“I’m here, honey,” he assured. “Bring him to me.”

The blue material was on the move again. She wasn’t running. Good girl. She had courage. She took another step and this time he could see her profile. She hadn’t removed the barrette from her hair, although her hair was messy, strands tumbling around her face. She didn’t look toward him; she kept her attention focused on the man he was certain was Ottila following her.

A hand came into view and pressed, fingers splayed wide on her belly. He knew the significance of that with a woman in the throes of the Han Vol Dan. She slapped the hand away and retreated a few more steps until she was fully in the open. Jeremiah smiled and fit his eye to the scope.

“Now I have you, you bastard. Touch her again and you’re a dead man.”

The wind shifted and he caught the faint scent of cat. Without hesitating, he leapt, taking his rifle with him. Behind him, something hit the branch he’d been in hard enough to shake the tree. He landed in a crouch and sprinted fast, slinging the rifle over his shoulder. He managed to make it into the dense foliage before he dropped to one knee and fit the rifle against his shoulder. He let his cat take over, senses flaring out to read the night.

He was being hunted. Definitely leopard. Probably Martin Suma. “Come on, you bastard,” he hissed between his teeth. There was no sound, but he wouldn’t expect that. Leopards didn’t make sound. They could creep into a house and select a victim in a bedroom, or even a living room where people were gathered watching television, and drag him out unnoticed. It happened more often than one would think at the edge of the jungle. He wasn’t going to hear Suma. And he probably wouldn’t smell him either.

He stayed low, keeping very still, making no noise. Suma had to know he was dealing with leopard. And he’d probably caught his scent. He wouldn’t expect much opposition from an untrained kid. That was the only advantage Jeremiah had. He waited, his heart pounding, expecting any moment for Suma to drop on him from above. His gaze continually swept the trees overhead.

The scent of wet fur hit his nostrils and he turned, squeezing the trigger at the leopard emerging from the brush just to his left. He rolled, shot again from a prone position and kept rolling. The leopard grunted in pain, roared once, and thrashed. Jeremiah jumped to his feet, bringing up the rifle a third time, but the leopard crawled into the brush. He knew better than to follow. He could see a trail of smeared blood. He’d scored, but it was no kill shot. A wounded leopard was extremely dangerous.