No. I don’t want to be distracted.

  Let’s get this over with.

  Eye for an eye.

  So far, nothing. I adjust my seat on the metal bench. Check my phone. It’s a department-issued satellite phone, so I have reception. No texts. Wife does not know I’m out here. No one does. They don’t need to know. This is between me and the killer whale. Okay, maybe my wife should know. Maybe I will tell her later. For now, she can think I am patrolling the state parks of Alaska. Little does she know I’m patrolling the oceans looking for a very different kind of killer.

  Orcas are typically twenty to thirty feet long. They are apex predators with no known enemies. Though their blubbery flesh insulates from the cold, it’s not thick enough or expansive enough to have caught the attention of fisherman. They aren’t, in fact, whales. They are part of the dolphin family.

  Growing up in Alaska, I have seen Eskimos hunt them occasionally, though with lots of pushback from environmental groups. Orcas, after all, are smart. Some even think they’re beautiful. I think they’re dumb and ugly.

  Well, I do now.

  Previously, I had no real opinion of them.

  The sandwich was good. My stomach works on digesting it. I drink a little more water, reach into the cooler and haul out a Miller Lite. I crack it open, the sound muted by the wind. I drink half before pulling away and belch a few seconds later. I didn’t drink much a year ago. Now, I drink often and copiously. Not proud of it. It is what it is.

  I sit, wait, and think about another beer and sandwich while watching a seabird flap low to the surface of the water for damn near ten miles, racing along like a hovercraft. I admire its fortitude, its endurance. Where is it going? Why fly so low to the water? Did it enjoy seeing its own reflection? Certainly, it flew too fast to spot a fish. Didn’t the water create drag? Or was it unable to fly higher? Did flying close to the ocean’s surface comfort it, somehow?

  So many questions, so few answers.

  Does anyone truly know?

  I sit and wait and feel the sun overhead. Mostly, I feel the wind. The sky is blue, with a smattering of white clouds. To the north, a stack of gray clouds sits on the horizon. Probably a storm, but they are too far away to matter.

  I’ve never killed a whale, killer whale, or dolphin. I grew up near an Inuit village. When I was young, I watched one of their hunters shoot an orca from a rocky point, with ocean waves splashing around him. He stood there like a scene straight out of a movie, rifle up on his shoulder, oblivious of the water spray. The orca ventured too close. He and some others dashed to their kayaks, and within a short time, dragged the dead creature to shore. My friends and I raced to the beach, where the men were already butchering the orca in the shallow water, where they had a much easier time rolling it around. I remember seeing its head discarded to the side. It hadn’t seemed real. The blood in the water seemed more so.

  The Inuit hunt them somewhat frequently, racing alongside them in speedboats.

  I plan to do the same, except I don’t have a speedboat.

  Just a little fishing boat with a decent-sized engine.

  Good enough.

  Oh, and I won’t butcher it. No, I will let it sink or float. I will leave it for the sharks or seabirds. Yes, there are even great whites up here, especially this time of year.

  The second sandwich does a better job of filling me up. I drain the second Miller Lite in five big gulps. Once down, I toss the empty baggie and can in the cooler, snap it shut.

  Now, I’m back to sitting, waiting, and occasionally belching.

  Ten minutes later, I see the first spray of water. It isn’t huge, just five or six feet of mist above the ocean’s surface. But there it is.

  Another spray.

  And another.

  They’re coming my way.

  I stand―and damn near capsize. Luckily, my guns are secured in place. It is indeed a pod of killer whales, the black and white markings unmistakable.

  “Wow, okay. Calm down. Relax.”

  I need to identify the black and white devil. It occurs to me, as the creatures move closer—and as I catch only glimpses of their sleek bodies—that this may not be as easy as I thought. Hard enough just to see them, let alone make out their distinctive saddle marks.

  I know this pod—if it is indeed the right pod—consists of twelve members. And traveling pods can span miles apart. Indeed, I count only six distinctive water sprays. Only half the pod.

  Still, the creature that killed Julien could be one of them. In fact, there is a high probability of it.

  After a moment or two, they veer off to my right and I see the starboard side of one of the orcas. It’s not my target, but I recognize the swooping splash of gray behind its dorsal fin. That would be Kandi-18, a three-year-old female.

  It’s the right pod.

  Kimko-21 is nearby.

  I start the engine, turn the boat in the direction of the pod, and gun the throttle...

  Chapter Four

  The sea roils with their approach.

  Plumes of white spray explode from a half dozen blowholes, the mist drifting in the westerly wind. Dorsal fins cut seawater like obsidian knives.

  Damn big dorsal fins.

  But I don’t care about their size, or their menacing black and white patterns, even as the surface vibrates with the energy of their passing. They pay me little mind, diving and surfacing, moving languidly but purposefully. I reach down between my knees and remove my favorite high-powered rifle, the Springfield .30-06. A rifle seemingly made for me.

  I’m racing at damn near full throttle. Shining beasts surface on either side of my boat, closer than I expect. Perhaps they don’t see me as a threat. They should. Well, at least one of them should.

  Each orca looks identical to my untrained eye except for the saddle patch behind the dorsal fin. The one I seek is swooped like the Nike logo, but with a slash of black in it. I know Kimko-21 is the only killer whale with such a black slash, at least in this pod. The others all have full gray splotches behind their dorsals.

  I sweep my head from side to side and finally spot the saddle mark on the creature to my left. It’s a big, amorphous swatch tapering down to a point. That would be Kenri-11. I turn to the right as another orca crests. A smaller splash of gray, narrower too. I know her: Kesi-24. Another killer surfaces next to it. A rounded design. I don’t recall the name off-hand, but it’s not the marking I seek. To my left, another whale surfaces, and still another. Koti-15 and Kemi-8. Neither are my target.

  They all dive under again, and I am left alone in the churning wake of massive, living, intelligent, powerful, nearly unstoppable creatures.

  My little motor’s already at full bore, but the killer whales pull far ahead of me.

  Truth be told, I’m lucky the whales didn’t capsize my little boat, considering each one of them is longer than it.

  But I chose this place for a reason; indeed, this spot gained the attention of Elaine and her colleagues, a known feeding ground. Indeed, I am lucky to be the only one here. No scientists getting in the way of my mission. However, it might not be long before whale watching boats and researchers show up.

  I check my GPS and angle toward where I think the whales are heading. As I turn the rudder and ease back on the throttle, an erect dorsal breaks the surface a hundred yards to my left, near a massive ice floe. A straggler, perhaps. It’s clearly tailing the pod from behind, either as rear guard, or because of old age. Then again, what do I know?

  Most curious is the massive length of the fins, clearly bigger than others.

  I angle the motorboat towards the fin and ice, noting the orca seems to be following the curve of the floe.

  It dives and surfaces, water spraying from its blowhole. I’m too far away to make out the saddle marking behind its fin. I goose the throttle. Water spray stings my eyes. I bounce with my boat, one hand on the rudder control, the other holding my rifle. Killer whale and I seem to be converging near the east side of the ice floe, the side closest to me. I have to be careful not to slam into the floating shelf.

  Closer, closer...

  The surface breaks before me, and a massive head appears on my port side. I see a white eye patch. The eye itself is under the patch, seemingly hidden within the ink black skin. The orca arcs higher out of the water, blowing out a mighty jet of water that instantly drifts towards me. As if it meant to get me wet. Its dorsal fin rises majestically into the air... and just behind it is a swooping gray design...

  With a black dagger silhouette.

  Kimko-21.

  Chapter Five

  I steer towards the lone orca, bouncing over the swells.

  My best guess is it’s going to dive under the expansive ice floe. The reason for its course becomes apparent as I get closer to the massive ice shelf. A handful of seals bask in the negligible heat of the morning sun. Some frolic in the water. Kimko-21 is on the hunt.

  Had the beast actually eaten my son? God, the thought is too terrible to contemplate, but its mere possibility is enough to fuel the hate.

  The water is choppy, partially due to the passing pod’s wake. I bounce and equal parts glide over the surface, my little vessel seemingly made for these conditions. The twenty-horsepower motor is enough to help close the gap between the ice floe and the approaching orca.

  I often wonder if something within me has snapped from grief. Maybe so. Then again, I don’t feel like I’ve snapped. Seeking revenge on a fish seemed... logical somehow. At least to me. Why wouldn’t I want to protect the ocean from this menace? Why should others suffer as my wife and I had suffered? Worse, as Julien had suffered?

  No one should, certainly not at the hands of an overgrown fish.

  A small wave rocks my craft hard enough to knock me to the side. I clutch the Springfield to my chest, for an instant thinking I’d have to choose between losing it or capsizing Fortunately, I recover without going headfirst into the ocean or losing my weapon.

  Once I’ve got the boat stabilized, I hoist my rifle to my shoulder and search for the target of my rage. There, thirty yards ahead. The creature has reached the ice floe well before me... but for some reason hasn’t decided to disappear under it.

  “Stupid fish.”

  The last of the seals return to the ice, scooting clumsily. My little engine is making a big racket. To think I have denied Kimko-21 a final meal gives me no pleasure. Okay, maybe a little.

  The black and white beast surfaces, perhaps confused or irritated to see his dinner flee for the ice. It glides over the surface, pushing water before it, its saddle mark clear as day, and I can hardly believe my luck.

  Closing one eye, I take careful aim...

  A resounding clang shakes the boat. I pitch forward into the second bench in front of me. As pain erupts in my head, I wonder if my weapon exploded. I sit back. No, the gun didn’t discharge; in fact, it’s wedged between my cooler and the rusty harpoon. Blood runs between my eyes, down my nose, dripping to my chin and into my mouth. I’ve hit my head.

  I take stock. The craft is sitting at an odd angle, bow pointed slightly toward the sky. It’s propped up against a smaller ice floe nearly hidden in the choppy sea. I should have seen... except I had been focused on the big killer whale, which, at present, has vanished.

  “Shit!”

  I examine the skiff. Thankfully, no sign of leakage, so I next focus on freeing the boat. I throttle down the motor. All it’s doing is pushing the boat higher up the ice. The instant I kill the engine, the craft begins to slide off the miniature iceberg and settle evenly on its keel. There’s probably some damage, but nothing I’ll have to explain to the wife—if she even notices.

  Trying not to capsize, I retrieve the wedged rifle and stand. No sign of Kimko or any of the other killer whales. The seals have clustered at the center of the giant slab of ice. Smart creatures.

  The rifle seems okay, though the scope might be off a bit. Hopefully not. Need the scope to sight the blowhole. I still have my second rifle. But will I have another chance to isolate the big whale... a killer in every sense of the name?

  No way to know. But there are seals here, and surely I am seen as an oddity, and not a threat. Killer whales are used to boats. They have to be. Whale watching tours line the nearby coastal cities.

  Meaning, I don’t think I scared him off.

  I spot two fins and plumes of spray adrift near the ice floe. Both dorsal fins are far too small to be my target. I keep looking. Kimko must be navigating under the ice shelf, perhaps looking for a stray seal. Or perhaps hiding from me. Doesn’t make sense he’d sense me as a threat, but it also doesn’t make sense how he killed Julien.

  I lay my rifle over my lap, grab the throttle, goose it... and move along the edge of the ice shelf, searching for a telltale plume or fleeting underwater shadow. My hull might be damaged; it’s at least dented. Little aluminum fishing boats are far from indestructible. I’ve been using boats for a damn long time. I know better than to not pay attention, especially along a bigger ice floe. Broken offshoots often litter the big masses. What an amateur move, getting myself tied up on the ice. Hell, I could have sunk my boat. Then what? I’d be on the ice shelf with the seals, frantically calling the station... that is, if I hadn’t lost the satellite phone.

  Got to slow down and think clearly. Then again, how does one ‘slow down’ and hunt for an orca, a fish that can damn well swim thirty miles per hour?

  No one said it was going to be easy.

  Damn, I had it in my sights.

  Stupid ice.

  I throttle my boat as much as I dare; got to be smart out here. Can’t be reckless.

  He’s out here, somewhere.

  I take a deep breath, calm down... and wait.

  And try to ignore the small amount of water in the craft, damn near where I had hit the ice.

  Shit.

  Chapter Six

  Orcas are smart, and this one is no exception. I’ll have to out-think Kimko-21 or wait another year to rid the ocean of him. Another year without my son or the satisfaction of seeing his killer brought to ‘justice.’

  I find myself hating the name Kimko-21.

  I decide to call it Kimko. Just Kimko.

  In a way, it helps it sound less formidable, less like an exotic element or some kind of weapon.

  Just Kimko.

  As I sit and wait, I find myself nodding at my thoughts. That’s why I’m out here, right? I need justice. I take a moment to decide whether I’m okay with how I’m feeling about what I’m doing—stupid or not—and decide I am. There’s just no way I’m going to allow some fucking fish to get away with killing my only boy. Had it been the other way around, I’m certain Julien would’ve done the same for me. He would have avenged his old man for sure. I had raised a fine young man.

  Memories of my past creep from my subconscious. My son’s first steps. His first words. The way he loved spaghetti as a toddler and how he ended up wearing more than what made it into his little mouth.

  I recall his first girlfriend, Holly. And, consequently, the first time he had his heart broken. He thought it was the end of the world. “Every man goes through this,” I’d told him, sitting on the end of his bed as he’d cried into his pillow. “I wish I could say it gets easier, but that’d be a lie. This is just how love works, kid.”

  I wipe a tear from my eye, feeling more determined than ever. This killer whale had killed a human, someone who had a future other than swimming around in the ocean eating things and leaving clouds of shit behind. My son helped people. He had friends and a new girlfriend. A sweet young lady I haven’t spoken to since his death.

  Familiar guilt washes over me. I’d meant to call her, catch up on how she was doing, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I heard my wife talking to her once in a while, especially late at night. I’d listen, but pretend like I wasn’t interested. The memories of them together were still too fresh. Her smile had been bright. Julien loved her, and I couldn’t stand it.

  A spray of water brings me back to the present. Oh, my God. There he is, directly in front of the boat—forty yards away at the most. I can’t miss from this distance. Kimko isn’t going to get two shots. I’m going to unload on him—no more chances.

  I raise the rifle to my shoulder, not bothering to use the scope, as I’m pretty sure it got knocked offline. I hold for the shot... gotcha, you son-of-a-bitch... and squeeze the trigger.

  Or try to.

  Nothing happens. Shit.

  The creature finishes its arc and seems about to dive. Panic rips through me.

  Of course, the safety is still on. Fixed. Quick aim. Squeeze the trigger. My shot rings out. Deafening. The smell of cordite fills my nostrils. The recoil causes me to rock back into the engine. No reaction from the monster. I think I missed it. Amazingly, it doesn’t dive... almost seems to hover there, presenting me with a good view of its massive port side, big as a bus. Well, a short bus.

  Taunting me?

  I aim again just as something white appears before me. Damn! I’d drifted behind the ice shelf. Worse, I’m rapidly approaching it. Wham! The bow pitches hard up into the air. I reflexively ditch the rifle to the floor and throw both hands up to stop my face from impacting the bench again, saving my teeth in the process.

  I open my eyes, watching in abject horror as my rifle teeters on the gunwale for a moment as if to say goodbye. Then it falls over the side—the wrong side. I scramble forward and stare helplessly as a damn near perfect weapon begins its journey down a thousand or more feet to the bottom of the ocean.

  I still have another rifle, and the orca is still close enough to shoot. It’s following the curve of the ice floe, moving lazily toward me as if intrigued by the funny human. We’ll see how funny I am in a few seconds. Dashing for the bag—and ignoring the sound of grinding coming from the ship’s hull—I yank the .308 rifle from the case, switch the safety off, take aim through the scope, and pull the trigger. No sign of a hit, nor even a splash. My shot must have gone way wide. Damn. What is wrong with me?