Page 99 of Mountain Daddy

The GPS leads me deep into the woods. Gravel roads. Then dirt tracks. Then nothing but tire marks cutting through underbrush.

I park a mile out. Move on foot.

Quiet.

Patient.

This isn't my first hunt.

The warehouse looms ahead. Concrete and steel. Broken windows like eye sockets in a skull. Two cars parked outside. Plus the white van they probably used to take her.

Three men visible. One smoking by the entrance. Two more patrolling the perimeter. Sloppy. Overconfident.

I watch their patterns. Time their rotations. Find the gaps.

The smoker finishes his cigarette. Tosses it. Heads back inside.

Move.

I keep to the tree line. Low and fast. Shadow to shadow. The guard on the east side won't circle back for a few minutes.

The west guard passes. Doesn't see me.

His mistake.

I'm behind him before he registers movement. My arm locks around his throat. He struggles. Claws at my forearm. Useless.

I squeeze. Tighter. His struggles weaken. Stop.

I ease him to the ground. Take his gun. His radio. Check his pockets.

Nothing useful. No phone. No keys.

I drag him into the bushes. Cover him with branches.

One down.

The east guard will be rounding the corner soon. I position myself behind a rusted barrel. Wait.

Footsteps.

Getting closer.

He passes.

Doesn't see me.

I follow. Silent. Close enough to smell his aftershave. To see the sweat beading on his neck.

He stops suddenly. Turns.

Too late.

My fist connects with his throat. Crushes his windpipe before he can shout. He drops to his knees. Hands clutching his neck. Eyes bulging.

I finish him with a twist of his head. Quick. Clean. Almost merciful.

Two down.

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