His instinct from years ago was kicking in. Once it had been second nature to not only run toward trouble but neutralize it. In many ways, he had adjusted to civilian life better than men like Law who carried daily the scars of war. He’d switched from MP force and protection mode to search and rescue fairly smoothly, thanks to his business partner Oliver. He preferred saving lives to threatening them. But now he needed those predator skills to survive and overcome. The hunted needed to be a hunter.
Motivate. Devastate. Incapacitate.
He moved toward the back of the bunkhouse. By circling to the rear, he would be protected by darkness and closer to the back of the house when he reached the other end. Perhaps from that angle he could tell who or what was down in the front yard.
He moved as quickly as the ground allowed. In coming out this way, he’d been sinking footprints into untouched snow. But now, in keeping close to the back wall as he retraced his steps, his boots sank several times into uneven holes already made by his first passage. Some of them must have been Yard’s, too.
Snapping sounds brought his head around several times. But there was nothing to see either behind him or up the incline behind the building where the terrain made a sudden climb as it became the foothills of the eastern range. He remembered the road on a ridge halfway up. Perhaps Purdy’s henchmen had come in that way. No way to check without revealing himself. And he needed to know what lay on the ground near Yard’s vehicle.
By the time he came even with the back corner of the bunkhouse he was breathing heavily again. His chest hurt from the rush of icy air in and out of his lungs. All the way up to the top of his throat, his breathing felt constricted, as if his windpipe had begun to freeze. He brought his lips together, sipping in air as if from a straw.
How much time had passed since Yard had called the sheriff? Could have been an hour or fifteen minutes. His internal clock was on high alert status, everything coming in as either speeded up or painfully slowed down. Was an hour all the time he had to burn up before help arrived? Or more likely, with snow still falling, would it be a very long wait? Best to plan for option B.
This time as he prepared to turn the corner and look, he pulled his weapon in close to his chest, both hands on it to steady his aim.
He did a ninety-degree pivot so that only half his body was exposed as he looked toward the parking lot and cars.
His angle of view was better, as well as closer. It was clear from his first glance that a human body lay in the shadow of the Jeep. Cussing up a blue streak in his head, Kye made himself stay exposed as he did a perimeter check, looking for other casualties. Perpetrators. Animals. Nothing stirred. No Oleg. No other human being. Nothing.
He pulled back and swung away, planting his back against the back wall of the bunkhouse in shadow. The icy sting of the siding felt good. It was a reminder that he was still alive. Still making plans to devastate and incapacitate whatever dickwad was out there. Because he knew, without confirmation, that whoever lay prone in the snow wasn’t Kye’s target.
Kye made himself recount what he now knew while his hammering heart steadied itself. The man down wore a wool coat and he’d seen a trouser leg and the soles of trainers, not combat boots. Not in uniform so no officer of the law. Bad guy?
Purdy had come dressed to deflect suspicion. He doubted his partner, or partners, would have bothered. They’d come to clean up a mess. Probably dressed to disguise themselves, including masks.
Gunnar couldn’t have made that shot from inside the house. Or if he’d been able to open the front door and gun down an assailant, he would mostly likely have shouted for help the moment he saw the man fall. More likely, the doc was crouched in the dark, feverish and only half alert, waiting, as Kye was, to see what came next.
He checked his perimeter again, willing himself to slow his thinking.
So who was shot? Purdy was private security. That meant his partner, or partners, would be anything from ex-police-officers to former black ops, and every scary thing in between. One thing was certain. He would be a hunter, a predator, at the top of his particular food chain. The thrill of the hunt would urge him on even when the odds began stacking up. Adrenaline junkies, the lot. The man on the ground might be playing possum, pretending to be hurt to get the drop on whoever came in answer to the shots.
Like a hum beneath the wind, he could almost hear his enemy thinking, too low to register as sound but felt all the same in the deepest part of his chest. What would the fucker do next? What should his own next move be? He couldn’t stay out here in his undershirt forever. Already his muscles were beginning to ache from the cold.
I effing hate snow!
He waited. Listening. Hearing nothing but the wind and creaking trees and the faint tingling drift of snow through the air. Finally, far away, a dog barked.