Читать книгу At Close Range - Jessica Andersen - Страница 4

The hunter stalked his prey in the darkest part of the night, while the city of Bear Claw slept unsuspecting.

He cruised the streets and was soothed by the hiss of tires on salty wet pavement. He passed the shopping areas, the ski runs and the museum district. He saw that the Natural History Museum was festooned with banners announcing the upcoming grand opening of the new Anasazi exhibit, which would feature artifacts from the pueblo-dwelling Native Americans who had lived in the area long ago.

Then he turned toward one of the residential suburbs and passed a convenience store, and a darkened gas station that claimed to be open 24/7.

Moments later, trusting that the wet road had no memory of his tracks, the hunter pulled up in front of the modest split-level rental where his prey had gone to ground.

She didn’t know it yet, but she was waiting for him. Had been since he’d first noticed her on the slopes, slim and sleek, handling her board like a pro, then pausing to shake out her long blond mane of hair. She was in her late teens, early twenties—young enough to have Daddy foot the bills, old enough that she slept in a basement room with a separate door to the outside, so she could come and go as she pleased.

So he could come and go as he pleased.

It had been three months since he last hunted, since his idiot partner had gotten too caught up in playing games with the police, too caught up in his own press. With Bradford Croft dead at the hands of the cops, the hunter had bided his time, suppressed his urges. But the changing of the seasons had heated his blood. As the predators in Bear Claw Canyon began to emerge into the spring thaw, he had emerged from his other life to hunt.

He left the engine running and the doors unlocked, fearing no thief in this suburban neighborhood. The walkway to the basement door was shoveled and salted, and wet enough that he would leave no footprint—which was important, because Croft had fallen to a footprint. The hunter wouldn’t be so sloppy. He was mindful of the evidence left by his passing.

The doorknob turned easily beneath his fingertips, further evidence that she had been waiting for him. He opened the door and stepped into the carpeted room, which was steamy with too much heat. He caught a whiff of warm, female musk and his flesh hardened in response.

He craved the sexual thrill of the hunt.

There was no light from outside, and no light inside the room save for a crack of yellow brightness spilling from beneath an adjoining door. His dark vision was better than most, allowing him to detect the girl’s body beneath the rumpled covers of a twin-sized cot.

He strode toward the bed, blood riding high with anticipation.

Without warning, the sliver of light snapped off and he heard motion behind the now-darkened door. He froze. Sexual excitement chilled to betrayal. The smell of female musk took on a heavier, ruttish undertone and anticipation curdled in his gut, souring to anger.

The bitch had brought someone home.

He heard the door open, heard the jingle of an unbuckled belt, the stealthy scuff of footsteps on carpet while the girl in the bed breathed deeply, unaware.

The hunter considered staying still and silent while her “date” snuck out. Indeed, the voice in his head whispered, Stick to the plan. Make no mistakes.

But his car was outside, running. It would be a mistake to let the lover see it. So the hunter followed the sounds of stealthy escape and let his dark-adapted eyes measure the new prey. Just under six feet, the shadow moved with a young, male swagger and the cocky arrogance he associated with professional ski bums—not the true racers, but the instructors and support staff who tried to be more than they were.

The hunter weighed his options while he slipped out of the house and eased closer to his prey on silent, rubber-soled shoes.

The ski bum weaved slightly on his feet, drunk on alcohol or sex or both, and paused beside the running car. “What the—”

The hunter closed in quickly. He struck the younger man at the base of the neck—a hard, numbing blow. Instead of falling, his prey yelled and spun, then staggered to the side and went down on one knee when the pain caught up with his booze-soaked neurons.

The hunter dropped him with a short jab to the throat, then cursed, disappointed when the thrill drained too quickly.

Women were so much more fun.

Well, no matter. He’d take care of the ski bum and hunt again soon. Grinning at the thought, he manhandled his still-breathing prey into the backseat of the car.

“Don’t worry,” he told the unconscious young man, “we’ll find something interesting for you. Just because you’re practice doesn’t mean you’ll get shorted. Nothing says we can’t adjust the plan.”

The hunter chuckled to himself as he drove out of the quiet suburb and turned away from the city, toward the cold, lonely state parks and the empty spaces beyond. It was time to get back to work, time to let the changing seasons dictate the new phase of the plan. Soon, the Bear Claw cops would know they hadn’t seen the last of the predator that had stalked them in the dead of winter.

No. The hunt was just beginning.