• • •

LIZ LUNGED FROM THE HOLLOW she’d scooped from the mud under the log.

A few minutes earlier, she’d crossed the stream and entered the trees on the opposite side. There she found a dead branch that fit into the hollow grip of the knife. Then she circled back to the stream, walked through the water, and crawled under the log.

As Max descended past her, aiming toward the trees on the opposite bank, she had thrust with the rigged spear. Adding her weight to it, she pushed with all her remaining strength and plunged the blade deeper into him.

He groaned and fell facedown into the stream.

Her hands had shook. Her lungs felt starved for oxygen.

Springing toward him, she shoved the spear even deeper into his back. He raised his face from the water and struggled. Using her uninjured arm, she grabbed a rock from the stream and struck it against the back of his head. He slumped, his face partially out of the water. She struck his head again, feeling the softness of blood under his hair.

She struck a third time.

A fourth.

She heard his skull crack.

She hit him again and again.

The rock went deeper into bone.

Shrieking, she straddled his back and pressed his face into the water, holding it under until long after his death shudder had stopped.

She needed all her strength to stand and stagger backward. When she slumped on the muddy bank, she kept her grip on the rock in case she needed to use it again.

She couldn’t stop shaking.

Finally, she decided to head back to the lodge and stop her bleeding. She placed a foot on his back and tugged the spear free. The effort of using her wounded arm made her groan. Max had dropped his pistol. She picked it up. As the rain fell, the forest again seemed enshrouded by mist, but she knew that the haze was really the consequence of blood loss.

She gave Max a fierce kick just to make sure he was dead.

Then she climbed the bank and followed her trail of blood.

• • •

SIMON DROVE OVER A RIDGE and saw an asphalt lane on the right, flanked by forest. He’d seen two driveways in the past five miles. They’d looked welcoming, with signs that advertised facilities for training and breeding horses. In contrast, this turnoff led to a reinforced steel gate and a fence with barbed wire along the top. He steered off the highway and stopped in front of the gate. A number pad was mounted to a pole.

He left the car and pressed the key fob, releasing the vehicle’s trunk. After carefully raising it, he smelled the vinegar stench of carbon dioxide.

But it wasn’t enough to hide another stench.

“You son of a bitch, I pissed my pants because of you,” Nick said.

He lay on his side, his arms taped behind him.

“What’s the code to open the gate?” he asked, ignoring the rain that struck him.