Trackers Page 2

  The scene shifted quickly to something behind some bushes. As the camera approached, Amy could see it was one of those phone booths the man had described. It had glass walls, but appeared to be rather sturdy. Outside, a knot of men tried unsuccessfully to get in. Inside, a naked woman, sweating, scratched and panting hard, watched them.

  “Once inside the booth, the woman is safe from the men. It locks automatically, only I have the key. I will be following with a bloodhound that will be tracking your scent. He will be on a leash, so you don’t have to worry about being run down by dogs.”

  The scene showed a man wearing a bushman’s jacket and a Lone Ranger mask parting the men, then turning to talk to them, telling them the game was over. The men cursed and pushed each other in frustration. Amy imagined that was the man on the intercom. She wondered if the men ever overpowered him and had their way with a girl, even if she had won.

  As if reading her mind, the voice came again. “You don’t have to worry about the men violating their agreement because they’ve pledged a considerable sum of money to participate. They may complain for a while, but I make sure they honor their word.”

  The video shifted again and Amy was looking at the woman from the phone booth, now dressed, accepting an envelope full of money. She was smiling. The camera panned in for a close-up to see her thumbing through several hundred-dollar bills. Later, that same woman was seen being led blindfolded from a van. Two men seated her on a park bench and left. The camera followed the men into the van and shot out the window back toward the woman. She was pulling off the blindfold as the van sped away.

  Amy wondered if that entire scene had been faked. It easily could have been.

  The last shot was of a map of the property. The hunting camp was roughly square, with the lodge placed just north of middle, she noticed. That meant it was a shorter distance to the north fence. The safety booths weren’t marked, of course, but she wondered where they might be and how long she’d have to find them before the hunters closed in.

  “The fence is slightly electrified, to prevent prey from climbing it. You wouldn’t be killed, but you might be dazed, which would result in your immediate capture. You’ll also notice the road to the lodge connects to the west side of the property. I can tell you that there are no booths in the area near the road. That’s the only hint I will give you.”

  Chapter Four

  Amy ate her dinner in silence, trying to figure out a way to escape before dawn. If she had a piece of metal, she might be able to jimmy the door. If she had a comb or a brush, she might be able to fashion a weapon.

  She sighed. Hell, she might as well wish for a cell phone, so she could call the police. The room was devoid of anything she might use.

  She looked at the plastic spoon he had given her. Hardly an effective weapon. The man who had brought the dinner was indeed the Bushman. He wore the same vest and Lone Ranger mask as in the video. He spoke only a few words to her, but she recognized the voice.

  Amy was angry at herself for begging the man to release her, promising not to file charges if he would just let her go. Her words had fallen on deaf ears.

  Now she sat, wrapped in her sheet, eating a TV dinner from a plastic plate, trying desperately to figure out how to survive this experience. The idea of men chasing her down terrified her.

  A distant memory surfaced: A girls’ camp, many years ago. She was 13 or 14, in the first blush of developing womanhood, experiencing a lot of strange new feelings. The girls decided to play a game, truth or dare. She had accepted their challenge and was asked some embarrassing question she was afraid to answer, so she chose “dare.”

  Susan—that was her name. Susan had organized the game. The counselors had gone to bed, leaving the girls alone in their tents. Susan came up with the dare for Amy—she would have to run naked from their tent to the latrine and back. To prove she had been there, she was to bring a handful of toilet paper back with her.

  Amy hadn’t wanted to do it. She refused at first and was hooted down by the other girls. “You picked! You chose dare!” They squealed. She said she wouldn’t let them see her naked, no matter what the game was. So they agreed to stay in the tent and not look. To ensure she ran naked, she had to agree to let one girl go outside with her to collect her clothes. She would hold her hand over her eyes and Amy would drape her clothes over her arm.

  “Just bring back the toilet paper and we’ll believe you,” Susan had said.

  The challenge, which was designed to be humiliating, had excited Amy far more than she let on. But then that had been a child’s game, whereas this new game was so much more than that.

  Anyway, the latrine had been about a hundred yards from their tent—an easy jog, she’d figured. Being naked had been beyond naughty. It had made her tingle inside in a way she’d never felt before. But again, these circumstances were different than those.

  Amy had gone outside with Diane, a friend she could trust. They walked down the path a short distance, then stood behind a tree. Diane, true to her word, put one arm out and closed her eyes, clasping the other hand over them to ensure she wouldn’t peak. Amy had quickly stripped off her shorts and tee-shirt.

  “The bra and panties, too,” Diane had said, feeling the garments Amy had given her. Reluctantly, Amy had complied. She had already been barefoot.

  “Okay—go!” Diane said, dropping her hand from her eyes and looking boldly at the naked girl.

  Amy gasped and took off running, trying to get away from the girl’s gaze. Cheater! You peeked! She ran like the wind toward the latrine, which sat away from the tents so the smell wouldn’t bother anyone. Amy felt free and open as she ran. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She was practically giddy.

  She approached the latrine and was about to go inside when she heard a toilet flush! Oh my god! She had forgotten that it easily could have been in use! Somehow, she had assumed, because it was so late, that no one would be there.

  Quickly, she ducked down around the side of the structure, breathing hard. Her nipples hardened in the night air. She had odd feelings in her groin—like she had an itch between her legs. As she squatted there, waiting for the person to leave, she reached down and touched herself.

  God! She was so wet! How did this happen? Why? She jerked her hand away as she heard the door open. She peered around the corner and watched as one of the counselors walked away toward their tent, her back to Amy. That was close!

  Amy waited a few minutes, her ears straining to pick up any other noises from the latrine. There was silence.

  With a sudden boldness, she ran around the corner and threw open the door. Thankfully, the structure was empty. She grabbed a handful of toilet paper from the nearest stall and bolted out the door and down the path.

  She felt liberated! She had done it! Amy jogged back like a victorious knight returning from battle. When she approached the tent, she was not surprised—nor disappointed—to see all the girls outside, waiting for her.

  She waved the toilet paper in her hand as they hooted and jeered. Amy didn’t care. She’d never felt so alive as on that night. It was as if she had passed through a barrier into adulthood. She quickly snatched her clothes from Diane and ran inside to put them on.

  The girls considered her a hero after that night. Not only did she successfully complete her dare, but she seemed unconcerned about her nakedness. Many of the other girls still hadn’t made that transition and they admired Amy’s bravery.

  Now, sitting in the stark room, Amy considered the parallels. This was just like that night in camp, all over again. If that counselor had caught her, it would have been very embarrassing. But she had escaped and it made her stronger, bolder. She was determined to escape again.

  Later, when she went to bed, she felt that same itch she had experienced as a young teen. Amy reached down and touched herself. Her clit was aroused, her labia wet.

  But she knew that the stakes were different this time. Very different indeed.

  Chapter
Five

  The next morning, Amy was up before she was called, stretching out her leg muscles. She felt exposed and imagined the man was getting an eyeful through the camera, but she no longer cared. She was angry—and she was in this to win. She’d show those bastards.

  At 7 a.m., the door opened and the man she thought of as Bushman walked in. He was wearing the same bush jacket and mask.

  At his side, in a leather holster, he was carrying a Pistol. That sobered her. Would they just kill her at the end, rather than risk having her as a witness? The erotic thrill of the hunt diminished in the sober light of day.

  She couldn’t help but cover herself with her arms. The man paid no attention. He carried in a tray. She could smell coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon. He set the tray on the table and she jumped on it, devouring the food, slurping the coffee, her shyness forgotten.

  “What shoe size do you wear?” he asked.

  “Seven,” she said from around mouthfuls.

  He left, and returned a few minutes later with a shoebox. Inside were some rather expensive running shoes and a pair of low-cut white socks. “These are yours to keep, regardless of the outcome,” he said. “I will come for you at eight.”

  He left without another word. He didn’t seem to get any thrill from her nakedness. He must be used to it by now, she thought. Or maybe he’s gay. She allowed herself a bit of nervous laughter at that thought. Her bravado was a mask, however. Inside, she quaked with fear.

  * * * * *

  The six men milled around nervously, even a little embarrassed, as if they had been caught peeking into their neighbors’ windows. A few hung out around the coffeemaker set up at one end of the rustic lobby, waiting for the clock to strike eight.

  Roger Bollinger entered, dressed for the hunt. His bushman vest and hat might’ve caused snickers in another setting, but here he seemed aptly dressed. Besides, the gun on his hip dissuaded any jokes. “Just a few more minutes, gentlemen,” he said, then strode to the coffeemaker.

  Andy Reed stepped aside to let the man pour a cup. Of all the men in the room, Andy felt the most out of place. He was pudgy, with dark curly hair that always looked like it needed a wash. He was only here because his friend and business partner, Jake Neely, had practically dragged him along. Jake said he needed to live a little, spend some of his money. God knows, they had plenty.

  Jake and Andy had been friends since high school, which surprised everyone because they were so different. While Andy was the classic nerd, Jake was tall and handsome, with blue eyes that made high school girls a little weak in the knees.

  Growing up in Silicon Valley, Jake lived two doors down from Andy, so they managed to find common ground for their friendship early.

  Jake was impressed by Andy’s grasp of computers and enjoyed going over to play the latest games. Andy’s parents had been hopelessly lost when it came to what their son did, which allowed the boys a great deal of latitude.

  Jake was as outgoing as Andy was shy. How he managed to stay friends with the withdrawn Andy, no one could figure. But Jake saw something in Andy that few bothered to look for: Andy was going to invent something BIG someday. Jake was sure of it. By age fifteen, the boy had seemed to know how everything worked. What would he be like when he was in college?

  “With my salesmanship and your brains, we can go far,” he used to tell him. They jokingly called themselves “The Two Steves” after Jobs and Wozniak, the founders of Apple Computer and kings of Silicon Valley. Jake admired Jobs’ ability to reinvent his company’s products to take advantage of new trends.

  Sure enough, Jake was right. He had followed Andy to Berkeley, where he could keep an eye on his friend. Berkeley was a great place for both boys. Andy had the top-notch computer lab, led by the best instructors, while Jake had the girls and frat parties. Andy got “A’s” and Jake got laid. He was unconcerned about his middling grades. Jake encouraged Andy in his work and looked for commercial possibilities.

  The breakthrough came when both boys were juniors. Andy developed software that doubled the speed of dial-up connections just as the FCC relaxed its rules on signal restrictions that had kept speeds below 53K.

  Jake wisely secured a patent on the invention and formed a small company. Both young men dropped out of school to grow the company. Within six months, the young men were being courted by giants of the industry, all eager to buy out DialSonic Software.

  At first, Jake wanted to keep their company and convinced his reluctant friend to reject the early offers. For Andy, the thrill was in the invention. He was ready to move on to the Next Big Thing. Jake came around quickly—he knew better than to try to hold Andy back.

  They sold DialSonic to Qwest for $45 million—a bargain, no doubt. After paying off their seven employees, Jake and Andy split $36 million. In the eight years since, Jake had nearly doubled his share with additional investments in Andy’s work, plus a few lucrative real estate deals.

  Andy was richer, as he had invested in another company that Jake had taken a pass on and reaped $25 million on a $4 million investment when the company went public.

  Now the young men could indulge themselves with the biggest houses, fastest cars, and the best-looking women around. Andy, still awkward, preferred the company of his computers. Jake was much more the ladies’ man, always searching for the “perfect” woman. It was his idea that they go “on safari” after a naked woman. The idea titillated him no end. Andy was just here to please his friend.

  Across the room, Levon Jackson looked around at his fellow competitors. He was the only African-American man in the room and he liked that. Jackson—no one called him Levon—enjoyed sticking his black head into good ol’ boys clubs like this one. Of course, to call these men competitors was a stretch. In this game, if one won, they all won, for the reward was nearly the same.

  For Jackson, however, winning was everything. Six years in the NFL will do that to a man. He had been a star cornerback for the San Diego Chargers until a knee injury ended his career. After recovering, he switched to business, earning millions for his astute investments.

  Next he targeted hunting. The wall of his den at home was filled with the heads of prize-winning rams, bucks, and bear. Today, he wanted to bring the girl down and he wanted first crack at her, simply because that was the game. No sloppy seconds for him. Let the others wait in line.

  At 44, Jackson felt his life was slipping away, though he worked out regularly. Every year, it got a little harder to hike up to the good hunting sites, or chase down a wounded buck. He was still ruggedly handsome, with smooth dark features under a thinning cap of hair. But for a fiercely competitive person, it was tough to lose a step.

  To him, this hunt was a dream come true. It had all the elements—the thrill of hunting a very clever prey, plus the instant gratification in the win. Not only did it have the echoes of the game he used to play, it was combined with the sexual release that comes with the mounting of a good-looking woman. It was as if, after a touchdown, his team had been allowed to pull a woman out of the crowd and fuck her. What a TV ratings boost that would have been.

  Nearby, two older men sat drinking coffee. One was fidgeting, spilling sugar as he broke open a packet. “So, you nervous?” Phil Simmons finally asked his older brother Steve. Steve looked up calmly from his Styrofoam cup. He could see that Phil was still rattled. He was so predictable.

  “Look, Phil. For the last time, we won’t get caught. Bollinger’s done this a dozen times. They’re drugged when captured so they don’t know where they are, and we wear masks so she can’t recognize us. No one will ever know. Heck, we even wear rubbers—no DNA!”

  “I know, I know. It just seems so wrong, you know.”

  Of course it’s wrong—that’s the point! Steve sighed. “The girls aren’t really hurt. We get a little show and they take home some money. What’s the harm?”

  Phil hung his head. Steve wondered how two such different people could be brothers. We look similar, but our personalities are poles ap
art, he thought. Steve was the adventurer, always looking for new challenges. Phil was the cautious one, afraid to stick his neck out.

  Steve took a gamble on an untried business and made a fortune, while Phil went to work for a corporation and made a salary. Now almost half of their lives were gone.

  Steve enjoyed a rich, full life, drinking the best wines, traveling the world. Phil worked for a faceless corporation all day and went home alone to his small apartment every night. Since his divorce last year, Phil felt that his life was over at age forty-seven. His older brother was determined to pull him out of his doldrums.

  When Steve heard of this special hunt, he had to participate. He thought it would be the perfect gift for his brother, something to wake him up and make him appreciate life more. God, he was such a worker bee!

  Now, as he looked across the table at him, he realized that Phil would probably wet his pants before the day was over. Or be too shy to “partake” in the reward.

  “It’s going to be okay, Phil. Trust me on this.”

  The last man in the little group sat apart from the others. Dirk Bowman was the only one who wished they could use real weapons. He would even prefer that the prey be a man—that would be more of a challenge.

  As it was, this was going to be too easy. Chase a defenseless girl down and fuck her. Big deal. He’d rather give the victim a knife and make it a little sporting.

  Dirk was ready for the next level of hunting. Like Jackson, he had all the right trophies. Frankly, it had begun to bore him. Chasing down a human, now that had exciting possibilities!

  When Bollinger had first approached him, he had in mind a serious hunt. He felt this would be the perfect swan song to his youth. Dirk would be forty in one month. He had been so enamored by the idea, that he signed on before he fully realized what a cakewalk this was going to be.