Trackers Page 3

  Dirk figured they’d be done by 9 o’clock—maybe even sooner. They’d each paid fifteen thousand for this hunt. If they won, they’d get back seventy-five hundred, plus have a quick fuck. If they lost—well, that was impossible, wasn’t it? That’s why Dirk wished it could be made a little more challenging.

  Hell, if I ran this hunt, things would be different, he thought. And maybe I should. Bollinger doesn’t have a patent on hunting humans for sport.

  “Ready for this?”

  Dirk was startled to see Bollinger standing over him. “Uh, yeah, Roger, I am. Although I think it could be a little more sporting.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “Well, how about we give her something to fight back with—say a net gun? Make it a little more evenly matched.”

  “Uh, no, Mr. Bowman. I’ve carefully studied this and found that this way is the best. You get the prey fighting back like that and people can get hurt.”

  Dirk decided not to press it. “Yeah, okay. Just wondering.”

  “Hey, I’m sure you’ll have fun. It’s a very stimulating game.”

  Dirk just nodded. Bollinger looked at his watch. “Gentlemen,” he told the room. “Let’s attach your video equipment.”

  The men stood still in turn as Bollinger snaked the small video camera about the size of an eraser from a fanny pack to their shoulders where they were pinned into place. The whole operation took just a few minutes. Afterwards, he showed them how their actions could be seen from the monitors in the office.

  “Remember, gentlemen, you’ll be monitored, so follow the rules.” He glanced at his watch again. “Now it’s time to draw for your weapons.”

  He strode over to a steel door set into a wall. Brandishing a key, he opened it. Inside the narrow closet a row of weapons gleamed. “Here they are: Tranquilizer guns, bolo guns and net guns.”

  Dirk recognized some paint guns along the bottom row. He knew the ranch was also used for corporate outings. Anything for a buck, he mused.

  From inside, Bollinger pulled out a large coffee can. “Now you all know the rules—no one can select his weapon. All are given out in a blind draw.”

  Bollinger handed out slips of paper to each man and told them to write down their names. He collected each one and dropped them all into the can. Making a show of it, he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. “The first two names will be for the net guns, with one cartridge each.”

  He reached in and pulled out a name. “Jake.”

  Inwardly, Jake groaned. He considered the net gun the most useless weapon. Nevertheless, he put on a brave face and collected it from the man.

  Bollinger drew again. “Phil.”

  Phil actually looked pleased. Having a net gun would probably mean he wouldn’t be needed during the hunt. He could just hang back with the crowd. Phil took the weapon gratefully.

  “Now the bolo guns, with two cartridges each.” He drew. “Jackson.”

  Jackson shrugged. He had wanted a tranquilizer gun, but this would do.

  “Andy.”

  Andy wasn’t even sure how to operate the gun, but he wouldn’t admit that in front of Steve. As he walked back to his seat, he opened the breech and studied it, taking it apart in his head. Within a couple of minutes, he not only had figured it out, he saw ways to improve the design. If I could take one back to my lab, he thought, his mind elsewhere.

  “Finally, the tranquilizer guns, with two darts each, go to Dirk and Steve.” He handed them out. “Now, gentlemen, it’s time to put on your masks. I will go get the prey.”

  Chapter Six

  Promptly at eight, Bushman returned to Amy’s room. She had used the toilet and had freshened up as best she could. Her new shoes were on her feet, laced tight. Her stomach churned. She would rather be any place—the dentist, the gynecologist—than here.

  “This way,” he said, gesturing to her and standing aside. Amy tried to put on a false sense of bravado. She deigned not to cover herself this time. She went through the portal ahead of him, swaggering just a little for his benefit. At least she knew her ass looked good. Inwardly, her heart thumped in her chest and her breathing felt restricted.

  In the lobby of the lodge, she met her hunters for the first time. Some whistled appreciatively as she walked in, nude except for her shoes. The false swagger went out of her. These men were out to hunt her down and rape her. Amy was mortified.

  The men were an odd mix—made even odder by the different masks they wore. All of the masks were spare, covering just the eyes and, in some cases, forehead, leaving the nostrils, mouth and chin open. The better to breathe, she thought.

  She’d have them gasping soon enough.

  From their eyes and the lines around their mouths, she guessed two were as young as thirty, another two were a little older, perhaps in their forties, while two more appeared to be well on their way to fifty. Some were outfitted for the full safari, with bush jackets and silly bush hats, while the younger ones appeared to be dressed for a pickup game of basketball, wearing shorts, tee-shirts and baseball caps.

  Each of them was carrying a weapon, she noticed. She tried to memorize the masks of the men with the tranquilizer guns, as they’d be her most serious opponents. A man in a feathered mask and streaks of gray in his hair had one, as did a 40-something man with powerful arms. His puffy mask made him look like a gargoyle. She didn’t like the man’s eyes, she decided. They had a hard, flat look. She returned their gazes, trying not to show her fear. Unconsciously, she found herself trying to cover her nudity.

  “Gentlemen, you know the rules,” Bushman said. “The prey gets a five-minute head start. I will fire two shots from my Pistol to let her know when we’ve started. My dog handler will trail her with the bloodhound on a leash to give you her direction.

  “You may go ahead of us, of course. If you capture her, you may partake in your first reward—just be sure to use the condoms you’ve been provided. We wouldn’t want any DNA mishaps, would we? When I catch up, I’ll bring the shaving materials.”

  Amy took a deep breath.

  “If she makes it to a booth, don’t try to break in. Observe the rules and play fair. Remember, gentlemen, all of your actions are being recorded.”

  Bushman turned to Amy. “Prey, are you ready?”

  It irked her that he didn’t use her name. She tried to use her anger to steel herself for the ordeal ahead. “I’m ready—and my name is Amy. You should remember it when you’re all arrested.”

  Bushman led her out to the porch. In her head, she could see the map and knew she was looking north, the shortest distance to the fence by about a quarter mile. Another man waited there, with a sorrowful looking bloodhound on a leash. This man was armed with a Pistol as well, she noticed.

  Suddenly, something else diverted her attention. Parked out front were three dark blue golf carts. A fourth golf cart, painted white, was parked beyond them. Their reason for being there was quite clear to her.

  “Hey,” she said. “You didn’t say anything about the men being allowed to ride!”

  Bushman smiled. “Oh? Didn’t I mention that? Well, I wouldn’t want any of my guests having a heart attack, now would I? But don’t worry—they only have enough gas for three miles. It’s carefully measured. If you stay ahead of them, they’ll eventually have to go on foot as well. Besides, I think you should be able to outrun the carts. Their top speed is only about ten miles per hour.

  “I’ll be riding in the white cart, acting as observer.” Without waiting for her arguments, he held up a stopwatch. “Go,” was all he said.

  Chapter Seven

  She stared at him for a full three seconds, not wanting to believe that the hunt had already begun. Her muscles galvanized her into action. Amy leapt off the porch and immediately cut right. She knew that most of the women would run for the closest fence, which meant she shouldn’t. It was too obvious.

  She had a crude strategy planned out in her head: she would run southeast, trying to meet the perimeter at an angle, then
run along it to the southern border, searching for a safety booth along the way. She planned to use every minute of the five minutes she had been given. Amy decided not to zig-zag or otherwise try to fool the men or the dog. The shortest distance to the nearest booth was a straight line. She only hoped that one would appear in her path soon.

  She set out on a determined lope, trying to place as much distance as possible from her hunters while not wearing herself out. The wind felt strange on her naked body, especially between her legs. It was very much like that night at camp, so many years ago.

  Amy tried to gauge her direction from the sun through the trees, keeping the mental picture of her position on the map. She had covered less than a mile when she heard a shot behind her, then another. Amy figured she was still about two miles from the fence, maybe more. She kept running.

  Sweat poured off her body from the heat and the exertion. She was slowing now, despite her fears and determination. She angled her direction a bit more east, so she could find the fence. She wondered now if she could outrun the men.

  Amy knew that they would stay in those carts as long as possible, until she was nearly exhausted. Then it would be easy to surround and capture her. It’s a rigged game! She wondered how many women actually won—or if there really were these so-called safety booths?

  She heard the distant growl of golf carts behind her when she first spotted the fence, well off to her left among the trees. It was tall, about ten feet high, and the chain links held green, opaque strips to prevent prying eyes. Every fifty feet, a sign warned of danger. Even if it weren’t electrified, it would be difficult to climb with men hot on her trail.

  She jogged south, keeping her eyes out for a booth ahead of her and her ears on the men behind her. Amy heard the whir of an approaching cart almost too late and dodged, just as a dart flitted through the bushes to her right. Luck was with her—those guns were nearly silent.

  One dart down, three to go, she thought.

  Behind her, Steve cursed as his perfect shot went wide. “Faster,” he shouted at Phil.

  “I’m flooring it as it is!”

  Amy was convinced that these carts could go faster than ten mph. The asshole’s a liar, besides being a cheat. Women stood almost no chance out here. She would liked to have seen those guys run through the trees instead of ride—she would run them into the ground.

  Now she would have to change her strategy in order to win.

  She turned and saw two carts bearing down on her, one in front of the other. Although the first cart was faster than she was, the cart had trouble negotiating the ground through the trees. The driver constantly had to jerk the wheel to dodge debris, throwing off the aim of his passenger pointing a tranquilizer gun at her.

  “Take it easy! I can’t aim!” Dirk shouted to Jackson over the noise of the cart engines. He was grinning despite himself. This was fun!

  Ahead, Amy spotted a small section of a log on the ground ahead and got an idea. Bending over as she approached, she scooped up the log, stopped and flung it in front of the cart. Jackson jerked sideways just as Dirk fired and another dart shot just wide of the mark.

  Two darts down. Amy turned and ran again.

  “Dammit! I gotta get outta this cart before I risk my last dart,” Dirk said.

  “You’ll get your chance soon,” Jackson replied. “We’re almost out of gas.”

  Well off to her right, the third cart containing the younger men pulled ahead, using an open area between the trees to gain speed. She knew they were working to outflank her. She guessed correctly that they had the bolo gun and the net gun, because she knew two of the men behind her had tranquilizers.

  For a brief moment, she imagined her and some of her girlfriends chasing down naked men through the woods, armed with similar weapons. “It’d serve them right,” she muttered through her teeth.

  The carts behind her began to close, forcing her to zigzag. That allowed the third cart to move up on her right. Her breath burst from her lungs now. She didn’t know how much longer she could run like this. Amy figured the men probably had been driving for more than two miles now. If she could hang on for another mile—

  She heard a strange noise that outwardly she didn’t recognize, but found herself cutting hard right. It was only after she heard the whistling of the bolo balls through the air where she had been running a second earlier that she remembered the noise from the video.

  Thank god for quick reactions, she thought.

  The cart on her right moved just ahead of her now and veered left, closing the gap. Jake, steering with one hand as the cart slowed, aimed that strange large-bore gun at her with the other. Instinct took over and she scooped down to grab a long branch.

  She ran right at him, with the stick held out. When the man fired, the net caught the point of the branch and wrapped around it. It was jerked from her hand, but she was still free.

  She was so close now, Jake jerked to a stop so Andy could pull up his weapon. She jumped sideways in the air and aimed her right foot squarely at the driver’s face, hoping to knock him into the second man. He yelled and held up his hands, partially deflecting her blow.

  Amy hit him and fell painfully on the ground, then bounced up. It had worked: the passenger’s unused bolo gun had fallen out of the cart. She grabbed it and spun away.

  A dart meant for her struck Jake in the upper arm. He shouted and jerked about, yanking the dart from his arm.

  Amy felt like Joan Wayne. Only one dart left. She looked over and saw a Caucasian man riding with an African-American man throw away his tranquilizer gun away in disgust.

  “I can’t believe I missed her!”

  “Well, then, you drive. I’ve still got a shell left,” Jackson braked the cart so they could switch positions.

  Amy turned and saw one of the older men climb out of the second cart and raise his tranquilizer gun in her direction. The last dart! From her hip, she fired the bolo from about forty yards away and watched as the line tightened around his legs. He fell down, dropping the gun in the dirt.

  Amy spun back around as the pudgy passenger behind her climbed over the groggy driver and tried to grab her. She drove the stock of the weapon into his face, splitting open his nose. Blood gushed forth from under his mask as he stumbled away, holding his nose with both hands, crying.

  Amy grinned ferally. I’ll bet that guy thought this was just a game!

  The last cart was closing fast—Amy knew she would be overrun in seconds. Suddenly, it jerked to a halt. The passenger jumped out and picked up the fallen man’s long gun.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Steve shouted, still struggling with the cord around his legs.

  “You’re not using this,” Dirk replied and jumped back into the cart.

  The delay gave her the reprieve she needed. Amy yanked the stuporous driver out of his seat, jumped in and hit the gas. The cart roared forward. Now she was on a more even keel with these bastards.

  Amy realized she was still holding the empty bolo gun and the injured man’s last shell was probably in his pocket. She held onto it for a few more seconds before chucking it out the side, hoping it would get lost in the bushes.

  “Dammit! She’s gotten a cart!”

  Dirk smiled. “Maybe this will be a real contest after all,” he murmured.

  One cart was about forty yards behind her, the second cart, farther behind. She knew one man still had a dart in his tranquilizer gun. Amy figured the man she’d hit with the bolo gun was probably out of the game, unless he could get untangled quickly, along with the two hunters from the cart she’d stolen.

  She didn’t have time to congratulate herself on her accomplishments. Amy began to zigzag slightly, just enough to throw off his aim. She kept looking for a damn booth, but she saw nothing but trees and bushes and dust.

  She risked a look behind her and saw the cart of her closest pursuer sputter and die, even as hers continued to run. That surprised her until she remembered that it had been idling for a short tim
e, using less gas.

  The men jumped out, guns in hand and followed her. One of them held a long gun. She recognized a bolo gun in the African-American man’s hands. Just as she approached the southern border, the gas engine on her cart sputtered, caught, sputtered again, then died.

  Shit.

  She didn’t even wait for it to stop moving before she jumped out and ran. She had gained a little distance, but not nearly enough.

  The last cart was farther behind, but still running. It had to be nearly out of gas by now too.

  The brief rest in the cart had energized her, although she knew she had to be much more tired than her pursuers. Sweat poured off her body in sheets. She ran along the southern wall and was stricken to see the two men gaining on her already. The speed of the African-American man astonished her. He was leaving his partner behind.

  Jackson enjoyed the pounding of his feet as he closed on the girl. He carried the bolo gun like a football. He didn’t think he needed it now—he’d just come up behind her and tackle her, remind himself of old times.

  Amy ran on, desperately looking for the stupid booth—if one even existed. Amy looked back and was dismayed to see that her pursuer had closed the distance between them considerably. Yet he made no effort to shoot her.

  She zigzagged again, vainly searching for a booth. Just when she was sure she had been played for a fool, she spotted one ahead, a red flash between the trees. Just one hundred yards or so, she thought.

  I could win this.

  Dirk came out of the trees and saw the girl just ahead of Jackson. Jackson was just about to catch her. At that moment, he knew he didn’t want to be second. He thought of himself as a winner—at any cost. Instinctively, he stopped, brought the gun up and fired.

  Jackson never heard the whizzing of the dart that struck him in the back, just below his shoulder blade. He cried out, startled, and turned to see Dirk standing about fifty yards away.