The Hunt

The Underground

This chapter was written by SebJenkins

Predictability was the downfall of even the mightiest warrior, and the daily evening curfew provided it in abundance. A herd of fleeing civilians shuffling their way out of bars, cafes and restaurants to beat the clock home, or face a hefty fine and a slap on the wrist. How hard the slap was depended on the mood of the particular police officer on patrol that night. A long shift with little action did wonders for the swing of their truncheon.

As the clock ticked up to five minutes before curfew, the stragglers hurried their way to their homes. This is where he thrived. These five minutes were his. Like a lion approaching a watering hole, knowing full well that isolated antelopes, buffalo, and zebras were in the offing, he skulked with inextinguishable confidence.

He wore the shadows like a coat, like an extension of his limbs and his being. He knew exactly where to step so as to make the least noise, exactly the route to take to maximise the opportunity for prey, and exactly how to bring them to their knees without so much as a flap of a butterfly's wing.

He was the shadows.

Dressed head to toe in coal black cotton, he pranced through the streets like a silhouette of danger, a camouflaged shark weaving through the calm waters.

Footsteps and chatter rattled in the distant night air, but that didn't interest him, he wasn't in the business of risks, and interfering with a pair or more was exactly that.

No, what he was looking for, what he was listening for, was the unmistakable sound of a single set of shoes splashing softly against the damp concrete paths.

He had trained his hearing over the years and could spot a potential victim well before they were in range of his eyesight. It was important to utilise all your senses in a hunt, it gave you an edge.

Listen for their movement.

Look for their position.

Smell their fear as they realise all too late.

Feel their limp body as it collapses into your arms.

Taste the reward money.

He slid across the street in his soft-soled shoes as if they were on wheels, leaving the faintest of patters in his wake. He had chosen tonight's victim. They didn't know it yet. Even he didn't know who they were, or what they looked like... not yet.

All he could hear was the echoing clicks of lone high heels passing through the evening breeze. To most, they were almost silent, but to him, they may as well have been the hooves of a 2000lb stallion.

The Hunt was on.

***

"You think he knows more than he's letting on?" Nick asked, mainly because he didn't have the answer himself.

"Almost definitely," Abby replied simply, staring at Contestant Sixty-Four's face on the monitor in front of her, as if she would be able to read the secrets off his every wrinkle. "Especially if Sampson's intel is legit."

Nick shrivelled at the very mention of her ex's name. "Are we doubting his intel?"

Abby thought for the sharpest of seconds before shaking her head assuredly, "No, he's telling the truth... or at the very least he thinks he is. I know how to read Sampson, and believe me he wouldn't claim to know something that he wasn't certain on, he couldn't take the humiliation of being proved wrong."

"But he didn't say anything to corroborate with Sampson's claims?" Tony chimed in.

"Not as such," Abby admitted. "But his face gave the game away, even if his lips did a decent job of lying. This guy knows something. I think he's still trying to work it all out in his own head, but he knows something, that's for sure."