing through the costume.
But Oren kept coming.
My aim had been relatively solid, but the size of the costume was much larger than Oren. The bullet missed him and tore straight through the fabric.
My finger squeezed the trigger again. CLICK.
No bang.
The previous cartridge hadn't fully ejected—a stovepipe blocked the port.
This was not my day when it came to equipment.
There was no time to clear the jam.
Oren pounced, slashing with those sadistic claws.
I shoved the barrel of the rifle forward as he charged, poking where I thought his head would be.
Apparently, I hit the target because he groaned, and that backed him off.
It gave me just enough time to draw my sidearm, take aim, and squeeze two into him as he charged again.
This time, I didn’t miss.
The bullets tore through the synthetic fibers and pelted into his chest with two thumps. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.
Oren fell to the ground and writhed in agony for a moment. He squirmed and twitched, trying to suck in a few last gasps of air.
Finally, he went still.
I climbed to my feet and approached with caution, my heart thumping, my veins alive with adrenaline.
I angled around the body. With the thick fabric costume, I couldn’t check for a pulse. I didn’t want to get close—not with those razor-sharp claws.
I left him where he lay and marched back to the meadow to rejoin JD and Taryn. I caught both up to speed and asked Taryn if she was okay.
She nodded. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be okay after something like this, but I’d be dead if you two hadn’t shown up.”
Jack had called the sheriff, and it didn’t take long for first responders to arrive. The island swarmed with deputies, EMTs, paramedics, forensic investigators, and the medical examiner. Dietrich was on scene to snap photos.
I led the sheriff and the others into the woods, through the thick underbrush, to the spot where Oren lay—only, he wasn't there anymore.
I stared at the ground in disbelief. I knew I had tagged the son-of-a-bitch with two solid, center-mass shots. I heard them hit.
There was no blood on the ground. Not a trace.
Never trust the dead.
“He was here a minute ago,” I said.
Through the trees, to the east, an outboard cranked up. The sound warbled as it sped away into the distance.
I raced between the trees, leaping over more fallen logs and other obstacles.
I sprinted to another channel and arrived just in time to see Oren zipping away in a 25-foot center-console.
He still wore the werewolf suit but without the wolf mask.
He looked back over his shoulder as he got away, crashing into the swells.
I darted back to the sheriff and told him Oren was getting away.
He frowned at me. "I thought you said you shot him.”
"I did!"
"Get better aim.”