Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) (35 page)

His body still shaking, the adrenaline still flowing, he sheathed the machete, then rushed away from the marsh. When he reached the cover of the trees, he dropped the pack, sat, pulled out the flashlight, then set it on the ground, angling it toward him.

While he hadn’t planned on making camp just yet, he had no choice now. He retrieved the first aid kit from his pack, then opened it. Pain radiated from his wound and caused another wave of dizziness. He drew in several deep breaths and tried to clear his head. The bite needed to be treated before it became infected or infested with the insects swarming around him. He ripped open several antiseptic wipes, then pressed them along the gashes. He grit his teeth, squeezed his eyes and fought from crying out. Sweating, breathing hard, he wiped the wound again and again.

Blood poured from his flesh and dripped on his pants and the dirt between his outstretched legs. He withdrew a large needle attached to a spool of thick thread, an addition his father had taught him to keep in the standard kit. He leaned forward, set his arm on his thigh, then brought the tip of the needle to the top of the wound, closest to his elbow. His hand shook, and with the amount of blood oozing from the bite he had a hard time locating the best spot to begin stitching.

Mosquitoes landed on his bad arm. He knocked them away, then went to work. He grunted when he pierced the tender skin around the wound, then nearly blacked out when he pushed the needle into the torn flesh on the other side of the gash. After making three more stitches with the threaded needle, he took the water jug from the pack, opened it, then poured water over his arm. Once the wound had been bathed, he went back to work. By the time he’d reached the end of the laceration, sweat coated his shirt and dripped from his forehead to his nose. He dumped more water over the crude stitching, then used the scissors from the kit to cut the thread. After tying the knot, he quickly worked on the other gash.

His entire body ached from tensing and straining his muscles. At least his arm had grown numb to the pain. His tingling fingertips worried him, though, and he suspected the gator had likely torn through muscle and tendons. He could deal with the aftereffects. At this point, he was relieved to even have an arm.

When he finished the last stitch, then knotted it, he rinsed his arm. After blotting it with gauze, he cleaned it again with the antiseptic wipes, applied antibacterial ointment and gauze, then wrapped his entire forearm with a roll of elastic bandages. Blood instantly seeped through the bandage, but, at this point, there was nothing more to be done and he was in no shape to continue on tonight.

His clothes were soaked from being dragged by the gator through the muddy water near the marsh shore. He might’ve found dry ground to rest for the night, but he’d soak his compact sleeping bag if he didn’t change. Uncertain how long he’d end up stuck in this hellhole, he found a dry shirt and pants in the pack, then stood to change. Vertigo had him leaning against the tree and abandoning the idea. He sank back down, opened the sleeping bag and, instead of crawling inside, draped it over his body. Using the pack as a pillow, he rested his head and closed his eyes.

Although the bite wound throbbed and pain radiated up his arm, giving him a massive headache, he’d try to sleep for a few hours, then continue the hunt. The alligator had done a number on him, but hadn’t deterred his objective. One way or another, he’d find Ian and the screamer, along with the two agents following him.

He grinned in the dark and pictured the machete sticking out from the alligator’s head. No one fucked with him. Not even a gator.

*

“I can’t believe I ever swore off potato chips,” Cami said, plopping another chip in her mouth, then washing it down with one of the many bottles of water they’d found stashed in the kitchenette.

Home for the night had turned out to be an old trailer, not a shack. Surrounded by overgrown plants, rusted and, in places, covered in a thick layer of moss, if Cami hadn’t seen the reflection off one of the small windows, the trailer would have gone unnoticed.

At first, Ian had almost been afraid to go inside. The place looked as if it had come straight out of one of Cami’s horror movies. Once they’d broken the window on the trailer door, then entered, he’d been mildly surprised. Several fishing poles and nets leaned against the interior wall, along with waders and tackle boxes. While the trailer was filthy and smelled like dead fish, the kitchen-living room combination offered them everything they’d need for the night—blankets, junk food, water, candles and flashlights. They’d also found a first aid kit. He’d used the contents to clean the wounds on Cami’s upper arm where the bullet had grazed her, along with the cuts on her stomach, forearm and legs—which, thankfully, weren’t deep. She, in turn, had taken care of the cut across his forehead, while he’d tended to his feet. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been anything in the kits to help with the rash along his chest.

“I’m stuffed,” she said, pushing the small bag aside. “How were your cheese puffs?”

He showed her the empty bag, then dropped it. “Almost as good as the beef jerky.” He pushed off the dirty floor, taking one of the flashlights with him. “I’m going to see what else is here.”

As soon as they’d stepped inside, his first priority had been hydrating and taking care of Cami’s cuts. He’d worried about infection, especially after seeing the tiny insects feeding on her flesh. Now he hoped to find other useful supplies to take with them when they left in the morning. A weapon of some sort would be nice. Boots and a shirt would be even better.

“I feel bad for stealing this guy’s stuff,” Cami said, wrapping the blanket around her.

“When we get out of this, I’ll buy the owner a fully stocked, brand new trailer.” He moved the flashlight over the kitchen counters, which were piled with more fishing gear and empty containers, which, by the smell of them, had once held bait. In the sink were a mallet and a fillet knife. For a brief second he pictured whacking Steven over the head, then slitting the bastard’s throat. For what he had done to Cami, he deserved to die. As for Steven’s ex and her fiancé, Cami had been wrong to place their deaths on his shoulders. He hadn’t killed those people, Steven had. At this point, he no longer cared what she thought. His main concern was making sure she didn’t end up like Steven’s ex.

He left the mallet and knife in the sink, then walked down the short narrow corridor. A small bathroom was to the left. Mold blackened the shower. The repulsive toilet was missing its lid and seat, the bowl filled with…his stomach dropped. He shifted the light from the severed fingers to the reddish brown stains on and around the toilet, to the sink, then to the walls and broken mirror. When he flashed the light to the floor, he discovered a large stain near the shower. He’d walked through enough crime scenes to know the difference between feces and blood. Based on the fingers, dried smears, spatter patterns and the stain, he doubted whatever had happened in this bathroom had been a fishing accident.

Why couldn’t they catch a break? They’d possibly managed to outmaneuver Steven, only to wind up stumbling into a trailer of horrors.

“Finding anything?” Cami called.

“Maybe,” he said, not ready to share what he’d discovered just yet, then took several steps toward the closed pocket door. Concerned about might lay beyond the door, he backtracked to the kitchen for the filet knife. He glanced over his shoulder. Cami sat against the wall, eyes closed and the flashlight glowing next to her. She needed to rest, not worry about what was in the trailer. At least, not yet.

He made his way to the bedroom, then slid open the pocket door. The flashlight touched on a couple of large boxes, a bloodstained mattress, then several black garbage bags. He’d been in rooms where a corpse had been decomposing. Fortunately, this one smelled like the rest of the trailer. He’d take rotting fish over rotting flesh any day. Curious, he checked one of the boxes and, frowning, stared at dozens of plastic pink flamingos. Souvenirs? Based on the blood and fingers he’d found in the bathroom, he had a hard time buying that the trailer’s owner was in the business of selling lawn ornaments.

He stabbed the knife into the belly of one of the flamingos. His heart rate immediately shot up and the knife shook in his hand as white powder poured from the plastic. He quickly lopped the head off another flamingo, picked it up and then pulled out a bag of cocaine.

Back in the seventies and eighties, there were residents of Everglade City who had been known to smuggle marijuana. Just last year, the U.S. Coastguard seized forty-million dollars’ worth of cocaine from smugglers they’d located in the Caribbean, then had offloaded the drugs at Port Everglades, near Fort Lauderdale. Based on the amount of cocaine he assumed was inside the flamingos, and the blood and fingers, he worried about what kind of operation was being run from the trailer.

And when the owner might come back.

He set the knife and flashlight on the bed, aiming the light toward the boxes. He moved the box of souvenirs, then opened the one beneath it. When he found more flamingos, he turned the flashlight toward the garbage bag, then grabbed the knife. He sliced into the bag, then stepped back when white powder fell to the floor.

Where there were drugs, chances were, guns would also be present. He took the flashlight and searched the room, then let out a sigh of relief when he came across two pistols and a rifle, along with ammo hidden beneath a blanket in the corner near the garbage bags. He set the weapon and boxes of bullets on the mattress, then checked the small built-in closet. A pair of boots sat at the base, a camouflaged hooded sweatshirt draped on top of them. He checked the size of the boots. Two sizes too small, he’d never be able to wear them, but the sweatshirt look as if it would fit. He held it up, then quickly tossed it back on top of the boots. He was desperate, but not enough to wear clothes covered in someone else’s blood.

After finding nothing else, he scooped up the guns, ammo and knife, then walked back to the living room. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

“I’m so tired, but I can’t shut my mind off long enough to fall sleep.” Cami opened her eyes, then widened them. She picked up the flashlight next to her, then aimed it at him. “Oh, my God. What kind of fisherman is this guy?”

“He’s not.”

“Hunter?”

He knelt in front of her. “No,” he said, part of him wanting to hide what he’d found, while the other part knew she deserved the truth. She needed to decide whether she wanted to risk sleeping in the trailer, or take a chance and make camp outside with the bugs and animals.

“I found dried blood and somebody’s fingers in the bathroom,” he said, loading one of the pistols. “And cocaine in the bedroom.”

Her gaze drifted over his shoulder to the back rooms. “Did you find a…body?”

“No.”

“Was there dust on the boxes or bags?”

He thought about it for a second. “I don’t think so,” he said, understanding where she was heading. “There wasn’t any on the bags of food and water jugs in here, either.”

She let out a breath and pushed her blond bangs from her face. “He could come back.”

“He could, but it’s getting late and it’s pitch black outside.” He picked up the other pistol, then began loading it. “We don’t know if Steven has camped for the night. As it is, keeping these flashlights on makes me nervous. He could still be out there looking for us. We could take our chances here, then leave at dawn, or take our chances outside.”

She briefly closed her eyes and shook her head. “We won’t be able to see a thing. I don’t want to risk tripping over something, or stepping in a hole and breaking an ankle.”

“I also think we’re not far from the water.”

She cringed. “Yeah, I don’t want to run into an alligator, or whatever else might be hanging out by the shore.”

“So, what do you want to do? I’m good with staying for the night. We have weapons. If someone comes to the trailer, we can protect ourselves.” When worry lines creased her forehead, he added, “But I doubt anyone will be coming. I can’t imagine navigating these waters at night.”

“Okay, then we stay. But I want one of those guns.”

Not a chance in hell. “Cami, these aren’t props and I’d prefer to not have my head accidentally blown off while I’m sleeping.” Since he didn’t want to leave her completely unprotected, he handed her the knife. “You can have this, though.”

“Whatever,” she said, but took the knife. After she sat back down, she pulled the blanket around her. “You’re in control.” She closed her eyes. “As usual.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She turned her head and glared at him. “
I’m
not the control freak. You, on the other hand—”

“Really? Have you ever looked at how you are with your daughter?” he asked, and finished loading the rifle.

“Don’t even go there. At least
I’ve
been a part of my daughter’s life.”

“Low blow, Cami.” He slid one of the pistols behind him and inside the waistband of his jeans. If Steven found them and they were forced to run, he wouldn’t have to worry about collecting weapons in the dark, only fleeing. “At least I didn’t coddle my kid,” he said, setting the other two weapons by the wall.

“I didn’t
coddle
Lola.”

“You coddled and controlled her. You still do.”

“That’s not true.”

He sat next to her, then checked to make sure the guns were within reach. “I would’ve never hired her if you hadn’t asked me. Ever. She has confidence in herself, but no direction. That’s your fault. I wasn’t there for Celeste, and it’s probably a good thing because I would have spoiled the hell out of her, too. Instead, her mom and the father who raised her taught her to work hard and set goals.”