Ken Goddard - Prey

Fully sated then, Maas stood up, recovered his bow and knife, and began to walk slowly back to the platform tree. He knew that when he got there, a numbed and shaken but thoroughly alive Lisa Abercombie would tell him that he had been selected as the assault group leader of Operation Counter Wrench.

And because the money involved would enable him-for many years to come-to satisfy his fearful compulsion to confront death, Gerd Maas would make every effort to act as though he cared.

Sunday June 2nd

The Chareaux brothers had been trying to line up the kill for almost two weeks now. But it was the seventh game of the NBA Western Conference Finals, so he'd been emphatic that they understand about Sunday.

Any other day, any other Sunday for that matter, no problem. All they had to do was to get a fix on the target, give him a call, and he'd be out the door with hiking boots, cammo and survival gear, a twenty-eight-hundred-dollar bolt-action McMillan Signature Alaskan rifle, a Zeiss 3-9x variable scope, and fifty rounds of. 300 Winchester Magnum jacketed soft points all packed and ready to go.

But not this Sunday.

Marie might be a problem, though. She had spent the last two months working overtime and trading shifts to get five days off in a row. He was supposed to take her to the Helena National Forest for a long-promised backpacking trip along the continental divide.

So it was all a matter of timing now-no matter whether she managed to get off early from her last shift of the week or worked late and called after the final buzzer.

After it would be nice, he thought as he waved his hand over the steaming Belgian waffle iron and then raised the lid and forked the golden-brown almond waffle to the plate. Very nice indeed, but hardly likely, he reminded himself as he poured thick, hot blueberry sauce over the steaming waffle. He'd discovered that having an emergency-room nurse for a girlfriend was just about as bad as being a homicide cop, especially when it came to making plans for days off.

Timed to perfection, the perking coffeepot rumbled one last time and then fell silent.

Henry Lightstone wasn't the least bit surprised to hear the phone ring just as the referee lofted the ball for the tip-off. The jarring sound caught him with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a forkful of waffle in the other, forcing him at last to make a decision. Basketball or Marie. One or the other, and he was probably going to have to decide right now. He stared into his coffee cup. It should have been an easy decision, because Marie Pascalaura was the best thing that had happened to him in years. The incredibly sensuous emergency-room nurse of Hispanic and American Indian descent preferred long hikes, tent-and-shovel camping, and slow dancing over almost everything-except sex.

And most important-despite her career-she wasn't the least bit concerned about the guns.

"Hello," he mumbled through his mouthful of waffle, forcing his voice to remain casual as he watched Drexler steal a bad pass from Scott.

"Henry Lightner, please?"

The voice, instead of warm and lively, was jarringly cold, whispery- hoarse, and all too familiar.

"Yeah, this is Lightner. Who is this?" he asked, trying to stall for time.

"Henry, surely we know each other too well for such games? I call you today to tell you the most important thing-that it is time to go. My brothers and I have found him."

The voice had shifted in tone, now vaguely French, decidedly Cajun, and discreetly mocking.

"Hello, Alex." Lightstone responded cautiously, because Alex Chareaux was known to be a coldhearted kill-freak who had lulled more than one victim to a horribly slow death. His pressed-linen suits, his slickly combed long black hair, his gentle phrases, and his silk-smooth Cajun charm belied his favorite passion: traditional French-Indian combat. The confrontation required each combatant to clutch a razor-sharp frog knife in one hand and the opposing end of a large white handkerchief in the other, while they fought to stay alive without letting go. The femoral artery, right at the point where the groin and upper leg intersect, was the target of choice, because-as a Louisiana warden had once explained to Lightstone-you could stand there and watch the life fade from a man's eyes while the spurting arterial blood turned the clothes of the two adversaries a bright red.

It was said by those who had experienced the horror of watching Alex Chareaux fight that the fiery glaze in his dark, reddened eyes was a permanent result of staring at too many piles of blood-soaked white linen burning hot and bright in the midnight darkness of the humid Terrebonne swamps.

But the incredible part of the Chareauxs' reputation was that Alex Chareaux was considered by far the most civilized of the three Chareaux brothers.

Henry Lightstone had decided long ago that he wouldn't mind at all if he never met the other two. He felt mildly disturbed by the realization that he had never really severed his long, depressing association with psychopathic freaks, even though it was over ten months since he'd worked his last homicide case. Lightstone shook his head slowly and then hit the record button. All that Special Agent Henry Lightstone could really do now was to play his character and see how it flowed. Alex Chareaux was an exceedingly dangerous individual who, more than anything, loved to play with things before he watched them die. It was very important to listen carefully to what he said.

"Henry, I know. This was supposed to be a special day for you," the whispery-hoarse voice chuckled sympathetically, "but who among us can ever say how fate will play her hand, no? My brothers, they searched all the night and all the day looking for that one special creature who would best satisfy your needs. I know today is your Sunday, but when he appeared, it was as though fate herself had smiled on us all. What could I do?"

There was a silent pause.

"Henry," he went on quietly, "if you do not want him now, I will understand. He is yours first, as we agreed, but we have other clients who would be happy to take your place. You understand, surely, that there are not so many like this one that we can just let him go."

"What's he like?" Lightstone whispered, unable to help himself because he was fully in character now, and this was what he got paid for. And besides, Alex was right. Henry Allen Lightner, wealthy businessman, sportsman, and safari hunter par excellence, had been waiting for this one for a very long time.

"I am telling you straight, Henry. He is Boone and Crockett, without question. So obvious, it will not even be necessary that they make the measurements."

"Wow," Lightstone whispered.

"He is an amazing creature, Henry," Chareaux went on. "Huge and terrifying. Even Sonny, I think, is a little afraid of him. When you see him, you will understand."

"Where?" Exactly the question Henry Allen Lightner should be asking, because he would be salivating. Lightstone knew the man all too well. He had created him, and lived him for six months: an ex-jock from San Diego State University with a bachelor's degree in marketing, a decent stake of family money, and a kickback friendly attitude that masked the true disposition of a game-player who was willing to go for the jugular to make a deal. Lightner had moved to Montana and made his fortune in record time. But deep down inside, he was an aggressive, greedy, and dedicated killer. A man who would pay almost anything to fill up all the empty spaces on the basement walls of his secret trophy room.

"He is just north of Yellowstone now, a few miles east of Gardiner. My brothers, they spotted him in the park about an hour ago, but he kept moving, so it took them a while to get to a phone," Chareaux added.