Ice Hunt

Tyler…I’m sorry…

He forced his eyes open. Now was not the time to mourn the boy. Still, the water’s icy embrace had awakened the memory. He could not escape it. His body remembered the cold, the icy water. Memories frozen in every fiber of his being were loosened. Unless someone had lost a son or daughter, none could imagine how a mere memory could stab like a dagger: agonizing, blinding, down to the bone.

Tyler…

Movement drew him back to the present. Off to the right, a figure shifted between boulders along the bank. As he watched, old anger trembled his legs, along with a numbing despair that made one fearless.

The hunter had followed Matt’s muddy trail, but he was taking no chances, sticking to shadows. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, but he bore a pistol in one fist. The man had also shed his snowy outerwear and wore only a camouflaged uniform and black cap, easier to hide.

Matt lifted his rifle, parting the fall of water with his barrel. He didn’t point it toward the slinking figure. With his gun compromised, he couldn’t trust a keen shot between the sheltering rocks. Instead, he aimed for the wet bank of the stream, where he had waded into the channel a few minutes ago. Only ten yards away, bare of boulders.

The camouflaged hunter reached the spot, easing out of the rocks. He crouched low. Matt watched him eye the far bank. No wet trail led away. The fellow stared downstream. Matt could guess what he was thinking. Had his quarry fled down the channel like he had earlier down the smaller snowmelt gully? The hunter raised higher, searching down the course. He was a tall man, linebacker build.

Matt moved his finger to the trigger, using all the muscles in his forearm and shoulder to hold the rifle steady. Some innate sense drew the man’s attention. He swung around, his face a pale look of surprise. He spotted the rifle at the same time Matt pulled the trigger.

The blast was loud in the tiny space. The recoil almost tore the weapon from his grip. Something tiny pinged past his ear. Matt ignored it all. He concentrated on his target.

The hunter pitched backward as if shoved in the chest. His pistol spun from his hand, arms outflung. He struck a granite extrusion and sat down hard.

Even before the man hit the ground, Matt was out of his hiding place. He yanked on the rifle to eject the spent cartridge, but he found it jammed. He tugged harder, but no success. The damage to the weapon must have been worse than he had thought. He was lucky the rifle hadn’t exploded in his face when he had fired.

He raced down the stream toward the fallen hunter. The man, though down, struggled to free his rifle behind him. It was a race, but the channel’s current now worked in Matt’s favor. He flew the ten yards, leaping from the current.

He was too late.

The rifle came around and pointed at his chest.

In midair, Matt jerked his body aside and swung his damaged weapon like a club. He felt metal strike metal as the gunman’s rifle exploded. Flaming pain seared Matt’s shoulder.

He cried out…then his weight hit the other. It was like striking a brick wall. The man outweighed Matt by a good thirty pounds. But the impact knocked the assailant’s rifle away. It skittered across the rocks and into the stream.

Matt rolled off the guy and kicked his foot around to smash into the man’s face. But the attacker was already dodging aside. He seemed unfazed by the chest wound. In fact, there was no blood.

Kevlar vest, Matt thought.

The other crouched an arm’s length away, his face a mask of fury. One hand fingered the hole in his camouflage.

Still hurts like a son of a bitch, though, doesn’t it, ass**le?

A flash of silver and a dagger appeared in the man’s other hand. The bastard was a friggin’ Swiss Army knife of weapons.

Matt lifted his rifle, holding it like a fencing sword. His shoulder burned, but he ignored the pain. He turned one side to the man, keeping his silhouette small against the dagger.

Eyes bright with bloodlust, the assassin smiled, feral. Perfect white teeth. Whoever the man worked for, they had a good dental plan.

With no warning, the man lunged at him, dagger held low, professional, skilled. His other arm was raised to parry Matt’s rifle.

Matt danced back two steps. His free hand rested on his hip, on his belt. He yanked free the holstered can of pepper spray and thumbed the safety cap off. He swung it around and sprayed. Meant to ward off bears, the spray had a shooting distance of twenty feet.

It struck his steel-eyed attacker full in the face.

The effect was the same as if he had shot a cannonball at point-blank range.

The assailant fell to his knees, head thrown back, dagger forgotten. A stunned moment, then an inhuman howl flowed from the man’s throat. It was a garbled sound. The man must have inhaled just as the spray hit, burning larynx and throat. He clawed at his eyes and face, ripping tracks across his cheeks.

Matt stood back. The bear spray was ten times more potent than that used in law enforcement, a combination of pepper and tear gas. It was meant to drop grizzlies, not just common thugs. Already the man’s eyelids blistered. Blinded by the pain, he flipped around, wild, like a marlin landed on a fishing boat deck. But there was purpose to his thrashing. He fought toward the icy stream. His body racked and vomit spilled over the rocks, choking. He collapsed yards from the stream, moaning, curled in on himself.

Matt simply walked over and collected the man’s dagger. He considered slicing the man’s throat, but he was not feeling generous today. The fellow was no further threat. There was a fair chance he would even die from the spray. And if not, he’d be disfigured and disabled for life. Matt felt no remorse. He remembered Brent Cumming, his friend’s neck broken as his Cessna crashed.

Matt turned away while checking his own wound. The rifle shot had grazed his shoulder, more a burn than a wound.

Distantly, the grumble of the motorcycle had throttled down. Had the rider heard his partner’s wail? Did he know it was his friend? Or was he wondering if it was their quarry?

Matt checked the stream for the other rifle, but the current had swept it away. He dared not tarry. He trusted the other pursuer would eventually come to search for his partner. Matt did not plan on being here. He’d trek back to camp, collect his dogs, horse, and the reporter—then he was heading to the only place he knew in the area. Invited or not, welcome or not, they would have to take him in.

He listened as the cycle growled more fiercely again. Of course, out there was one last snag to this plan. Matt crossed the scarp, away from the other pursuer. His camp was two miles away, but at least it was on this side of the rockfall. It would take a bit of time for the rider to find his partner, circle around, and chase them. By then, Matt planned on being well away.