"We'll give it a few more minutes, and if there is still no sign of them, we’ll carry on. We're going to a little place called Luddington. It's on the shores of Lake Michigan."

  "But he’ll find us, won’t he? How will that help us?”

  "He will. I'm counting on it. What we need is a head start, to give us time to prepare.”

  She shivered again, and she didn’t need to ask what he intended to prepare for. When he was certain the shooter wasn’t too close behind, he started the engine and drove away again. Soon, they entered a thickly wooded area, and he followed a narrow track through the trees, parking the Audi in an empty parking area. Save for a huge, dark shape, like a primeval monster crouched on the ground, waiting to pounce on its prey. It was no monster. The Caterpillar earthmover was silent, with just the rear bucket sticking up in the air like the tail of a scorpion, and at the front, the dozer blade. He’d parked using the machine as cover, and they started walking. The surface of the lake appeared before them, shining like a mirror in the almost total absence of wind. Next to the lake, a rental chalet, empty at this time of year, and he forced the lock.

  “Whatever happens, stay in here. This ends now.”

  She shook her head. “I wish I’d never started. All I’ve caused is death and misery.”

  He held her close to him. “That’s not true. You did what you did for all the right reasons. The people who sent that shooter after you did the wrong thing, and maybe one day you’ll have a chance to get even. All that matters now is we fix this problem.”

  “The shooter,” she whispered.

  “Yep, him. Wait in here. I’m going outside to look around.”

  She protested, but he forced her to wait inside while he checked out the immediate area. There was no sign of the killer, and he retraced his steps to the parking lot. Everything was quiet; everything as he left it, and he remembered the scattergun was still in the trunk. He popped the lid and pulled out the squat, menacing close quarters weapon. His pockets were still full of cartridges, and he carried the spare mags for the Sig. He was as ready as he could be. All he needed do now was wait. With any luck, he’d pick the guy off as he came through the woods toward them.

  He nearly didn’t make it. Cris was walking along the path back to the chalet, when the bullet came out of nowhere. He’d been passing the trunk of a small tree, and the shooter hadn’t seen it in the darkness. The bullet smacked into the bark and embedded itself deep in the trunk. He flung himself to the ground, rolled away, and scuttled into cover, already clawing out the Glock with one hand while he held the scattergun with the other. He peered around the trunk of a large oak, and another bullet smacked toward him. The guy was closer, much closer, and Cris snapped off three rounds to force him back. Or at least make him stop.

  He was squinting through the darkness, trying to pinpoint his position, but he saw nothing. He moved slowly, eyes everywhere, but he almost missed him as the shooter came out of nowhere. He’d approached unseen and unheard, with the stealth of a stalking leopard. The big handgun ‘boomed’ twice, and the heavy lead missed him by inches. One round impacted the tree next to where he hid, and the other whistled away into the night, disappearing somewhere over the lake. Then loud footsteps, and the man ran at him; secure in his immense strength and superior firepower.

  Not quite, buddy. Suck on this and see how you like it.

  He stepped out, aimed at the moving shadow, and pulled the trigger of the Remington. He pumped another 12 bore round into the breech and fired again. He sent five cartridges in all in the direction of the shooter, but he’d disappeared.

  Dead? Not this guy, not with a little bitty buckshot. I’ll need something bigger to take him down, like a .50 caliber, or a missile, maybe.

  He heard a rustling noise about thirty yards away. The lead pellets wouldn’t kill him, but they’d made him change his angle of approach. Cris didn’t hesitate and went after him. The hunted become the hunter, and he reloaded the Remington as he slipped through the dark woods. He reached the spot where he’d heard the noise and checked behind every tree, poked around every bush, but there was nothing. He crept on determined to find the shooter and kill him, knowing there was no other way. If he lived, they’d die. He went on.

  * * *

  Stewart drove the unmarked along the narrow track, squinting through the shadows to find his way. He missed the turn to the lake and kept going. It became more difficult as the track narrowed, and then stopped altogether at a forest picnic site.

  “This don’t look right,” he mumbled to Mason. “They couldn't have come this way. We’d have seen the Audi and the Dodge.”

  “You’re right. Swing around and we’ll head back. We must have missed a turnoff. Take it slow, and keep your eyes peeled.”

  They drove for several minutes, and Mason spotted it first. “There, that lane through the trees. It looks well used, and I can see tire tracks. Turn down there, and we’ll take a look.”

  Stewart drove for three hundred yards, and they emerged in a clearing. Parked in plain view were two cars and a huge machine. A white Audi R8, a red Dodge Dart, and a monster Caterpillar earthmover. He looked at Mason, his eyes wide with excitement. “This is it, they’re close. How do we handle this?”

  “Like you’d handle a hungry rattler, with a lot of care. You have the bulletproof vests in the trunk?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, we’ll put them on and start sweeping through the woods. We’ll need something heavier than a pistol. Open the trunk.”

  They donned the vests emblazoned with ‘Chicago PD.’ Stewart unclipped an M-16 from its mountings, pocketed two spare magazines, and gave Mason a satisfied smile. “If this doesn’t do the job, nothing will.”

  “Just be careful where you point that thing. We’ve lost enough cops for one day. Stay quiet. If he hears us coming, we’ll be dead before we even smell him.”

  They plunged into the woods, heading west, following what looked like a well-trodden path.

  * * *

  Cris was convinced of the general direction the shooter had taken. The trick was to lure him away from the shack and keep Maria safe. He started to make slight noises, enough to alert him to his presence, and persuade him to follow. But when he stopped, there was nothing more than silence. He crept on, pistol in one hand, Remington in the other. After fifty yards, there was still no sign. He’d missed him, and he was about to race back to the shack when the roar of a huge diesel engine starting broke the silence.

  The clearing where they’d parked the R8, and he wondered what it meant.

  Has someone turned up to take the Caterpillar and start work? No, that’s ridiculous.

  Suddenly, night turned to day as the headlamps blazed from the monstrous machine, highlighting him in their dazzling glare. The earthmover started moving toward him, and it wasn’t a construction worker in the driving seat. The shooter had decided against a game of hide-and-seek through the woods and was coming to finish him, in a machine against which he had no defense.

  He ran back into the cover of the trees. The engine noise deepened as the driver applied more power, and it accelerated. It reached the first of the trees, and the dozer blade lowered, hitting the first of the small pine trunks like a battering ram. They fell before it, and still the machine came on. He shielded his eyes with his arm to try to get a clear shot at the driver, but the thick steel blade obscured his view. And the machine kept coming, faster than he could run, tearing away the pine forest as if it were made of papier-mache. He swerved away in a different direction, away from the glare of the headlamps, and tripped on a thick cluster of tree roots. He lay still and hugged the ground in the hope the shooter hadn’t seen his fall.

  The machine came nearer, straight toward him. He’d been spotted. Then it stopped yards away, looming over him, like a huge, predatory monster. Primeval, dark, a threatening creature from the worst nightmares of man, and he looked up. The engine ticked over, a dull, heavy throb, and the shooter had stepped from the cab. He was listening, ear cocked to one side, surveying the forest and sniffing the air for a scent of his prey.

  And then he heard it. “Cris, where are you?”

  Maria’s voice, she’d ignored his order and come out to find him. Maybe with some notion of helping him, and he cursed her stupidity. He had no choice but to give away his position. “Maria, don’t come any nearer. He’s here!”

  Too late, the shooter disappeared inside the cab, and the engine roared as it started to move, heading toward the place she’d shouted from. But now he had a chance, the huge lights no longer had him fixed him in their beams, and he ran. The earthmover was picking up speed, and he found a well-trodden track that allowed him to break into a run. He found her in a small clearing, looking around wildly.

  “Cris! I was worried about you. I thought something had happened. What’s that noise?”

  “It’s him. He’s coming. Run!”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her into action. They raced through the trees, and after the first hundred yards, he thought they might get away. The Caterpillar had been forced to take a longer route to avoid bigger, thicker trees impossible for it to smash through. Then they stopped next to a huge, fallen tree. They’d come to the shore of the lake, next to a boat hire depot. Behind them, the earthmover has stopped moving again, but the engine was still running.

  He looked around, searching for anything, any way to escape, but came up with nothing. He had a single option, and he took it. He pushed her into a deep hollow beneath the fallen tree and walked toward the Caterpillar. Glock in one hand, Remington in the other, and his face had settled in hard, cruel lines. His mind shifted back in time. He recalled the events in Colombia. Faced with Luis Gutierrez and his narco soldiers, their depraved minds filled with brutality and hard drugs, uncaring of civilian casualties.

  On that occasion, he’d surrendered himself over to the savagery of the fight, and gunned down every narco who came into his sights. It was afterward, when the full extent of the casualties became clear, he saw things more clearly. The line of young bodies lying in a row outside the school, and he made a vow never to let it happen again. One of his DEA buddies chided him for his attitude when he turned in his badge and gun.

  “You don’t carry a gun with you, Cris, sooner or later someone will try to put a bullet in you, and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop them. You’ll be dead.”

  He’d nodded, without making a reply.

  There are worse things than death. I’ve seen them.

  He still felt sick to the stomach, reliving that terrible time. Knowing he had no choice but to return to the animal savagery of that desperate battle.

  If I’m to kill bring about the death of this insane psycho who won’t give up, I must become death. There’s no other way.

  A bitter fury came over him, and he walked forward, sniping single shots at the cab of the Caterpillar. Although he starred the glass in the windshield, he hadn’t hit the target. A shot cracked out from a rifle. The shooter had changed tactics and meant to take them out from a range he couldn’t get close to without taking a bullet.

  The shooting stopped, and the earthmover was moving again, and this time in the direction of Maria’s hiding place. He had to divert it, and he raced into the glare of the headlamps to attract his attention, firing as he ran. The earthmover stopped. He saw the shooter climb from the cab, holding the rifle, and it swiveled toward him. He ran, sprinting through the undergrowth, made a few yards closer, and emptied the pistol into the dark target. This time he scored two hits, seeing the man flinch as each bullet struck, but incredibly, he didn’t go down. He struggled to get back inside the cab, where he sat in the driving seat and poked the barrel of the rifle out to line up a shot.

  The first bullets peppered the ground around him, and he had to twist away behind cover. His mind was filled with rage, with a killing rage.

  No matter what I do, the bastard refuses to die. If I’m going to do it, I’ll have to do something different.

  His eyes rested on the boatyard. A rack of three outboard motors, and next to it, a five-gallon steel drum. He hung the Remington over his shoulders by the sling, ran to scoop it up, and raced back toward the earthmover. The monster was moving again toward Maria’s hiding place. As if he was following her scent, until he got close enough to do what he’d come there to do. He found a place to wait adjacent to the path of the giant machine and crouched, clutching the drum of gas.

  The shooter didn’t see him, and as the machine came alongside him, he leapt for the deck. He almost missed the grab, holding the heavy can of gas in one hand. With a massive heave, he pulled himself up and lay flat on the deck. So far, the shooter hadn’t seen him. Maria was less than twenty yards away, and time had run out.

  Either I do it now, or she’ll die!

  He jumped up, ran to the cab, and tossed the open can of gas inside. The shooter looked up and grabbed for the rifle lying at his side.

  Cris didn’t even try to hit him with buckshot. He aimed at the gas can and pulled the trigger, twisted around, and jumped. He fell heavily, and his ankle broke with an audible snap. He looked up in time to see the shooter desperately trying to extract himself from the cab, the flames licking around him. He fought and struggled as the burning gas took hold. He almost made it out, using his incredible strength to keep fighting when lesser men would have succumbed.

  The flames grew higher, and then the gas remaining inside the can exploded. The cab became a white-hot fury, so it was almost impossible to see the shooter. Then he saw him, and incredibly, with a final effort of will, he’d made it out, but he was burning like a torch. He writhed in agony, throwing himself to the ground close to where Cris lay. He stared at his tormentor as he burned, his eyes mere slits, almost closed against the heat of the blaze engulfing him.

  He gripped the stock of the Remington, still with four shells loaded. He got as close as he could, staying outside the reach of the burning man, and took aim at his head.

  “No!”

  He turned. Detective Mason was walking toward him, gun out, and aimed at him. Next to him, a uniformed officer carried an M-16, and his grim expression looked like he was waiting for an excuse to use it.

  “Don’t kill him!” the cop shouted. “Drop the scattergun and step back.”

  He obeyed; not certain of his motives to take the shot. To kill him, blast his head open at close range with the shotgun? Or to relieve the terrible agony he must be suffering. He was making strange, howling noises, an animal in terrible pain, and it would have been the humane thing to do. Not a random act of taking a man’s life, but a mercy.

  He dropped the gun, and a moment later, Maria emerged from the darkness and stood beside him. She put her arm through his and pressed in close to his body.

  “Is it over?”

  “Almost.”

  The two cops approached, and all four looked down at the body. Barely alive, he was crawling toward the lake, as if simply dunking himself in water could repair the massive damage caused by the conflagration. Mason shouted at him to stay still, but he ignored him and crawled on. The cop looked at him, confused.

  “What do I do, Detective? You want me to put a bullet in him?”

  After a long hesitation, he shook his head. “He’s already dead. It’s just a question of him taking his last breath. If he wants to crawl away, let him.”

  They watched his slow, agonized movements, and the stink of burning flesh was a sweet stench, like the odor of burning pork. The shooter reached the lake, and with the last reserves of his strength, crawled into the water. Steam rose as the water quenched the flames, and he twisted onto his back. Then he was still, and his eyes stared up at the sky. As he floated away and began to sink, Mason shouted over to Stewart, “Get onto the radio and call in the divers to recover the body.”

  Cris looked at Maria. “Now it’s over.” He said to Mason, “I don’t reckon you need us for anything here, Detective.”

  Their eyes met, and his lips crinkled, almost as if he was trying to smile. He got the impression it had been a long, long time since Mason had smiled. “I reckon not.”

  They started walking away, but the cop called after them. “Rhodes!”

  They stopped. “What is it?”

  “That car. The owner will want it back.”

  “Sure.”

  They carried on walking, and she looked up at him. “Cris, the shooter. We never knew who he was. His name, where he came from, nothing.”

  “No. We’ll never know.”

  “We can go back to my hotel now?”

  “Yes.”

  She gripped his arm even tighter. “Cris, I just want to say again how sorry I am at dragging you into this. You know, being forced to kill him, after what you’d been through.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I was wrong about things, Maria. Guns have a place. Like stopping madmen who are trying to kill you.”

  “I’m glad you’re with me.”

  He thought about that. “Me, too.”

  * * *

  The President was writing at his desk when the guard announced his arrival. “Colonel Morozov, Mr. President.”

  He looked up, his face twisted into the familiar sour smile. Eyes like Arctic glaciers.

  “Well, Colonel, is she dead?”

  “Not yet, Sir. I can explain everything. I was about to…”

  The President held up a hand. “Stop. I don’t wish to hear it.” He looked past Morozov to the two guards, hovering expectantly behind him. “Take this fool away. If he wants to explain, he can talk to the trees while he is on vacation.”