Chapter 1
2230 hours — Saturday

It was a typical Saturday night at the Creek Tavern. Lots of locals playing pool, dancing to the jukebox, smoking and drinking beer. Jimmy poured a lot of it on weekends, and little during the week. Men who use axes and chainsaws don't do much drinking on work nights. Most of them start in the woods before 0400, so early to bed is the norm.
   Except for a knot of local Indians at one of the pool tables, it was a pretty white crowd. There were four fresh Coasties from the Coast Guard station up at Neah Bay, and other than that, I knew or had seen everyone else before. That's why the little wannabe shark slipping into my small pool stood out. When the door swung open and the kid sidled through, I knew I was going to have to kill him. How did I know? Why? Instinct and almost forty years experience. The why? He might look like a minnow now, but little fish grow up fast and are harder to swallow when they're full grown and think they're Great Whites.
   This was my isolated pond he'd swum into and I didn't intend to become the main course at anyone's table. Since I'm a carnivore, I tend to eat first and ask questions later. I may not have a high school diploma, but I've earned several doctorates in the killing arts. I prefer to be the predator than the prey.
   The kid was around twenty-five, six feet plus a bit, and maybe a slim 180, in a worked-out kind of way. His dark hair hadn't grown out enough to hide what had been a military buzz. He wore a supple, thigh-length black leather coat, unbuttoned, and by the way it was cut, I figured he was packing. Probably a large auto-loader of some type with a suppressor in a custom rig in the left armpit. He didn't look exactly comfortable wearing civvies.
   The way he moved told me this was someone who didn't feel threatened, and thought he could eat anyone in this puddle. I've been around somewhat longer and knew there were several in this crowd I wouldn't want to tangle with, on my best day. Guys who work with axes and chainsaws in the deep woods are very tough nuts, and will break your teeth if you bite on ‘em wrong.
   I watched the kid's eyes travel slowly around the room and pass me by without a flicker of recognition. There was no reason he should know me on sight, although for him to be here, I knew an advance team had swept the area and put together a package on the lay of the land. That's the way it worked, so now I had to figure out if he was solo, or had backup out in the dark.
   He was giving off a nervous kind of energy. Not fear. Just a twitchiness. The way he put money on the bar and kept kind of shrugging his shoulders. Frustrated would be one way of putting it. Maybe a bit worried. I wondered what might cause a reaction like that from someone who probably wouldn't duck when the lead was flying. Interesting.
   I watched Jimmy behind the bar, wiping glasses. He wasn't acting any different. He was, however, two feet closer to the register than where the glasses were racked. That meant he was standing directly in front of the Government model .45 Auto he kept cocked and locked under the bar. Jimmy, I'd learned, knew when trouble walked into his place of business.
   I also knew I'd be taking my dinner out, as I never eat where I'm known. And know me, everyone there did. Not by name maybe, but by the way the herd recognizes a predator. They keep their distance.
   Back to the big question: How did I know someone hunting me, you ask? Part of my protective cover here is the smallness of the community. I know, at least by sight, most all of the local color. Even the tourists have certain vibes they give off. Dress and mannerisms. In like manner all predators do the same, and in humans those in tune with those vibes know when something wants you for lunch. All that and those little tingles of fear spiking along my nerves, bringing me to an alertness I hadn't felt in a long time.
   I'd faced no real threats to my safety in twelve years. You see, fear is what keeps your soul in the body you're born in. No fear, no caution. No caution, no survival. I'm all about survival. That's why I'm still alive after nearly twenty-five years in the killing fields. I didn't intend to cut that short by being over confident. No, this hunter was young and full of all kinds of piss and vinegar. Old bulls get to be old by never underestimating young bulls. I would be taking no chances when it came time to put him down.

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