Perfect Weapon. Amy J. Fetzer

made a pitiful, relieved sound and went slack beneath him.

      Jack scanned the area, released her, then motioned her toward the nearest tree.

      Sydney rolled to it, crouching, and trying to keep her granola bar down. “Give me the gun.”

      “Are you hurt?”

      She glanced at the bloodstains. “No. Give me the gun.”

      “What the hell is going on?”

      “Give me the weapon!”

      Without taking his gaze off the terrain, the man covered in ferns, leaves, and branches kicked it toward her. Sydney grabbed it, checked the load, wondering what the hell he was doing here in deep cover camouflage. Another shot fired. Quiet. Deadly. Like the whoosh and click of a sliding door. It pierced the tree above her head.

      “Go!” Lying on the ground, Jack radioed his pals. No answer. His gaze remained on the attacker’s location. Where’d the hell the bastard get to? He inched closer to her. “Down the mountain, there’s a black truck.”

      “Don’t stay here! Jesus! They’re not going to let you walk away!”

      He scowled. “I say again, lady, what the fuck is going on?”

      “I don’t know!”

      Someone shouted, but it wasn’t English. Shots pierced the ground near his arm, and he returned fire. The sound of a bullet impacting the body was muffled under the backfire of his weapon.

      Sydney heard the cry of pain and seconds later, the peppered spit of bullets chipped and thunked into the ground and trees. The Marine’s attention snapped to her, but she couldn’t see behind the camo netting.

      “Who are these people?” he demanded.

      “Who cares! They’re trying to kill us! Come on!” Syd took off toward the truck.

      Jack slid backwards on the ground, then stood behind a tree before racing a few yards behind her. Silencer-enhanced gunfire cut around them. Hell of a morning, he thought. The woman lost her balance, slid to the ground and he grabbed her up, and together, they ran. Why were they after her? Who were “they” and where the hell did she come from? He’d been on this mountain since before dawn and hadn’t seen anything but deer and a few chipmunks. The armed men had just appeared.

      When they reached the truck, Jack surveyed their path, then pulled off the Gilly hood, reached inside the truck bed, and flipped back the tarp.

      Sydney nearly lost that fight with her granola bar when she saw the dead deer in the back.

      “Get in.”

      “You can’t be serious.” She winced at her own voice. Like saving her life wasn’t worth lying with a dead deer? She climbed onto the flatbed. The scent of blood filled her nostrils and sank into her heart.

      Her savior was inside the cab, rummaging. “What are you doing?” she shouted and tried to inch away from the glassy stare of the deer lying beside her. “Let’s get out of here!” Syd held onto the pistol so hard her knuckles whitened.

      “I have three buddies out there and I haven’t heard from them since you came on the scene. Stay put.”

      “Stay? They’re coming this way!”

      “If you keep yelling they will be,” he snapped, then tossed her a small, green plastic medical kit. She frowned. “Your arm,” he said, then whipped the tarp over her and the carcass.

      Pulling the camouflage Gilly suit back on, Jack left his rifle behind and kept his 9mm. If he hadn’t been working with the Fish and Game, he would have left it at home. Now he was glad he hadn’t. The woman’s attackers were still near. He could smell them. Their last meal and new fabric. To them he’d smell like stag piss, so he wasn’t too worried. The Gilly suit did its job.

      He moved toward Decker’s location first, low and quiet, his time spent covering his own back. When he approached, the man was sitting, his shoulder braced against a tree, his rifle across his lap. He was too still. A sick feeling washed over Jack as he scanned the area, then knelt beside his friend. The blood splatter and the scent of scorched flesh were hard to miss.

      He pulled off the hood. Jesus. Jack turned his face away and choked. Decker was dead, half his face blown off. He breathed hard, struggling for focus, to not lose this battle in himself and go nuts. Forcing himself to look around, he checked the body of his friend. A single shot to the back of the head. Jack’s gaze ripped over the ground. No footprints, no struggle. Nothing to follow. Snipers. Jack looked to the trees, the high ground. The entire forest offered cover.

      The shooter could’ve been anywhere.

      Rage rocketed though Jack’s blood as he thought of the woman. The bitch. She’d set them up for this. Anger and adrenaline pumped through him. Leaving the area untouched for the police, he moved fast and low, covering the next hundred yards. They’d planned it that way, face north and stay close so they didn’t accidentally shoot each other. Ah, jeez, Jack thought and wanted to stop and howl and mourn his friends.

      When Jack found Martinez dead, he knew Lyons would be, too. But he had to find him. When he did, his heart broke. All three of his friends, each with one shot to the head. They still held their weapons and there were no footprints that weren’t theirs, no struggle. That meant the bullet had come from long range with a laser sight. Jack hadn’t heard a thing. No backfire meant a custom silencer, he thought, blinking back his emotions and running toward his truck. To the source of his grief.

      He aimed his pistol on the lump in his truck bed. Those guys in the woods had done the shooting, but the woman would know why. Jack jabbed the body. “Gun first, toss it out.” No movement and Jack yanked back the 9mm slide. “Weapon first. Slow, hands up!” When the woman refused to move, Jack thought for a second whoever killed his pals, had come back and killed her.

      He yanked on the tarp.

      The little bitch was gone.

      Jack wanted to hit something, shoot someone. He grappled with his temper, his outrage, carefully laying his hands on the tailgate, his finger still on the trigger. He realized now his shot at the deer had alerted the shooters to their presence. He’d been point, farther north than the others. And now his friends, three men he’d trusted with his life were dead, executed like dogs. He’d no idea why, and his only clue to the truth lay with that woman.

      His eyes burned and Jack thought of the wives he was going to have to face, the mother he’d have to tell that her son had been murdered. It was his duty. He’d survived. By sheer luck, he was still standing. But inside, he was dying.

      Someone’s going to pay.

      He’d save his revenge for just that moment.

      He surveyed the territory, weapon out. Shooters were still out there. He took a step and beneath his feet, the ground trembled.

      7:18 A.M.

      Agent Gabe Cisco glanced at the ringing cell phone attached to his dash. “Too damn early for a mess,” he muttered and hit the call button. “This had better be good; I haven’t had coffee yet.”

      “Mother is down. The Cradle has fallen.”

      “Christ.”

      “Good enough, sir?”

      “Details.” Cisco listened to the sketchy facts as Agent Wickum spelled them out. It was bad. Internal alarms unresponsive. No contact from the sentries. Air supply couldn’t be monitored. At least there weren’t any civilians at the park yet. It didn’t open till nine. He hoped the tour buses hadn’t made it near yet. But first things first: the people inside the laboratory.

      “Priority one. Close off all entries to the park. Shut it down two miles down the mountain.” Strays, Cisco thought. He was going to get strays off Skyline Drive in the area. “No one gets in or out. No one. Plainclothes, no military. We don’t want to scare the locals. Call it a gas leak. I want a man at every