He wasn’t worried about the spotlights. Peter was a small figure in a very large landscape. No, his main concern was the night-vision headgear.

Because the other man would understand the size of the landscape, too, and how it might help Peter feel safe in the expanse of night. The other man would use that feeling of safety by sweeping the spotlights across a field, then turning them off to watch and wait in darkness until Peter, believing he was invisible, began to run again. Humans had been hunters since they first came down from the trees, and nothing drew a predator’s eye like movement.

Worst case would be if the headgear had a thermal setting. Peter wouldn’t need to move at all. After two hours of stop-and-start running on this cold and windy night, his heat signature would be bright as a bonfire.

If he hadn’t seen the goggles at that first farmyard, they might have had him already.

If he wasn’t careful, they still could.

The itch between his shoulder blades had only gotten stronger. He hadn’t forgotten how good the other man had been with that scoped rifle. Or how many times he’d anticipated Peter’s tactics and countered them. It was, in fact, a little freaky, as if the guy could somehow read Peter’s mind.

But Peter wasn’t in a war zone, he was in the upper Midwest. He had no phone to track. The other guy was simply an excellent manhunter who’d gotten a very good read on Peter in a very short period of time. Although Peter had to admit that any dumb-ass who would dive from the seat of his truck, off a high bluff, and into a flooded river was a pretty specific personality type.

The other problem with the spotlights was that, every time they shone across the windows of an occupied house or trailer, the inhabitants took notice. Lights went on and doors opened and dogs began to bark. Which meant Peter could no longer slip unnoticed into a garage or barn to find an old hunting jacket or a work truck with the keys in it. He didn’t want to face down a couple of farm dogs to knock on somebody’s door, and he wasn’t going to try a home invasion, either. He was willing to bet that every one of these dwellings had a least one firearm, whether for hunting deer or shooting coyotes or simply for sport, and Peter was still unarmed.

Distance remained his best defense, so he fell back from the road but continued east, his legs strong and steady, his clothes getting dry. He’d walk all night if he had to. The exercise would keep him warm, and an opportunity would present itself eventually.

When he came to a small rise and saw a spray of headlamps shining through the next treeline, almost a mile off the road, he smiled and picked up the pace.