Chapter 2: The Hunter’s First Prey

After finishing a pack of cigarettes, I stuffed a few tools in my bag and headed out.

My hands trembled as I zipped up my old duffel. I grabbed a flashlight, gloves, and a couple things from the garage I hoped I wouldn’t need. The night air was cold and sharp, thick with the smell of wet grass and a faint hint of diesel from the distant highway.

Around 4 a.m., outside a rundown trailer at the edge of town, I tossed a small metal ball through a cracked window.

The trailer park was dead quiet, the kind of place where porch lights flickered and TVs glowed behind thin curtains. My boots crunched on the gravel as I crept up, heart hammering. The metal ball—a cheap motion sensor—landed inside with a dull thud.

I watched the signal on my phone, confirming there was just one person inside.

The blip on the screen pulsed steady. Just one signal in the dark. I crouched low, straining to hear any movement inside. Every second stretched, nerves jangling.

The guy inside was careful; he stayed silent for what felt like forever.

He didn’t move, didn’t even flick on a light. I pictured him frozen, maybe clutching a weapon, listening for any sound. The trailer’s thin walls did nothing to hide the tension.

Leaning against the door, the silence pressed in so hard I could hear my own pulse in my ears. Then, finally, the door creaked open.

The night felt endless, like the world was holding its breath. Then—a soft creak. Someone easing the door open, testing the hinges. I tensed, ready to move.

I kicked the door hard. It flew open, and I rushed in, flashlight slicing through the dark.

The door banged against the wall. I burst inside, light cutting through the black. My heart was slamming in my chest, hands slick with sweat.

In the flashlight’s beam, a skinny guy in boxers was sprawled on the floor. I swept the light across him—he was gripping a knife.

Tattoos crawled up his arms, eyes wild and darting. The knife glinted as he shifted, every muscle coiled, ready to spring.

He scrambled up and lunged at me. I grabbed a handful of powdered bleach from my bag and hurled it in his face.

The powder caught the light, bursting into a cloud. He screamed, clawing at his eyes, stumbling back toward the kitchenette.

He staggered, letting out a guttural scream.

His wail bounced off the aluminum walls, raw and desperate. The knife clattered to the linoleum as he doubled over.

I took my chance and kicked him hard in the chest. He crashed to the floor, knife skidding away.

The blow knocked the wind out of him. He gasped, arms flailing, reaching for the blade but coming up empty.

I scooped up the knife, flicked on the overhead light, and dragged a chair over, sitting down slow and deliberate.

The bulb buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the room. I set the knife on my knee, leaned back, and watched him try to focus through the pain.

His face was streaked with bleach, his eyes bloodshot and blinking frantically.

Tears and snot ran down his face, mixing with the powder. He looked like someone who’d just woken up in a nightmare.

"Shit, who the hell are you?" he spat, his glare full of hate.

His voice was rough, defiant, but I caught the tremor underneath. He tried to sound tough, but fear was leaking through every word.

I didn’t answer directly. My tone was cold, flat as ice. "Your name’s Tony Delgado. You attacked someone outside Jefferson Elementary—a female teacher was hacked to death by you and your buddy."

I let the words hang, heavy and sharp. The accusation cut through whatever swagger he had left.

He rubbed his eyes, blinking in disbelief. "Bullshit, you’re making that up!"

He tried to sound convincing, but his voice cracked. He knew he was cornered.

I pulled a sketch from my bag and held it up, letting him see the match. "No mistake."

I angled the police sketch so he could see—same jawline, same scar above the brow. He couldn’t deny it.

Suddenly, he hurled a shoe at me and lunged, wild-eyed, like he was ready to go down swinging.

He moved fast, pure desperation. The shoe missed, but he came at me with every ounce of fight left in him.

I twisted aside, dodged the shoe, and slashed his right arm. He collapsed, howling.

Blood splattered across the floor, his scream raw and animal. He dropped, clutching his arm, gasping for breath.

I grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair, yanked him back, and slammed him into the chair.

He struggled, but I forced him down, shoving him into the seat. The old chair groaned under his weight.

To keep him from getting up again, I pulled out a small knife and stabbed through both his hands and feet.

The blade punched through flesh and wood with a sickening crunch. He screamed, eyes rolling back. Blood dripped down his wrists, spreading across the filthy carpet.

The pain made him clench his jaw so hard I heard a tooth snap.

He ground his teeth, a sharp crack echoing in the room. A bloody shard hit the floor, and he whimpered, sweat streaking his face.

He slumped, breathing hard, and finally croaked, "Who the hell are you? How’d you find me?"

His voice was a broken whisper. He looked up, desperate for an answer.

I answered coolly, "Tracking someone isn’t that hard. Unless you’re living off the grid, you always leave a trail."

I leaned in, my voice dropping lower. "You buy gas, use your phone, talk to the wrong person at the wrong time—it all leaves a mark."

"No matter how careful you are, someone in your crew will screw up. The data catches up fast."

I tapped my phone, showing him a map with dozens of red pins. "You think you’re invisible, but you’re just another dot on the screen."

"Maybe you think you’re slick, dodging cameras, but witnesses gave me everything I needed."

I flipped through the statements, reading off details—height, build, tattoos. He went pale, sweat beading on his brow as he realized how much I knew.

He blinked, lost in the pain, trying to process just how screwed he was.

His brow furrowed, sweat and blood mixing on his face. He was starting to understand—there was no way out.

I shook my head. "Why am I even explaining this to you."

I muttered it, mostly for myself. This wasn’t about him—it was about me getting what I needed.

"Your target was Lucas Grant. His dad, Michael Grant, is a small-time contractor who just went bankrupt and made a lot of enemies."

I laid out the motive, the connections. Every grudge, every debt, every rival. All roads led to that one kid.

"I sorted through his biggest rivals, hit up every bar and backroom in town tonight—I’m running on fumes."

I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion pressing down. My voice was rough, but I kept going. "You were my last stop."

"If I could find you, so can the cops. You’d better start talking before they roll up."

I let the threat hang in the air. The sirens weren’t far off—I could almost hear them. He knew his time was just about up.

He seemed to get it and rasped, "So what makes you so sure it was me?"

His voice shook, almost pleading. Like he wanted to believe he still had a shot.

I said, steady, "Doesn’t matter if I’m sure. You’re about to confess anyway."

I stared him down, voice flat as stone. He knew it was over.

I took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and slowly poured it over the wound on his left leg.

The water was heavy with salt—I’d loaded it up. I let it trickle, soaking the wound, watching his face twist in agony.

He screamed, veins bulging at his temples, the pain tearing through him.

The scream was animal, ripping through the room. He thrashed, but the knife held him fast.

"Don’t worry, I’ve got a whole bag of tricks to make you talk. And if you don’t, I’ll just move on to the next wound."

I flashed a cold grin, letting him see how far I was willing to go. He could feel it—this was personal.

Watching him writhe, I let a bitter smile curl across my lips.

The satisfaction was sharp, twisted. I let him see exactly what he’d brought out in me.

Suddenly, his eyes went wide and he croaked, "You… you’re Jake Mercer. The Black Wolf from Maple Heights!"

Recognition dawned, and for a second, fear mingled with something like awe. My reputation had gotten around.

"Everybody in the game knows you—you’re a monster in a world of monsters."

He swallowed hard, voice shaking. "You always cracked cases, always broke guys down. Didn’t they kick you off the force for that?"

He spat the words, half accusation, half twisted respect. I could tell he was trying to rattle me, maybe buy a few seconds.

"To end up in the hands of a guy like you—man, what rotten luck. But sorry, I got nothing to say."

He tried to sound tough, but his voice broke. He was bluffing, and we both knew it.

I stomped on his right leg wound, grinding my heel in. "I’m not asking you to talk. Just admit it."

He shrieked, body jerking. I leaned in, letting him see the fire in my eyes. "You owe me that much."

Tony was shaking, voice shredded by pain, but he still spat bloody saliva at me.

The spit landed on my boot. I didn’t flinch. He was running out of fight, and he knew it.

I nodded. "You’ve got guts. But I’m best at giving people exactly what they deserve."

I wiped the spit off, tossed the rag aside. "You picked the wrong family to cross."

"The woman you hacked to death—she was Lauren. My wife."

I let her name hang in the air, let him see the pain burning in my eyes. He went pale as the truth hit him.

"And I know exactly where your wife and kid live."

I said it low, voice sharp as a razor. That was it—his bravado shattered, fear flooding in.

He broke, just like that. "I admit it, I admit it! Just leave my family alone."

He collapsed, sobbing, voice raw and desperate. All the fight was gone, replaced by pure terror.

He started bawling. "Bro, you gotta believe me, I didn’t kill your wife. It was my guy Joey—he’s nuts. He did it!"

His hands shook, blood pooling on the floor. He pleaded with me, eyes wide, voice cracking. The truth—or at least his version—came spilling out fast.

The files mentioned—several witnesses said only one attacker actually did the stabbing.

I remembered—one guy did the killing, the other hung back. Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe not. Either way, he was part of it.

Tony was rattled, voice barely above a whisper. "We were just supposed to grab the kid, that’s all. The teacher… she just got in the way."

He looked away, shame written all over his face. "We were supposed to snatch the kid, scare his dad. That was it."

"But that idiot Joey lost it, went nuts, started slashing at anyone who got close."

His words tumbled out, panic rising. "He just snapped. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen."

Lost in thought, I walked over to the door, yanked a rusty nail from the frame, and tied a thick elastic band across the doorway.

The old trailer creaked as I worked. Tony’s ragged breathing filled the silence. I rigged the elastic, hands steady. There was still one more name on my list.

"That’s all I know. I swear, I didn’t kill your wife. You should be looking for Joey."

He begged, voice rasping. "I got nothing left, man. Please."

"He ran off after we split. I got no clue where he is."

His shoulders slumped. He was done—beaten by pain and fear.

Tony’s face sagged, and he spilled everything he knew.

He talked for minutes, naming names, places, habits. I listened, locking every detail in my mind. This was all I was getting from him.

I packed up, wiped down the scene, then stepped over the elastic band and glanced back at him.

I cleaned my prints off the chair, the doorknob, everything I’d touched. I paused in the doorway, watching him shiver, eyes wide and pleading.

A flicker of hope crossed Tony’s face. "Thanks for sparing me, man. I’ll turn myself in!"

His voice was shaky, relief flooding his features. He really thought he was getting a second chance.

My expression hardened. I set the nail in the middle of the elastic, pulled it back as far as it would go.

I stared at him, letting the silence build. He realized too late he was out of luck.

"Sorry. I’m not a cop anymore. I don’t spare anyone now."

My words were ice. I let the nail fly, the snap echoing through the tiny room.

The instant I let go, the rusty nail shot out and buried itself in Tony’s forehead.

Everything slowed down. The nail hit with a sickening thunk. His eyes went wide, mouth hanging open in shock.

His eyes bugged out, his jaw went slack, his face went rigid. His throat worked, head tipping back like a puppet with cut strings.

Blood trickled down his forehead, pooling at his collarbone. His body sagged, head lolling against the chair back.

The silence that followed was complete. The metal ball I’d thrown earlier, the motion sensor, lay by his foot.

The quiet was total, broken only by my own harsh breathing. The sensor’s LED blinked, a tiny red light in the dark.

On my phone, the signal went still.

I watched the screen a second longer, a chill settling over me. It was over.