The jungle writhed around him, thick with steam. Sawyer crouched behind the base of a strangler fig. His breath slowed to a predator’s. His eyes had adjusted beyond human capability and slithered across the terrain which provided plenty of light from the moon.

  Somewhere out there, six officers prowled the jungle. He could hear them, six mortals—six heartbeats. They were far too loud for the monster they hunted.

  He burst forward in short and violent fleets. The jungle was too dense for a full breakaway sprint like he wanted. The brush was too strangled. But the short fleets were enough to gain incredible distance in flickers of a second. His feet barely touched the ground. When the first officer witnessed the blur of movement, he fired wildly into the trees and missed every shot out of fear.

  Sawyer was already gone, disappearing into the thick.

  The bark and the leaves fluttered and exploded from rippling gunfire. But Sawyer only breathed harder and time seemed to slow even more allowing him to calculate every kill the way he wanted it.

  Three officers grouped in a clearing nearby. He could hear the panic settling in; their voices shook as they stepped into the open and flared their flashlights across the jungle.

  Let them see him, he thought. He didn’t care.

  Sawyer stepped out of the jungle and into the clearing. He kept his hands low and relaxed. His pistol remained sheathed.

  The closest officer shook, raising his M4.

  “?Fuego!?Fuego!”

  Their rifles turned toward him—Sawyer held his hands up and covered his face—and then the jungle crackled with gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit the field. Bullets struck Sawyer in the chest, arms, and neck. A few rounds slammed into his open palms, and would have killed him if he weren’t blocking his forehead. He flinched with every impact. The bullets collided with his skin and fell to the ground as if he were made of solid steel.

  Sawyer’s grin stretched. Still blocking his face with his hands, he bared his fangs.

  The officers faltered. One cursed. Another tried muttering a Hail Mary as he struggled to reload his magazine with shaking fingers.

  Sawyer leapt forward.

  The first man didn’t even scream. Sawyer fleeted, appeared behind him, grabbed his head, and snapped his neck. He jumped to the next man, grabbed his M4, turned it on him, and tried to fire but the gun was empty. So using his incredible vampiric strength he stabbed the man in his chest with the barrel like a spear who instantly collapsed dead. Then, he turned and eyed the last remaining man in the field. He held his rifle with shaking hands, pale faced, out of bullets, knowing full well that he was dead.

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  Sawyer grabbed the man’s sharking arms and sank his fangs into his throat. The blood was hot and full of adrenaline and thick with shaking fear. It filled Sawyer and warmed his nerves, comforting and fresh with life force.

  Wild and panicked gunfire erupted from the jungle. Bullets tore through the leaves and ricocheted off trunks. They weren’t firing at Sawyer. In their fear, they cross fired toward the soldiers closing in on his position opposite of theirs. Sawyer took advantage of the chaos and ran into the hail. He caught a staggering man by his shoulders and slammed him down onto a mossy boulder. He crushed his windpipe with a single stomp. Then he turned to the others.

  One man backed away from him, putrid horror in his eyes. One stumbled over a root and fell to his knees. He clutched his pistol for a moment, then tossed it aside. “Dios mío… por favor…” he whispered. “Dios mío…”

  Sawyer moved slowly because there was no need to rush. The hunt was more like shopping, selecting the meat he liked best—and everyone in the jungle was on the menu at the market of blood. He let them see the dripping crimson on his fangs, and the bullet wounds as he lifted his shirt, and how the muscle strands were knitting themselves together as he approached.

  One of the officers tried to run, but Sawyer caught him by the belt and yanked him backward into the mud. His scream was muffled by Sawyer’s sinking fangs and his mouth filling with blood. The jungle echoed with gurgles and the cries of his fellow officers who sprinted back to their vehicles.

  The last eight tried to run. But Sawyer was much faster. The trees blurred and the vines snapped under his ferocious assault. He tackled them and drove them into the undergrowth, one by one, fangs meeting flesh and tasting the sweet crimson which fed his revenge and salvation.

  The last scream was wet and broken.

  And then there were no more cries, only silence.

  Sawyer stood in the ruin of the clearing, shirtless and panting. Blood soaked him from collar to boot. His eyes burned and his chest heaved. Any pain he felt before was gone. His wounds were gone. All that remained was the intense satiation and the slow return to overbearing awareness.

  He tilted his face toward the jungle canopy. The moon hung low. It was full and pale. Was Ashley looking at the same moon?

  He closed his eyes and let the night flood his senses. The blood rushed in his veins and he smelled copper on his breath. He felt so alive.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  Time to move.

  He sprinted through the jungle like a panther. In moments, he reached the clearing where they’d parked the stolen Hyundai. Its tires were slashed. The windows were shattered.

  One of the patrol cruisers sat with its doors open and its keys dangled from the ignition. The police radio sputtered static. The blue and red lights blinked weakly.

  It was the perfect cover.

  He vanished back into the trees, and moments later, he reappeared at the spot where he’d left Cormac. He hadn’t gotten far, barricading himself behind a tree.

  “Get up,” Sawyer growled, voice low and electric. “I cleared the jungle and I found a ride.”

  Cormac blinked at him, dumbstruck. He turned pale. He held his mouth, then turned and puked on the ground. “You look—”

  “I know,” Sawyer said, then offered him a hand.

  Cormac didn’t look at him, but took his hand.

  “I’m driving,” Cormac said.