Chapter 17: THE HUNTERS ARRIVE
The sensation hits at 2:47 PM. Like ice water down my spine. My Criminal Instinct flaring so hard I nearly swerve the patrol car.
Danger. Predators. Hunters.
I pull over. Breathe. Focus on the sensation. It's not general anxiety. It's specific. Directional. Coming from the highway entrance—north side of town.
My radio: "Lucas, you there?"
"Copy. What's wrong?"
"Something just entered Banshee. Multiple threats. Professional." I can't explain how I know. Just that I do. "They're here."
Silence. Then: "Rabbit's team?"
"Has to be."
"Location?"
I follow the sensation. It pulls me north like a compass. "Highway entrance. Moving into town. Black SUV."
"I'll meet you at the station. Don't engage alone."
"Copy."
I drive slowly. Scanning. My instinct guides me—turn left here, straight two blocks, right at the intersection. And there.
Black Escalade. Tinted windows. Pennsylvania plates but the vehicle is too clean, too new for local use. Rental or recently acquired.
Four shapes inside. Hard to see details through the tint. But my instinct screams: hunters, predators, killers.
I memorize the plate. Let them pass. Don't follow directly—they'll spot a tail. Instead, I take parallel streets. Keep them in range of my awareness. The sensation doesn't fade. If anything, it strengthens.
They're scanning. Looking. Hunting.
They drive through downtown. Slow. Methodical. Someone inside is checking faces against photos. Comparing. Searching.
For Carrie.
They don't stop. Don't approach anyone. Just observe and document. Professional reconnaissance.
I text Job: Black Escalade, PA plates [number]. Four occupants. Just entered town. Need IDs.
The vehicle heads toward the outskirts. I follow at distance. They pull into a motel—the cheap place truckers use. Two stories. Office with bored clerk. Perfect for people who want to be forgettable.
They park. Four men exit.
The leader is obvious. Tall—maybe six-three. Heavy build but not fat. Scars visible on his face even from this distance. Military bearing. He moves like violence is breathing.
This is Olek. Has to be.
The other three are younger. Fit. Alert. They scan the parking lot professionally before entering the motel office.
I park three blocks away. Watch through binoculars.
They emerge with keys. Room 214. Second floor. Good view of the parking lot and entrance. Defensible position.
Smart.
Lucas arrives in his patrol car. Parks next to mine. "That them?"
"Yeah."
He takes the binoculars. Studies the men carrying bags inside. "Four visible. Could be more."
"Job's running the plates and trying to ID faces."
"What's the play?"
"Surveillance for now. We know where they are. They don't know we're watching." I lower the binoculars. "We need to figure out their timeline. How long before they find Carrie."
"How long can we delay them?"
"Depends. If they're just scouting, maybe days. If they already have intelligence..." I don't finish the thought.
Lucas's phone buzzes. Text from Job. He reads it. His expression darkens.
"What?"
"Job ID'd the leader through facial recognition. Olek Rabbit. Former Russian Spetsnaz. Rabbit's nephew and chief hunter." Lucas shows me the file. "Military service in Chechnya. Dishonorably discharged for excessive brutality. That's saying something for Spetsnaz."
I study Olek's file. Suspected in over forty disappearances. No convictions. Perfect operational record for his uncle. Finds targets, extracts them, delivers them.
Never failed.
"The others?" I ask.
"Dmitri Volkov, Pavel Kray, Anton Sikorsky. All ex-military. All connected to Rabbit's organization. All specialists in finding and extracting high-value targets."
"They're not here to scout. They're here to grab her."
Lucas nods grimly. "How long before they identify her?"
"Depends on their intelligence. If they have recent photos, vehicle information, address—could be hours. If they're working from old intel, maybe days."
"We should warn her."
"Not yet. If we warn her and she runs, they'll intercept. Right now, they're searching. As long as she stays in her normal routine, she's one of five thousand people in this town."
"And when they narrow it down?"
"Then we intercept. Stop them before they make contact."
Lucas watches the motel. "We can't surveil 24/7. Two of us, four of them. They'll spot the pattern."
He's right. We need more eyes.
I call Job. "Need a favor."
"Always with the favors. What?"
"Four targets at the Red Roof Motel, room 214. I need eyes on them. Movements, communications, anything."
"You want me to physically surveil a motel?"
"No. I want you to hack their phones, clone their comms, and track their movements digitally."
Pause. "I like the way you think. Give me six hours."
"You can do that?"
"I can do anything except cook. And tailoring. Never learned tailoring." He hangs up.
Lucas and I take shifts. I watch until 6 PM. Nothing happens. The hunters stay in their room. Planning. Preparing.
Lucas relieves me. I grab food—drive-through burger, cold fries. Eat mechanically while reviewing everything I know.
Rabbit's hunters: professional, experienced, ruthless. Here to find and extract Carrie.
Our advantages: we know they're here, we know their location, they don't know we're watching.
Our disadvantages: outnumbered, outgunned, legally obligated to avoid violence unless provoked.
Unless provoked.
The thought sits there. Lucas gave me permission to use full force when they come. But that's reactive. What if we provoke them? Create a situation where we have legal justification?
Entrapment is illegal. But creative policing isn't.
My phone rings. Job.
"That was fast."
"I'm motivated. Also, they made it easy. Russians aren't great at digital security. Too much confidence, not enough caution." Job sounds pleased. "I'm in their phones. Monitoring calls, texts, GPS tracking. The works."
"What have you learned?"
"They're waiting for confirmation. Olek sent photos of five potential targets to someone in New York. Waiting for identification."
My stomach tightens. "Carrie's in those photos?"
"Probably. They photographed blonde women in the right age range. If Rabbit has facial recognition software—and he does—he'll identify his daughter within hours."
"How long?"
"Best case? Tomorrow morning. Worst case? They already know and are planning extraction."
"Keep me updated. Any communication, any movement, I want to know immediately."
"Already set up alerts. You'll know what they're doing before they do." He pauses. "Ben? Be careful. These men don't negotiate. They don't surrender. When they move, it'll be fast and final."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you're a small-town deputy going up against professional killers. The math isn't in your favor."
"Math doesn't account for everything."
"No. But bullets do. Don't get shot."
"Noted."
I return to surveillance position. Lucas is still there, watching through binoculars.
"Job's in their phones," I report. "Monitoring everything. We'll know when they have confirmation."
"Good." Lucas doesn't lower the binoculars. "What happens when they confirm? When they know exactly where Carrie is?"
"We stop them."
"How?"
I don't have a perfect answer. "However necessary."
The night settles. The motel lights stay on. Inside, four predators plan their hunt.
I check my weapon. Test my hands. Steady. No tremor. My Violence Mastery hums in the background—ready, waiting, eager.
Tomorrow or the next day, violence is coming. The question isn't if. It's when, where, and how bloody.
I prefer choosing the ground. Controlling the variables. Setting the terms.
But sometimes the enemy chooses. Sometimes you react.
Either way, I'll be ready.
The wolf doesn't fear the hunt.
The wolf is the hunt.
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