Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) (23 page)

He’d endure ants. Hell, he’d take on tarantulas and scorpions for her. Waiting a few minutes longer, to be sure the hunter had moved in another direction farther from them, was worth dealing with the damned bugs.

More time went by and, instead of worry, hatred clawed at him, making his legs jumpy and restless. Cami slid her leg to his bent one, which jerked. The ants, her touch or the lack of whatever nutrient his body needed—didn’t matter. If the bastard had, as he suspected, moved in another direction, staying in the bush could buy them time. They could eventually backtrack and try to reach the road they’d come by. But without a compass they could become lost. Still, that was a better option than continuing—

A large hand reached into the green leaves and grabbed Cami by the hair. She let out a scream and hung onto Ian. Her nails raked across his skin. He gripped her by the waist and, rising to his knees, pounded a fist against the bastard’s wrist.

The barrel of a rifle pressed against his temple. “Don’t fucking move.”

He tightened his hold on Cami, who’d gone deadly still. They were both half out of the bush, the masked man pulling her hair so damned tight, her eyes grew watery and the skin along her forehead stretched back. He shifted his eyes to the gun, then loosened his hold on Cami.

The bastard hauled Cami out of the bush by her hair and took several steps back. She screamed again, but was silenced with a quick punch to the head. When she dropped like a cement block, Ian dove from the bush and landed on his knees.

The hunter quickly aimed the rifle at him. “Did you really think you could hide from me?” he asked. “I could end this now. Pow. One shot to the center of your forehead. But you haven’t suffered enough.”

“We’ve suffered. Please, do what you want to me, just leave her out of this.” Damn it. He hated groveling. If only he had a weapon. If only he could overpower this giant of a man.

“You call this suffering?” The man glanced around. “You and the screamer have been in the Glades for less than twelve hours. Talk to me about suffering when you’ve been here for over fifty-two
thousand
hours.”

Ian shook his head, fighting a wave of dizziness, while trying also to fight back the fear and focus on the bastard’s words. “I…I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Aww, poor big, bad boss man doesn’t understand. Fucking pathetic. Do the math. How many years does fifty-two thousand hours equal?”

He shifted his gaze to Cami’s still body. “I don’t know. Please. I’ve offered you money. Maybe you’ve changed your—”

“I don’t want your money. I want you dead. But before you die, you need to know what it’s like to agonize and…grieve.” The bastard jerked his head toward Cami. “Will you grieve for her?”

Despite the ants crawling up his pant leg, Ian went utterly still. Of course he would grieve. If he lost Cami, no matter the circumstances, he’d be devastated. After so many years of being alone, he’d finally found someone he could love and trust. But if she were to die because of him, that devastation would be tenfold. The guilt would kill him, if the bastard didn’t put a bullet in his head first.

God, he was so damned tired and drained, he had difficulty coming up with an answer to counter his question.

Think, damn it. Think.

“Maybe she doesn’t mean much to you after all.” He turned the rifle on Cami. “Maybe I should just shoot her in the back of the head and—”

“No,” Ian shouted, and rose to his knees, holding his hands high. “Yes, I would grieve for her. I would die for her.”

“Touching. Sucks to be in a position where all of your choices have been taken away from you, doesn’t it? You always were a big proponent of choices.” He let out a chuckle. “Isn’t it ironic that the shitty choice you once made landed you here? Never mind. I don’t care what you have to say to that. It’s been years since I’ve been hunting and I don’t want to waste time talking to you.”

“But you’ve already found us,” Ian countered. “Does this mean you’re going to let me take care of Cami so you can continue your hunt?”

“Nope.”

Frustration tore past his fear. “But you just said—”

“I know exactly what I said.” The man ripped the mask off his head, then tossed it to the ground. “Remember me?”

“Fuck.”

“That’s right, boss man.” He took several aggressive steps forward. “You’re
so
fucked,” he said, then swung the butt of the rifle at Ian’s head.

Chapter 9

Steven Weir’s Farmhouse, Wilmington, Illinois

Thursday, 12:44 p.m. Central Standard Time

JOHN DROVE ALONG the winding, narrow gravel driveway, which was flanked by large naked oak trees and tall pines. A dusting of snow covered some of the branches and the driveway, leaving the tire tracks from his Infiniti Q50 visible. But he wasn’t worried. Fat snowflakes had begun to fall a few minutes ago, and the forecast claimed that the entire state of Illinois would be dumped on by late afternoon. Within hours, a thick layer of snow would cover any tracks he and Hudson might leave behind.

“This is a great place to hide,” Hudson said. “If you don’t mind living in a dump.”

Rachel had looked up the property after they’d left CORE and had called to inform them that the twenty-five hundred square foot farmhouse sat on five acres of land. There was also a garage, a small barn and a couple of even smaller sheds on the property. As they neared the house, it looked as if no one had been in residence in years. The ugly brown paint on the rotted wood siding had peeled away in many sections. The front porch sagged and was missing several posts, and the window on the main door had been boarded with plywood.

“If Steven’s here, he hasn’t been out today. We would have seen tire tracks.”

Hudson looked out the passenger window. “He’s not here. But just in case, let’s be polite and use the front door.”

He hoped to God Steven wasn’t here. The man had every right to hate them. He’d lost six years of his life and had missed his dad’s funeral. Rachel had also informed them that Steven’s wife had divorced him within the first few months of his incarceration and he’d lost custody of his two children. Other than the house and the little money his father had left to him, Steven had no bank accounts or credit cards. He also hadn’t taken a job. How Steven had survived these past two months, he hadn’t a clue. Based on the state of the house, he assumed the man lived in poverty and off the land.

After John parked the sedan and killed the ignition, he slipped on a pair of leather gloves, then pulled out his gun.

Hudson gave him a quick grin as he did the same. “Ready?”

They exited the car, then made their way to the front porch. Weapons ready, Hudson knocked on the door. When no movement came from within, they hurried to the back of the house. The bitter wind smacked him in the face. Each breath he released came out in a stream of vapor and hung on the icy cold air. In the backyard, the barn was worse off than the house and had a slant to it. Several windows were broken. The wood was warped and, in some places, missing. The sheds Rachel had mentioned were set farther back and reminded him of lean-tos. With the trees devoid of leaves, he saw an elevated deer stand that Steven and his dad had likely used for hunting on their property.

“Not much of a lock,” Hudson said, as he approached the back door. “Gimme a sec.” He produced a lock pick kit from his coat pocket, then went to work. In less than a minute, he turned the knob.

John pulled a pair of boot covers from his back pocket. “Put these on. We’re not supposed to be here.” Once he had the covers over his boots, and Hudson had done the same, they both drew their guns, then entered.

He immediately winced and fought from gagging. After a quick glance around the kitchen, he discovered the source of the smell and swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. Maggots moved along a plate of food sitting on the counter, as well as the dirty food-stained dishes piled in the sink.

Hudson tapped his arm, then silently motioned toward the next room. They moved together, and once they entered the empty family room they split up—Hudson heading up the stairs, while he remained on the lower level.

John checked the den. Light from the frost-covered window revealed dust motes, along with eerie animal heads hanging along the walls. A rusty metal desk stood in the corner, opened file cabinets adjoining it on either side. Papers had been scattered across the desk and onto the floor, which was covered in ratty and stained dark-green shag carpet. After checking the closet, he left the room, looked into a filthy half-bath, which was missing chunks of dry wall, then moved down the hall back toward the kitchen. When he came to another door, he slowly opened it, cringing as the hinges squeaked. He stood at the basement landing, his eyes watering from the foul odor drifting up the steps.

He flinched when Hudson tapped his shoulder, then had the urge to throw a punch when the other man grinned. “Fuck off,” he mouthed, and pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. He kept his gun ready as he crept down the steps, which, compared to the state of the house, were in good shape. When he reached the bottom, his skin prickled with unease. Dozens of pine tree-shaped air fresheners hung from the rafters, but they did little good. He could practically taste the stench of decay and had to blow out a breath to combat the odor.

Hudson moved next to him, then jerked his head toward a closed door. After finding an old coal bin, they moved to the other end of the basement. The smell grew worse, reminding him of ammonia and a rotting corpse.

After holstering his weapon, Hudson checked out the huge wooden table covered in varying sizes of boxes. He gave the overhead light cord a tug, reached inside one, then jerked his gloved hand back. “What the—?”

John rushed to the table, then chuckled when he looked inside the box, which contained several animal jaw sets. “Don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll bite.”

“Aren’t you hilarious,” Hudson said, then peered into another box. “This one has a bunch of glass eyes.” He moved to the next box, then looked away. “Frickin’ tongues. Sorry, man, but this shit freaks me out. It’s just unnatural to take a dead animal and try to make it look like it’s still alive.”

“I hear you on that.” John slipped the flashlight into his pocket. “There were about a dozen animal heads hanging in the den.”

“I found some in the bedrooms, too.”

“The dad must have performed taxidermy down here, which is why it smells so bad.”

“The smell isn’t just animal carcasses, it’s cat shit, too. Trust me, once Eden found out she was pregnant with Hannah, it became my job to clean Fabio’s litter box.” He moved away from the table, toward an old metal oil bin. “Bingo. Found the litter box. I’m guessing this thing hasn’t been changed for months. Come on, let’s go. He’s obviously not here.”

After they left the basement, John led Hudson to the den. “Looks like someone was searching for something,” he said, bending and checking out a few of the papers on the floor.

“If Steven was hard up for cash, he could’ve been looking for money or bank records. Maybe the old man had stocks Steven didn’t know about.”

He stood, then walked toward the filing cabinets. “Could be. Did you find anything worth checking in the bedrooms?”

“No, but it looked like the old man had started renovating. One bathroom was stripped down to the plumbing, and two of the bedrooms are missing most of the drywall. If Steven was using any of the rooms, he didn’t leave anything behind. Check this out, though.” Hudson held up a cheap picture frame. “Wasn’t the car Ryan found outside of the rental an old orange Mazda?”

John quickly moved across the room, then took a look at the picture. A much younger, smiling version of Steven stood next to a shiny orange Mazda. Another man—likely Steven’s dad, based on the resemblance—who looked to be in his forties, stood next to Steven, an arm draped over his shoulders.

“Quite the coincidence, huh?”

John set the picture back on the slanted shelf. “Quite. Let’s check the barn.” He started down the hall. “There has to be a sign that Steven was living here. Where else would he have gone after Stateville?”

Hudson opened the back door. “It didn’t sound like he could afford to rent a place. Maybe Steven—” He jumped back, slamming into the wall just as a scrawny orange cat rushed past them and out the door into the snow-covered grass. It stopped and yowled.

“Found the cat,” John said, with a chuckle as the cat took off into the woods.

“No shit.” Hudson closed the door, then slipped off the boot covers. “Poor guy’s probably starving.”

John also removed his boot covers. “Take him home,” he said, and began walking toward the barn.

“He’s not coming back. Besides, we have enough animals.” Hudson stopped at the barn door. “Interesting that this lock is better than the one on the house,” he said, retrieving the lock pick set again. “Wonder what he’s hiding in here?”

It took Hudson a few extra minutes to pick the lock. With the temperature dipping into the low twenties, it was long enough for a chill to settle deep into John’s bones.

When the lock finally gave, they both replaced their boot covers, then readied their weapons. Hudson opened the door, which swung easily and without a sound. Gray light from the overcast sky filtered through the broken and missing windows. Like the basement, the barn had been filled with more taxidermy supplies, plus animal cages, foot and body traps, as well as chains and stakes. Fishing gear hung on the walls, along with coveralls and a couple of pairs of waders.