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  “Sorry, man—I was aiming at her!” he shouted unconvincingly.

  The bastard! I’ll kill him! Jackson didn’t want to let the girl go now. He turned and ran after her, fighting the heaviness in his arms and legs. I’ll deal with you later, he mentally promised Dirk.

  The booth was just forty yards away now, but Amy’s legs felt like lead and her lungs were bursting. She didn’t understand why the African American man hadn’t caught her yet. She looked back and was startled to see the leering mouth of the hard-eyed man as he jogged past the faltering black man.

  At that moment, she tripped over a log and went down hard on her side. She lay motionless, gasping, unable to move. Every muscle in her body hurt. Her remaining strength ebbed. She heard the man’s heavy breathing as he approached her.

  “Got you, dammit, I got you! First dibs!”

  God, he sounds like a junior high school kid! Amy opened her eyes and spotted a rock near her outstretched arm. Quietly, she lay her hand next to it and waited. Come on, you bastard, come on! The man approached her. “Hey, little missy, you really gave us a fight.” He leaned over her, breathing hard, his hand brushing her breast. “I’m really going to enjoy fucking you!”

  With all of her remaining strength, Amy swung the rock at him, catching him a glancing blow on the side of his head. He fell with a guttural cry and lay on his back, moaning and cursing.

  She struggled to her feet, running on pure adrenaline. She looked back to see the African American man staggering his way toward her, closing fast, his mouth set in a determined grimace. Right behind him came the two older men, puffing hard.

  She turned back and saw the booth less than twenty-five yards away. She didn’t have any energy left for outsmarting the men behind her or dodging their weapons. She only had a single-minded goal to reach the booth. She clawed her way toward it, half upright and half on all fours.

  She had just reached the door when she heard the whizzing of the bolo and wasn’t surprised when it wrapped around her legs, dropping her to the ground. Still, she didn’t give up.

  She crawled the last few yards, using her legs to push her torso forward. With a final burst of energy, she pulled herself over the open doorway, thrust herself inside and slammed the door with her bound-up legs. The lock clicked into place.

  Immediately, there came a pounding from the outside. She was safe.

  Exhausted, she let herself drift into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Eight

  “Wake up, Amy, wake up.” She thought she was home again, in her own bed. She expected her father to greet her, but the voice was wrong. She came to slowly and opened her eyes. Bushman’s mask loomed over her. She recoiled and tried to get away.

  “Relax, Amy, relax. You won. You’re going to be fine now.”

  She looked around. She was back in her cell, on the bed. Small bandages covered the cuts and scrapes from her ordeal. A robe was draped over her. She pulled it around her. “I won?” she managed.

  “Yes. You reached the booth safely. Of course, we have several men outside who are crying foul. You hurt one of them rather badly. And some are saying you shouldn’t have been allowed to use a gun or drive a cart. For some reason, they didn’t think that was part of the bargain. But as far as I’m concerned, you beat them, fair and square.”

  He took an envelope from his jacket. “Here. Your winnings. You’ve earned it.” She opened it, not trusting him. Inside were dozens and dozens of one hundred-dollar bills. No, she realized, there must be five hundred of them. It was a fortune to her.

  Her tongue was thick, but she had to ask: “How often do women win?”

  Bushman laughed. “Actually, you’re the first.”

  “But, the video—”

  “Yes, that part was staged, I’m afraid. Otherwise, the girls would feel they had no chance at all and might quit. That wouldn’t be sporting. But you’ve changed all that. You’ve proven to be a formidable opponent.”

  She sank back down and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. “I still think you should all be arrested. When can I go home?”

  “Uh, anytime…” He paused.

  She opened one eye. “What?”

  “Well, the men—or I should say four of them; two of them just want to go home—wondered if you’d be willing to have a rematch. For one hundred thousand dollars.”

  She laughed derisively. “Not a chance in hell…”

  Amy caught herself. A hundred grand? She bit her lip. She imagined what she might do with another hundred thousand dollars on top of the fifty she had already won. She was probably an idiot for even considering it, and no doubt the thrill of victory was still rushing through her veins, but she heard herself say, “Unless…”

  He leaned forward, eager. “Unless?”

  “Unless they agree to run naked too. And no carts.”

  He smiled.

  Chapter Nine

  Bollinger gave Amy a day to rest up. It also gave Andy with his broken nose, and bookish Phil, a chance to make their escapes. Steve and Jake watched them go, each saddened that their efforts to spice up their lives had failed so miserably. Each also admitted to himself that the men would not be missed.

  Wet blanket, Jake thought of his long-time friend as he waved goodbye.

  Pantywaist, thought Steve of his brother.

  “Come on, gentlemen, we’re going to have a tremendous dinner tonight. I’ve flown in a top chef to cook—spared no expense!”

  Jackson knew that he could afford it—they were paying for it. Because only four were playing, Bollinger had upped the cost to thirty thousand per man. After expenses, including the payouts if they won the game this time around, he calculated Bollinger would take home thirty thousand as well, if the men received their agreed-upon payout of twenty grand each and the girl got her ten-thousand-dollar consolation prize.

  If the girl won and took the hundred-thousand-dollar prize, Bollinger’s total would drop to twenty thousand, minus expenses. Jackson wondered if the ringleader might tip the scales their way in order to pick up an extra ten Gs. Not that it mattered.

  Jackson, of course, had another agenda. He was gunning for Dirk Bowman. Cheap shots, whether in the NFL or in life, were not to be ignored.

  Amy was not invited to join them for dinner at first, but Jake and Steve insisted. “Come on, she’s agreed to this, it’s not like it was before—where she was being held against her will. She signed the contract, didn’t she?”

  Yes, she had—a 17-page document that outlined the hunt, the methods of possible capture and the penalties therein. Because there were only four men, she agreed to one change—there would only be one safety booth this time. In exchange, she got them to agree to pass out only one tranquilizer gun. A net gun would also be eliminated from the selection of weapons.

  She had to absolve the men of past “activities,” which Amy knew was a euphemism for felonies. It was not an easy decision for her. Forgiving a kidnapping and assault takes some serious thought.

  Still, she had fifty thousand in hand and a chance for a hundred thousand more. Amy felt her chances were excellent. She’d show these bastards who could run. She’d run circles around these overfed fat cats with their silly little weenies. I hope their dicks get sunburned!

  As a final precaution, Amy was not to know their names. Each man had chosen a color that he would be identified by, an idea stolen from a Hollywood movie. Jackson had naturally chosen “Mr. Black.” Steve was “Mr. Blue.” Jake was “Mr. Green” and Dirk was “Mr. Red.” Bollinger, the referee, chose “Mr. White.”

  By signing the contract, Amy released the men from having to wear the unpopular masks. They were too sweaty in the heat and limited the vision. Because it didn’t matter that she saw them, the other men saw no reason why she couldn’t join them for dinner.

  Amy, however, refused until they gave her clothes. “No way I’m parading in front of them naked while they’re fully dressed,” she spat when Bollinger came into her room. “If they’re dressed, I’m
dressed; if I’m naked, they’re naked.”

  The men, already a little embarrassed by the thought of them running naked tomorrow, agreed instantly that she should wear clothes to dinner. The alternative was unthinkable. She was given back the blue dress she was kidnapped in, plus her bra and panties.

  Chapter Ten

  Striding into the dining room, shoulders back, just as she had the morning of the first hunt, Amy met the gazes of the men defiantly. She wanted to spread doubt in their minds. She studied the faces of her pursuers.

  Amy was introduced to the men. There was a surreal quality to the civility present at dinner. Here she was, being welcomed like an invited guest, when tomorrow they would be hunting her down like a pack of wild dogs, with the goal of raping her.

  Why did I ever agree to this? Am I a fucking idiot? Don’t answer that…

  Associating the faces with their colorful names wasn’t difficult. Amy next tried to gauge the men to determine their level of threat to her.

  Mr. Black had been the one who she thought was going to reach her first, she remembered. She still didn’t know why he faltered at the end. Ran out of gas, probably. He looked as athletic as she did, only fifteen years older. She hoped he had lost some of his wind or she would be in trouble. Amy wondered what he did for a living.

  Mr. Red possessed a cunning, feral look. She remembered his eyes just before she conked him on the head at the end of the hunt. Amy felt like prey when he fixed his steely eyes upon her. There was a savageness to him that none of the others possessed. She guessed that he would want revenge.

  Amy realized that if either Mr. Red of Mr. Black got the tranquilizer gun, the game could be over quickly.

  She did notice that Mr. Black let his eyes slide in the direction of Mr. Red more than once and the look on his face puzzled her. It was almost as if Mr. Red was the prey, not her.

  Mr. Blue seemed like someone’s uncle—maybe one with a secret life. He didn’t seem entirely harmless. He must’ve been one of the older ones who had fallen behind as she had neared the booth. Though older, Mr. Blue had an intelligent look that indicated he might be able to outsmart her if he couldn’t outrun her.

  Mr. Green, however, was another story. Just looking at him, Amy felt a familiar heat in her loins. My god, can I be attracted to this man? She colored slightly. This man was young, tall, and had the most amazing green eyes. Aptly named, she mused. His hair was a disheveled dark blonde mop—he looked more like a surfer than a hunter. It was a shame they had to meet under these circumstances.

  Sorry, cutie, she thought, but you’re going down.

  Amy was escorted to the large table, where six place settings had been arranged. They deferred to her to choose her seat, which added to the false politeness of the evening. After she sat down, the other men scrambled to find a spot, like a grown-up version of musical chairs. She was pleased to see Mr. Green had managed to grab the chair immediately to her right. Mr. Black sat on her left.

  Drinks were ordered as small talk commenced. Some men ordered bourbon, others beer. Amy was careful to limit herself to one glass of Chardonnay. She wasn’t about to be slowed by drink. She hoped the men all got sloshed.

  “Amy, you proved to be a formidable opponent last time. You must work out regularly,” Mr. Blue was saying.

  Amy thought he was looking for an edge. She wasn’t about to tell him she still plays competitive volleyball and runs five miles a week. “Oh, it must be my youth, I guess. I never was all that athletic in school.” Hah, take that!

  “Huh,” he responded, nonplused.

  “Amy, do you have a plan in mind for tomorrow?” Mr. Black filled in smoothly.

  “Um. No—not any more than I had last time,” she replied.

  She felt something brush her leg. Amy glanced down and saw Mr. Green’s left hand rest on the edge of his thigh. His knuckles touched her leg. She knew it was no coincidence. She wondered if she should object and embarrass him in front of the others.

  “Why would you agree to do this again?” Mr. Red spoke from her left, distracting her. “You know your chances of winning this time around are slim.”

  “Maybe I just wanted to see you guys run naked for a change.”

  Mr. Red colored slightly. “You know what will happen when—uh, if—you lose…”

  “Don’t worry,” she said dryly, “I’ve had sex before.” Not that she was looking forward to being raped by these four strangers.

  Well, three of the four, anyway, she mused. This Mr. Green is a hunk. She could imagine what would happen if he won. Amy could picture him over her naked body, sweat dripping off his coiled muscles, grasping her upper arms, thrusting his hard cock into her again and again—

  “…experience?”

  “What?” Someone had been talking to her and she hardly had heard a word.

  “Was it the money that made you come back—or the chance on taking part in such a primal experience?” Mr. Blue repeated.

  The question stirred her emotions. When she first agreed to participate in the second hunt, she had convinced herself that money was the primary factor. Deep down, she knew that the chase excited her like she had never been excited before. Something about running through the woods, being chased, knowing that if she failed, these hard men would hold her down and fuck her like the animals they all were. It was her camp experience times ten.

  Amy could feel the wetness spread along her clit. Involuntarily, she squeezed her legs together. “Primal experience? Yes, I suppose it is—but I’m in this for the money, Mr. Blue,” she said. It was half true.

  He seemed to read her mind. He just smiled and returned to his dinner.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Red spoke up suddenly. “I propose a change in the hunt tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Conversation ceased in the room. Five pairs of eyes focused on Dirk. Bollinger seemed particularly distressed.

  “I say it’s time we stopped this ‘Earth games’ nonsense, where every hunter wins equally,” Dirk said. “What kind of a contest is that for competitors like us?”

  The other four hunters stared at him silently. No one objected. They seemed willing to hear him out.

  “Let’s face it,” Dirk continued. “If this is a sport, where’s the thrill of victory? We all chase her, someone catches her and goes first, then we all dive in. If we win, we basically get the same prize.”

  “Now wait a minute, gentle—” Bollinger began.

  Jackson cut him off. “What do you propose?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I’d like to see winner-take-all.”

  “No—no way,” Steve put in. “You have the advantage over me due to age anyway. This way, I’d stand almost no chance.”

  “Hear me out,” Dirk said. “I’ve thought this through. If the girl wins, she gets a hundred grand, right? I say the first hunter to reach her gets a hundred grand—plus he’s the only one who gets the girl.”

  “That still doesn’t—” Steve cut in.

  “I know, I know. I’ve thought about that as well. Because you’re older, we’d give you the tranquilizer gun,” he told Steve.

  Steve opened, then closed his mouth. He sat back, his lips pursed.

  Dirk looked at Amy. “But that still doesn’t make it completely fair—to the prey.”

  Amy sat up. She hadn’t really been a party to this conversation up until now. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “Mr. White has some paint Pistols in that locker,” Dirk pointed. “I say we give you one with, say, eight rounds. If we get painted, we’re out.”

  Dirk could see them all thinking hard. He felt he nearly had them.

  “That way,” he continued. “It won’t be the fastest man who wins—it will be the cleverest. It also means the contest will last longer than a lousy forty-five minutes, like the last one did.”

  The men said nothing as each considered Dirk’s proposal. It made good sense. The contest becomes a real battle of wits, with everyone on an equal footing.

  “Now,
gentlemen, the rules I’ve develop—” Bollinger tried again.

  “Can it, mister. We’re thinking,” said Jackson.

  Amy sat stunned. From her point of view, it was a much better deal. With a weapon, she stood a far better chance of keeping the men at bay until she reached the safety booth. And if she lost, god forbid, instead of four rapes, she’d only have to face one. And one might not be so bad—if it was the right one. She glanced over at Mr. Green.

  “There’s one final point,” Dirk added. Again, he had their full attention. “If we agree to arm the girl, then there’s no need for a safety booth. To win, she’d have to paint us all.”

  So much for my advantage, Amy thought. “What’s the range of a paint gun?” She asked.

  “Twenty yards max, maybe less,” Bollinger answered dully. He could see the tide turning against him.

  “Well, gentlemen, what do you think?” Dirk asked finally.

  “I like it,” Jackson said immediately.

  “If I’m getting the tranquilizer gun, then so do I,” Steve piped up.

  “I could go along,” Jake said slowly, eyeing Amy. “But what about her?”

  “I’m-I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “Without the booth, I’m at a real disadvantage. My weapon has a very short range. I don’t like it.”

  There was a silence. The men felt they were close to an agreement, they just needed something to sweeten it for the prey.

  “How about this,” Dirk spoke up. “The booth stays—but it’s locked for the first half-hour. You survive thirty minutes, then you can head to the booth.”

  Thirty minutes! Could she survive a half-hour out there with these four men after her? It was a tremendous concession. She searched for flaws in the hunt.

  “The rules could be hard to enforce,” she said. “For example, if I get hit by a dart and I manage to paint the, uh, Mr. Blue in return, I still lose because I’ll fall unconscious, but Mr. Blue can’t win because he’s been painted. How do we resolve issues like this?”