Читать книгу Unfinished Business - C. A. Walters Walters - Страница 7

April, 2006

The Hunter lay quietly in the brush, breathing normally, making no noise to scare his quarry away. It had been a long hunt, but finally the perfect target had presented itself. The Hunter, as he called himself, searched high and low until he could find exactly the quarry he sought, then would begin the stalk, watching the movements of his particular quarry, sometimes for days at a time. When did it go to the watering hole? What foods did it eat? The Hunter wanted to be certain of everything before he would bag his target. No missed chances, no wounding and watching his quarry scamper away. No chase through the woods because he wasn’t good enough to make certain of a clean kill before he started the final stalk.

He had been watching this target for nearly three weeks now. He knew the target’s routines, knew when it went to the watering hole, when it went to its den. Knew where it laid up during the night, and where it went during the day. He had also picked his kill spot very carefully. No chance of a branch breaking and giving him away at the last second, no chance of another person wandering by and ruining the hunt. Everything was in readiness. As he waited by the trail this night, he thought how everything had come together perfectly. All his planning had depended on stealth, silence, and secrecy. The night he picked to finally bag his quarry, the sky was overcast, and a light rain was falling, making visibility less. There was a light fog rolling across the grass, but not enough to make the final kill impossible. Every once in a while, he could hear the rumble of thunder. He used those sounds to cover any minute noise he might make closing the last few yards to his quarry. You see, the Hunter liked to make the kill up close and personal. No rifle shot for the Hunter, no sir! This had to be done quietly, and in one fluid movement.

As his quarry finally came into sight, the Hunter crouched in his place of concealment. A random flash of lightning temporarily lit the world up in incandescent flashes of bright white light, like the strobes at the local disco. In the flash, he could see his quarry cautiously making its way directly toward where the Hunter had so carefully hidden himself. When he knew he was as close as he could get without alerting his prey, the Hunter tensed his honed muscles, and sprang. The quarry had time for one startled squawk, before the Hunter was on it. One good strike to the side of the head, and the quarry was down. Then came the work. Stringing the catch up in a tree, hanging it up so it could be bled out. Once in the tree, hanging upside down, the prey regained consciousness, flinging its torso in small circles, trying to escape the confining ropes. But to no avail, the Hunter had been very careful. One quick swipe across the throat, and the life blood started flowing thick and fast to the ground. Another slice from sternum to rectum, and the intestines started falling out in ropy strands, to land in the growing puddle. There was no sound, other than the sound of the organs hitting the dirt, because the Hunter had carefully gagged his prey before stringing it up.