Hidden Prey

open his mouth, the other man shot him in the heart. Oleshev fell over backwards. His chest hurt, but his mind was okay for a few seconds, and his vision actually seemed better: there was lots of light now. Enough light that when the man stood over him and pointed the gun at his eyes, he could clearly see the O of the muzzle. He wanted to shout again.
    Carl, who didn’t know that he’d hit Oleshev in the heart, stepped forward and fired twice more, from short range, through the Russian’s forehead. Unnecessary, but he didn’t know that. He had the theory, but he didn’t have the training.
     
    T REY HAD HEARD Oleshev coming, stumbling through the weeds, muttering and grumbling.
    There had been two or three people walking around the terminal in the past hour. She’d stayed out of sight in her hole with her bottle, invisible in the night, enjoying the lake. She yawned. When this one had gone up the ladder into the ship, she thought, she’d head back across the wasteland to the shack where she was crashing.
    Her pad.
    She’d found two whole rolls of bubble wrap in a Dumpster at the Goodwill store, and with a little duct tape, had made the most luxurious mattress out of it. Asleep on the bubble wrap, cocooned in an olive-drab army blanket, she could almost believe that she was back home. The best nights were the nights when it was raining, when the rain on the roof and the warmth of the bed made her feel cozy and snug. The problem with it was that when she was lonely, or bored, or stressed, she tended to pop the bubbles.
    Now, sitting in her hole, she heard a man speak; and then a shot. She recognized the shot for what it was, though it wasn’t loud. A Bap! like the noise made by a pellet gun. She stood up, thinking herself safe in the dark, her eyes just inches higher than the weeds around her.
    A tall man, with fair hair, stood over another man, who was supine on the concrete slab. The tall man’s face was turned toward her, and she registered his good looks. He pointed the pistol and fired twice more into the second man’s head, bap! bap! The pistol had a bulbous barrel. A silencer? She’d only seen them in movies.
    The killing had been cold, she thought. She shivered, lost her balance for a moment, caught herself. Stepped on piece of broken concrete, lost her balance again, and caught herself a second time. And made just enough noise to attract the attention of the killer.
    His head came up, and he saw her—saw the light reflecting off her face—lifted the pistol and fired two quick shots at her. She saw the small flashes, but never heard the slugs go by, because she was already moving, running through the jumble of weeds and concrete along the bank, frantic to get away from the gun.
    Moving just a fraction slower than she might have, had her hands been empty: but a bum and a drunk would never drop a half-full bottle of pinot, not if there was an alternative.
    Behind her, a thrashing. Trey fell, saved the bottle by rolling, clambered to her feet, looked back, was shocked to see the killer only fifty feet away and closing. She ran, scrambling, heard him fall and cry out, ran some more, fell, smashed the bottle, cried, “Motherfucker,” turned and saw him, still coming, even closer, saw him go down again, ran a few more steps, the darkness now closing down like velvet, looked back, saw him coming, thirty feet away, catching her . . .
    He stopped and fired again, and she imagined that the slug went through her hair; fired again, and now he was so close that she couldn’t imagine him missing her, but he did. Running and shooting was hard, and he wasn’t trained.
    But he was going to catch her. She went down again, felt the rocks under her knees, and he was right there. She dug in her pocket. A helpless Mexican bum in Los Angeles, selling the last thing he owned so he could buy a little food, had given her a six-inch switchblade with a curved yellow plastic handle, for six dollars. She’d carried it for two years, more as a comfort than as a weapon, but now she dug it out, nearly dropped it, pushed the button and the blade sprang out, turned, desperate, not ready to die . . .
    The killer was there, three feet away, and he pointed the gun at her and pulled the trigger . . . and nothing happened.
    He said, almost conversationally, “Shit.”
    Trey went after him with the knife. She didn’t like to fight, but she wasn’t bad at it. Not for a woman her size. She knew to shout, too. She screamed,