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CHAPTER SEVEN

He grasped the edges of his sack that he used as a blindfold, fingers tightly clutching the rough fabric. Who would he use it on next? The thought excited him. So many possibilities. The first few had awakened a burning need for more. The seeds of violence in him had grown, stronger and faster than even he'd anticipated.

The protocol that he'd used so far had worked well for him, very well. Better than he'd expected. They'd all thought they were being hazed. It had gone seamlessly. In fact, he was amazed by how submissive they had all been.

He'd been expecting more of a challenge and a struggle from them. It seemed, though, they were all too scared. The hazing they'd endured had made them determined not to fight, knowing things would only get worse.

Now, though, with three victims easily taken in a short time, he knew that his beginner's luck might run out. People were not stupid, and the others were going to become wary, even on a big base like this, even when he knew that the higher ups would be suppressing the information just as fervently as they could.

But he wasn't going to let that deter him. He was determined to quench the fire that burned within him, one victim at a time.

He couldn't stop now. That was an impossibility. The thrill was too great. The sound of their breathing, the smell of their fear, it was like a drug to him. He needed more. And he knew just who to target next.

Right now, he was preparing. Thinking carefully about how he was going to do this. He needed a strategy for how to handle resistance. It would happen, that he was sure of. Others in the rooms might be a problem, but there was a way he could handle that. He had ideas.

He grinned to himself. Being clever had its advantages. He could plan ahead, see the problem coming. And he had a back-up plan, too. Always. If he ever had to use it, he would have to rush his mission, but that would only add to the thrill. He wasn’t a mean person and he didn’t condone torture. Torture was not the point, although his hands sweated at the thought. But that was beyond him – for now at least. Death was the objective, and his new mission in life was dealing it out to those who deserved it.

As for now, he was hidden away, moving slowly through the base, from one concealment point to the next. It was a zigzag route that he’d followed before, and the hiding places were always close enough that he could get to them fast, if someone appeared. That was necessary. He was not supposed to be where he was, and if he was recognized, it would destroy his plans.

Looking from an outside perspective, in a totally neutral mindset, he acknowledged that this base gave him the creeps. It stank of sweat and effort and terror. It was something he was able to acknowledge now, when he was not the person others wanted him to be, but was really himself.

But that's what made it all the more perfect for him. The fear was palpable and it fueled him. And now, with his plan in place, he knew he was ready for his next victim.

He had his tools ready – the sack and the ropes - and his steps were soft and silent as he made his way through the narrow corridors. This was the time of greatest risk. But of course, that was necessary, to achieve the greatest reward.

At this hour, the base was still active, which was why he was keeping so low, to stay out of trouble. Positioning was everything. He knew the rhythms of the base. The time at which the activity muted, and only the lonely pacing of the night guards remained. At that time, exhaustion suffused the air. Sleep was finally granted to tired bodies that had spent far too long in exercises, in shooting, in physical activity, in brutal fitness training.

It was the perfect scenario for him. He grinned as he thought about those tired, sleepy bodies, reacting so slowly to him. He knew from glances into the mirror that this was a predatory expression.

His fingers clenched again around the sack. His weapon of concealment.

It had deep meaning for him, and only he knew why.

Grinning wider, he settled in to wait for night.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The car's trunk was stuffy and freezing cold. Not a great combination. Especially when you added 'joltingly uncomfortable' to the list. But Cora knew it was all she was going to get, and she was lucky to have it.

The man she’d met must have been more intimidated by her than she'd thought, to agree to this, even if it had taken a few threats and the confiscation of his keys.

She had to hand it to herself. She was good at getting what she wanted. And she wanted answers. She wanted to know why Officer Garrett had authorized violence against people who talked about what was really going on at the base. Was he the instigator?

She needed to know what the hell was really going on, and who was killing these people.

Due to the personal connection she had forged with the soldier who was still walking with a limp, and also due to the small size of his car’s trunk, this was a job for her alone. Gabe was hunkered down in the motel, waiting for her to get back. She hoped she would get back in one piece. To do this, she was putting trust in a man that she had no reason to trust, and in the trunk she was at a disadvantage, but he was the only way she had of getting on to the base. Hopefully her threats had been enough.

The car came to a sudden stop, and she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She tensed, her hand moving to her weapon in the darkness, bracing her feet against the carpet, ready for anything.

Muffled voices. This was the checkpoint. This was the most dangerous moment of all. Because if this guy decided to rat her out, this was where it would happen, and then Cora would be in serious trouble.

It all depended on whether she'd managed to intimidate him enough earlier. She hoped she had. But bullies didn’t always cave completely. Sometimes, they devised nasty methods of payback for later.

More voices. She wished she could hear the words, but inside this space, they were inaudible. But the men seemed to be having a long conversation. Was this normal? Was the soldier from the racetrack really so friendly with the guard at the checkpoint heading into base? Or was he briefing him that there was a fugitive in his trunk?

After what felt like an eternity, the voices finally faded away, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The car started up again, and they drove deeper on to the base.

Then, the car stopped. It did so suddenly, a jolting stop that caused her to bump her head against the back of the trunk. She wondered if that was intentional, his petty revenge on her for what she’d done to him earlier.

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