He lifted the rock, cocked his arm back, and hurled it at a forty-five-degree angle to his ten o’clock position. He stood and waited as the rock soared through the lower branches of the trees, mercifully not hitting any until it was at least thirty feet away from him. The rock landed with a thud and then struck a tree.

Instantly, there was a loud crack of a pistol and the briefest of flashes, distorted by the trees, at least eighty feet away. Now.

Nick fired a single shot in the direction of his target and took several steps forward and to his right. His plan was simple, and he prayed that the noise of the winds would distort his actual movements. The shot would give his prey an idea of where he’d been moments before. The trick would be to maintain his momentum moving forward, engaging in a solitary version of bounding movement based on sound.

A shot erupted from less than fifty feet away, and the bullet struck a tree near the position he’d abandoned. Nick fired again in the general direction of the muzzle flash, brighter than the last shot, hoping to score a lucky hit and end his aggressive gambit. But rather than wait, he moved forward once again when the next shot came at him. The impact behind him to his left was closer than the first two. He’s going to figure out what you’re doing. You have to close the distance and get a line of sight on him—fast.

He moved once more, angling slightly away as he closed the distance. Instead of stopping, he fired on the run and changed directions, this time moving to his left. Another shot missed him as Barrett took the bait and aimed to his right.

The flash was bright and unobstructed by trees, and Nick realized he’d misjudged his distance—he was closer than he’d thought, less than twenty feet to his target. He stopped, confident that he had a direct line to where the flash had been, elevated the Glock instinctively, and relying more on his natural aim, fired several shots at the last known flash.

A loud metallic crack followed by an exclamation of pain erupted from the woods, and Nick realized what he’d done—like an archer Robin-Hooding a bolt sticking out of the target, he’d hit Barrett’s Glock. Don’t let up. Move.

Throwing caution to the wind that wrapped around him like an invisible cloak, he rushed forward toward his prey, the amorphous grays becoming defined like a painter’s dream turned into reality.

Barrett Connolly was on his knees, crawling through the leaves and sticks, and Nick considered putting a round in the back of his head. Instead, he aimed the Glock at the center of his back and squeezed the trigger one time.