The Hunted
BOYD
The truck eats the asphalt, a growling beast of iron and torque tearing through the pre-dawn dark of the mountains.
I keep the speedometer hovering at fifty.
On dry pavement, it’s crawling. On this ice, it’s pushing the jagged edge of control.
The tires, heavy-duty all-terrains, chew through the slush the plows left behind, throwing dirty gray slurry against the wheel wells.
The cab shakes with the effort, a constant percussion traveling up my spine.
It settles in my right shoulder as a dull ache.
Inside, the silence hangs deafening.
Iris stares out the passenger window, her body turned away from me. The dash lights paint her profile in ghostly greens and ambers, but she’s a thousand miles away. She hasn’t spoken since we left the garage. She hasn’t asked where we’re going or questioned the backup plan.
She knows I expected this.
The knowledge sits between us. She’s smart. She saw the go-bags packed by the door, the burner phones charged and ready, the way I cleaned the house like a crime scene before we left. She knows this wasn’t panic. It was protocol.
I’m always ready to run.
I check the side mirrors. Clear.
I check the horizon. Pitch black, white snow, black trees. Dawn remains an hour out.
“How did they find us?” She turns to me, face pale in the dash light.
I grip the wheel until my knuckles go white.
“He has the resources. Satellite tracking. Thermal imaging. He just needed to scan the sector. We generated heat. We stayed too long.”
“I thought we were safe.”
“There’s no such thing as safe. The senator’s resources and Mercer’s tech guarantee it.”
“So where are we going?”
“Secondary site. Old ranger station. Analog. No power, no heat signature.”
“And then?”
“And then we vanish completely. No grid, no footprint. We wait them out.”
“Wait them out?”
A sharp, jagged laugh escapes her.
“Boyd, look at us. We’re in a truck in the middle of a blizzard. We aren’t ghosts. We’re targets.”
“I can make us ghosts. But first we have to survive the night.”
“We stayed too long,” she whispers, looking out at the snow. “We gave them three days to find us.”
“I know.”
She stares at me, processing the cold logic of it. The idea that no one betrayed us, that we were simply outmatched by a superior surveillance apparatus, is almost worse. It means there’s no safe place.
The radio crackles.
Not the secure channel. The open emergency frequency, the one reserved for distress calls and weather warnings.
Static first. Then a voice, distorted but clear enough to turn the blood in my veins to ice.
“Asset One. Location confirmed. Sector Four. Moving South.”
They aren’t just tracking us. They’re broadcasting it. They want me to know. They want me to panic.
Iris freezes.
“Who is that?”
I check the rearview mirror.
This time, they materialize.
Pinpricks of light. Xenon blue. Cutting through the snowstorm a mile back.
“Hold on.”
“Boyd.”
“They found us.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I drop the truck into a lower gear to spike the RPMs. The engine screams.
“Get down.”
“What?”
“Floorboard. Now.”
She unbuckles, scrambling out of the seat and curling into a ball in the passenger footwell. She buries her head in her arms.
“Stay down. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
I check the mirrors. Two sets of lights. Closing fast. Too fast for the road conditions.
Two black SUVs holding a low tactical profile with no plates. Government issue, stripped of markings.
Hunters.
I reach into the center console and pull the Glock 19. I rack the slide on the steering wheel, one-handed, the metal sounds loud in the cab. I place it on the seat beside me.
Then I reach for the dash and kill the lights.
Usually, this is suicide. Driving blindly on a mountain pass in a blizzard. But I have night vision. Not the goggles, those sit in the bag, but the scotopic acuity of eyes living in the dark for too long. The snow glints with moonlight. The road etches a gray ribbon against the white.
It buys me three seconds of confusion.
The lights behind me waver. They lost the visual lock.
I stomp on the gas. The F-250 lurches forward, the diesel engine roaring in protest. We surge ahead, putting distance between us.
The confusion doesn’t last.
A spotlight hits the mirrors, blindingly bright, searing my retinas. They switched to thermal. The heat of the engine block gives us away.
Then the rear window explodes.
Crack.
Safety glass showers the back seat like diamonds. The cold air rushes in, screaming and violent, carrying the smell of exhaust and ozone.
I swerve, crossing the center line, forcing them to adjust.
They open up. Automatic fire.
Thwip-thwip-thwip.
Bullets punch through the tailgate, pinging off the metal frame. The impacts shudder through the chassis.
“Boyd.”
A scream tears from Iris in the footwell.
“Stay down.”
I check the mirror. The lead SUV rides right on my bumper. Muzzle flashes erupt from the passenger window.
I can’t outrun them in this truck on this slick road.
I have to take them out.
I steer with my knee, rolling down my window. The wind hits me like a physical blow, freezing the sweat on my face.
I grab the Glock, leaning out.
The wind tears at my eyes. I fire blindly behind us. Three shots. Suppressive. Enough to make the driver flinch.
It works. The lead SUV jerks left, tires slipping in the slush.
But they’re pros. The driver corrects instantly, steering into the skid. The second SUV flanks us, coming up on the passenger side.
They want to box me in.
“Hold on.”
I slam the brakes.
A gamble. On ice, braking usually means death. But the heavy truck has ABS, and the sudden deceleration catches them off guard.
The flanking SUV shoots past us.
I whip the wheel right.
Impact.
My front bumper clips their rear quarter panel. The PIT maneuver feels sloppy, executed at too high a speed, but physics takes over.
The SUV spins.
Ninety degrees, sliding sideways down the highway. The tires smoke, fighting for grip that isn’t there. It hits a patch of black ice, a pirouette of destruction.
It slams into the guardrail. Metal screams against metal. The rail gives way.
The SUV tumbles into the darkness of the ravine. The headlights spin, once, twice, before disappearing into the abyss.
One down.
I floor it again. The engine redlines. We’re doing sixty on ice. The back end fishtails, fighting for traction, but I hold the drift, correcting with small, precise movements.
“They’re gone.” Her voice sounds small.
“One of them.”
I check the mirror.
The lead SUV recovered. Back on our tail. The gunner stands up through the sunroof, rifle braced.
“Dammit.”
The muzzle flash ignites.
My side mirror explodes.
He isn’t shooting at the tires. He’s shooting at me.
I crouch low, peering over the dashboard.
“Brace yourself.”
Something looms ahead.
Lights. Not moving.
A third vehicle parked sideways across the highway, a hundred yards out. Lights off. A dark monolith blocking the only way forward.
A roadblock.
I can’t stop. Moving too fast. If I brake, we slide into them broadside. If I turn, we go off the cliff.
“Brace.”
I aim for the gap. Use the mass.
There’s a narrow space between the roadblock vehicle, a massive armored van, and the mountain wall. Maybe five feet wide. My truck spans six.
I aim for it anyway.
I grit my teeth.
Impact.
We clip the van.
The sound rips apocalyptic. Metal shearing. Glass shattering. The impact throws me against the door. The airbag detonates, a hot white punch to the face.
The truck spins.
The world turns into a blur of white snow, black trees, and violence.
We hit the embankment, rolling three times.
Gravity loses its meaning. I slam into the roof, the door, the console. The seatbelt cuts into my shoulder like a wire.
Then, sudden, crushing stillness.
The truck comes to rest on its side, wedged in a cluster of pine trees.
Steam hisses from the radiator. The engine ticks as it dies.
I hang in the harness, blood rushing to my head. My vision swims. A high-pitched ringing screams in my ears.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Pain flares in my shoulder, a white-hot lance.
“Iris.”
Silence.
“Iris.”
“I’m—I’m okay.”
Her strained voice comes from below me.
She lies crumpled against the passenger door, still in the footwell. That position saved her life.
“Can you move?”
“Yes.”
“Get out. Now.”
I fumble for the buckle. My fingers feel numb, clumsy. I find the release and drop, landing hard on the passenger door frame, avoiding her.
I kick the windshield. Spiderwebbed, held together by the laminate. It gives on the third strike.
I scramble out into the snow. The cold cuts through my gear, shocking my system back online.
I reach back in.
“Give me your hand.”
She reaches up. A cut bleeds on her palm, but her grip holds strong.
I pull her out. She stumbles into the snow, shivering violently. She looks at the wreck, at the steam rising into the night.
“Are you hit?”
I scan her fast, checking for bullet wounds, arterial spray.
“No. You?”
“Fine.” I wipe the blood from my forehead. Scalp wound. Messy, but shallow.
I check the weapon. Full mag in the Glock. But I need more.
I look up at the road.
Tactical lights sweep the slope. Beams cutting through the trees. They’re coming down.
“We can’t stay here.” I keep my voice low. “They’ll box us in.” I grab her arm. Her gaze runs wide, terrified, but focused. “Into the trees. Move.”
We run.
We leave the wreck. We leave the road. We plunge into the deep, unforgiving dark of the forest.
And for the first time in ten years, I’m not the hunter.
I’m the prey.