Chapter 13- Hunt X Moving in

ALEXANDER

I drive into the Jaeger hunting grounds.

The road is unpaved. Gravel crunches under my tires. Trees line both sides—tall, dark, thick with shadow. The GPS doesn't work out here. No signal. No cameras. No witnesses. That's the point.

I reach the cabin. It's an old hunting lodge, massive and sprawling, built from dark timber and stone. The windows glow with warm light. Several cars are parked out front. I see Dean's black Audi R8. Of course he's here on time. He's the one who introduced me to this way of life after all.

I kill the engine. Step out. The air is cold. Clean. It smells like pine and earth and something metallic underneath.

Jax is unloading hunting gear from a truck. He's a big man—former military, built like a tank. He sees me and nods.

"Morreti. Good to see you."

"Jax."

He sets a case down. Wipes his hands on his jeans. "Today's going to be fun. We have three to hunt. Dean will give you the details. He's inside talking to the Chairman."

Three. Good. Three is enough.

I head inside.

The cabin smells like gunpowder and iron. Men line the walls—some cleaning their guns, others sharpening blades. A few are checking their crossbows. The weapons are varied—Remington 870 shotguns, Colt AR-15s, custom hunting rifles. Crossbows. Axes. Knives.

I walk past a group of men talking in low voices.

"—she killed three children. Three. Drowned them in her own bathtub. Got off on an insanity plea."

"Fucking unbelievable."

"And the man? The one with the trafficking ring?"

"Twenty-two victims. All under sixteen. His lawyers got the charges dropped."

"Now he's ours."

I keep walking.

I reach the back room. Dean is leaning against a table, talking to the Chairman. He sees me and grins.

"It took you long enough to get here. It's 9:43. We start by 10."

The Chairman is an older man. Gray hair. Sharp eyes. He's been running the Jaeger for thirty years. He's killed more monsters than anyone in this room. He offers me a drink.

I shake my head. "I'd rather do my killing with a clear head."

The Chairman laughs. "Unlike this mad man here." He gestures to Dean. "He's apparently halved a bottle of Macallan 18."

Dean shrugs. "I'm at my element when I have alcohol in my system."

Idiot.

I pull up a chair. Sit down. "Who are we hunting today?"

The Chairman slides a folder across the table. I open it.

First target: Harold Kain. Age 54. CEO of a pharmaceutical company. He knowingly sold contaminated insulin. Fourteen people died. Children. He paid off the regulators. Walked free. Brought in by a father who lost his daughter.

Second target: Maria Valez. Age 38. Trafficker. She ran a ring that smuggled young girls across the border. Sold them to the highest bidder. She was convicted but escaped on a technicality. Brought in by a survivor.

Third target: Daniel Reeves. Age 47. Former military contractor. He sold secrets to a foreign government. The leak got three American soldiers killed. Their families never got justice. Brought in by a general whose son was one of the dead.

Dean leans over. "Too bad the woman has to die."

I look at him. "Shut up."

He raises his hands. "Just saying. She's pretty. In a dangerous sort of way."

"Dean."

"Okay. Okay. Shutting up."

The Chairman stands. "Everyone to the field. We start in ten. Bring out the prey."

The men begin to move. Gathering weapons. Checking equipment. Dean gets up and pulls on his hunting gear. He grabs a sledgehammer, a hunting knife, and a crossbow.

"Interesting choice," I say.

He smirks. "I like to be versatile."

I put on my own gear. Black tactical pants. A combat vest. I choose my weapons—a Benelli M4 shotgun and a custom tactical tomahawk. Both are familiar in my hands. Both have been used before.

We head outside.

The field stretches out before us. Vast. Open. The forest lies beyond. Dark and endless. Three figures are being led to the tree line. Their hands are bound. Their faces are covered with sacks. They don't know where they are. They don't know what's coming.

Dean stands beside me. He's practically vibrating with energy.

"Ten minutes," the Chairman calls out. "Then we hunt."

I watch the prey disappear into the trees. The sacks come off. They start running.

I grip my shotgun. The weight is reassuring. Solid. Real.

This is the only place I feel alive. The only place where the suffocation lifts. Where I'm not the heir. Not the disappointment. Not the man trapped in a gilded cage.

Here, I'm the hunter.

I check my watch. 9:58. Two minutes.

Dean grins. "Ready?"

I don't answer.

I'm already gone.

— — —

MIA

The driver takes me to the penthouse.

The Range Rover pulls into the underground parking lot. The same one from that night. The same cars—Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche. My arm still stings from where the doctor drew blood. The clinic was cold. Sterile. They ran tests I didn't understand and asked questions I didn't want to answer.

I reach the elevator. The housekeeper is there. The elderly woman from that night. She's holding a keycard. It's black with a stylized silver "MS" on it.

She hands it to me with a little bow. "The master requested you have this. It activates the elevator and your private floor access."

Private floor access. Of course.

"Thank you," I say.

She nods. "I'm here to take you to your room. Please follow me."

I take the keycard. Unlock the elevator. We step inside. The doors close.

The ride up takes forever. The silence is heavy. The housekeeper doesn't speak. Neither do I.

The doors open.

The penthouse is the same. Massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled out below. The furniture is sleek. Cold. Expensive.

The housekeeper walks ahead. I follow. Dragging my suitcase of books behind me. The wheels click against the marble floor.

She stops at a door. The far end of the hallway.

"This is your room," she says.

I look at the door. I know this door. I've been through this door before.

Holy fuck.

Of all the rooms in this penthouse, he chose to put me in this one. The one where I had my one-night stand with him. The one where he took me apart. The one where I screamed his name—well, I didn't know his name then. But still.

This is confirmation. He's the devil.

I don't realize I've stopped at the entrance until the housekeeper calls my attention.

"Miss Scofield?"

I blink. "Sorry. I'm coming."

She leads me inside. The room is exactly as I remember. The massive bed with white sheets. The velvet chaise lounge. The vanity with the gold-framed mirror. The view of the city.

She explains where everything is. "The closet is fully stocked. The bathroom is through there. Toiletries are in the cabinet. There's an intercom if you need assistance. Just press the button."

I nod. "Where is he?"

"Master Alexander isn't back yet. He'll return soon." She pauses. "He requested that you take a bath and rest. I'll bring your dinner to your room."

She disappears before I can respond.

I stand there. Alone.

I open the closet.

Designer clothes. Rows and rows of them. Dresses. Blouses. Jeans. Skirts. All in my size. All with tags still attached. Saint Laurent. Gucci. Prada. Chanel.

I open a drawer. Lingerie. Silk. Lace. La Perla. Agent Provocateur. Expensive. Delicate. Intimate.

Wow. He went overboard.

I walk to the vanity. So much makeup. La Mer. Charlotte Tilbury. Tom Ford. I don't even know how to apply half of it.

I spot a bag on the nightstand. I walk over. Open it.

A new phone. The latest iPhone. Still in the box.

This is too much.

But then I remember—he's not doing this for me. He's doing this to keep our facade foolproof. The clothes. The phone. The room. It's all part of the contract.

I turn the phone on. It says "Welcome."

I sit on the bed.

The memories hit me like a punch to the gut.

This bed. The very bed where he made me forget. Where he took me apart and put me back together. Where I felt something for the first time in years.

I lie down. My toes curl just from the memories. Goosebumps follow. My body remembers everything. His hands. His mouth. His weight on top of me.

This is going to be a very long year.