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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-54396-642-8 – Ebook

  ISBN: 978-1-54396-641-1 – Paperback

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2019 Ryan Aslesen

  Cover layout by Deranged Doctor Design www.derangeddoctordesign.com

  Book design and production by BookBaby

  Editing by: Tyler Mathis, Leigh Hogan, and Hannah McCall

  © 2019 Ryan Aslesen. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  www.ryanaslesen.com

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The world’s most dangerous man becomes the world’s most dangerous prey.

  Former Marine Raider Max Ahlgren continues the hunt for his family’s killers. While Max is tracking down leads in Washington, DC, a face from the past emerges with the information Max needs to continue his quest for vengeance. The only catch, he must first agree to help locate and rescue a powerful Senator’s son.

  The clues lead Max to an alluring reporter and a mysterious organization providing one-of-a-kind trophy hunts on a remote island off the coast of South America. On this island, Max comes face to face with a threat that can dethrone man from the top of the evolutionary pyramid. Fighting a dangerous web of deceit through a deadly jungle hell, Max unearths a secret that changes everything he thought he knew about his past. And his future...

  To my good friend Jay,

  Thank you for always supporting me and putting up with my crazy imagination. Semper Fi, brother.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to take a moment and thank all the talented people who worked behind the scenes on this book. My name graces the cover; however, that is only the tip of the iceberg and doesn’t fully represent all the work and effort to make this book possible. This book would truly not be possible if it wasn’t for their collective efforts.

  First, a special thanks to my developmental editor, Tyler Mathis, a fellow Marine and brother-in-arms, for all his help and collaboration in producing this story. I know you have spent many an hour reviewing my ideas and providing valuable input. You are a true professional.

  I would also like to extend my appreciation as always to Leigh Hogan for all the time and energy put into copy editing my manuscript. You provided the much-appreciated final touches, and your enthusiasm for your work is readily evident.

  I would also like to thank Hannah McCall at Black Cat Editorial Services for her help with the final edit and proofread. Your final touches were a great help.

  Any mistakes or shortcomings that remain in this book are mine and mine alone.

  A book isn’t complete without a cover, and I want to thank Kim and Darja with Deranged Doctor Design for the final cover design and marketing materials. You guys have been awesome, and I appreciate the great covers you put together for me.

  My heartfelt thanks also goes out to my readers. I appreciate you purchasing my books and taking the time to experience my stories. And a special thanks to all of you who have extended kind words of positive support or left reviews and recommendations. It truly means a lot. I continue to enjoy this amazing journey, and I’ll keep writing these books as long as you keep buying them or pay me to stop.

  Finally, I also wanted to thank my family for all your love and support. Your love is the high-octane fuel that drives my creative engine.

  There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.

  —Ernest Hemingway

  PROLOGUE

  All his life, he had run for the sheer joy of it.

  Now he ran in terror from sadistic men whose names and motives he would never know and couldn’t possibly understand. Why? he asked himself as he crashed through thick jungle undergrowth, colorful birds taking wing at his frantic approach. But it was not a question someone like Pierre could answer; not a query any sane man could contemplate. He only knew the grave reality of his current situation. He responded the only way he knew how—he ran.

  Get higher! Faster! Run!

  The booming pulse of his blood pounded through his brain, nearly drowning out his thoughts. He had never felt such unsettling sensations when running, and the cause was no mystery—he could feel the blood oozing down his left leg. The shot had only grazed him; nevertheless blood flowed steadily from the gash. He thought of stopping, catching his breath, perhaps attempting to stanch the flow of blood by stuffing jungle moss or spider silk into his wound.

  Never had he run so slowly, yet perhaps he’d lost them anyway. Despite his mediocre hobble, Pierre could still move faster than most men on the planet.

  He had no idea what day of the week it might be yet remembered that not long ago he’d been an engineering student at the University of the Antilles in Cayenne, French Guiana, his higher education subsidized by a track-and-field scholarship. His prowess at long-distance running had earned him an upcoming tryout for the 2020 French Olympic team, an appointment he’d been eagerly anticipating.

  Then, while walking home one night after visiting his girlfriend, the world simply went black.

  He awoke as an animal in captivity, his quarters a filthy concrete cell that reeked of human waste. A narrow shaft of electric light penetrated the small barred window in the cell’s steel door, dimly illuminating walls covered with patches of mildew and smears of blood and shit. The back of his skull thumped with a bass vibration that made him nauseous, but he stood and shouted vain pleas through the bars.

  If anyone heard him, they did not respond.

  His first human contact came hours later when a guard in a black paramilitary uniform shoved a food tray though a horizontal hatch in the door. Pierre barked questions at him: Where am I? Why am I here? What have I done? Tell me!

  Once Pierre had shouted himself hoarse, the guard merely shrugged. “Take your food, or I’ll drop it on the floor.”

  Realizing the futility of further questions—as well as his own hunger—Pierre took the tray and retreated to a far corner of his cell.

  He spent most of the interminable period that followed asleep on the floor, his only respite from the constant pound of his aching skull. Guards delivered trays of food from time to time. His pain slowly abated while the noise level outside of his cell increased. Shouts rang out in French and Spanish—some pleading, some demanding, all desperate. They all fell on deaf ears. After a while he tuned out the raving, panicked voices that had transformed the place from mere jail into an insane asyl
um.

  The guards took a woman first—Pierre could tell from her screams. All day they removed people, mostly men, from the cell block at irregular intervals. The place grew quiet. Apprehensive in his anticipation, he began pacing his cell. He demanded release, if only to work off a bit of his pent-up energy. Now fully healed, he felt like running.

  He got his wish soon enough. Two guards armed with submachine guns entered his cell, handcuffed him behind his back and blindfolded him.

  “Where have you taken the others? Where are we going?”

  The guards did not respond. They marched him from the cell and up a few flights of stairs. Blazing sunshine warmed Pierre when they brought him outside, into the soupy humidity. They must have walked several hundred yards before halting. His handcuffs were removed, followed by the blindfold. Though they stood in the shade of many trees at the edge of a jungle, Pierre shielded his eyes from the unfamiliar daylight.

  After a minute or so he dared lift his head to gaze at his surroundings. The high forest canopy appeared primeval. A passing cloud blotted out the sun, which hung midway between the horizons. In the broad daylight Pierre noticed his tattered and filthy clothing, so pristine when he’d left his girlfriend’s house on a night that seemed years in the past. When he dared turn his head, one of the guards slapped him hard across the face.

  “Don’t look back. Get moving.”

  “In there?” Pierre asked, incredulous.

  “If you want to live.”

  The second guard laughed at this.

  “But what did I—?”

  “Get moving! The clock started two minutes ago.”

  “Clock? What—?”

  The submachine gun in the other guard’s hands erupted with a burp of fire. Fine dirt and clumps of turf showered Pierre as bullets chewed the earth at his feet. He didn’t need to be told again. Adrenaline pumped into his bloodstream as he sprinted for the jungle and plunged into its thick, gloomy embrace.

  Now, hours later, he dared pause a moment to examine the bullet wound on his leg. Dark, venous blood continued to ooze from the four-inch gash in his mighty quadriceps. He needed something to stop the slow leak: mud to pack the wound or a vine to slow the circulation. Something... anything!

  Then he heard again the faint whine of an engine toiling to power a vehicle over rough terrain. He hadn’t time for even primitive medical attention. Not when the hunters closed on him with every passing second.

  Tired, dizzy, panting, he took off again.

  Bastards!

  All day he heard sporadic gunfire—the chatter of automatic weapons or the lone boom of a high-powered rifle as the hunters methodically murdered other human animals loosed in this jungle hell. He’d used his wits and God-given talent to evade the hunters so far. Had they been chasing him solely afoot, they wouldn’t have gotten within a mile. As if guns weren’t advantage enough, these killers chased down their prey with Land Rovers. They always homed in on him, no matter how far and fast he ran, which led Pierre to believe he might have some sort of transmitter in his clothes. Maybe even an implant under his skin.

  The pitch of the engine increased as the vehicle approached his location via a road hidden somewhere in the tangle of lush foliage. Though he didn’t think it possible, he willed himself to run faster despite his aches and fatigue. Soon it would be dusk, and darkness might offer some reprieve from their relentless pursuit.

  I will survive this!

  At the sight of sea all the way to the horizon, an escape plan, or at least the beginnings of one, formed. At present he ran up a gentle grade, toward what he guessed to be the highest point on what he presumed to be an island. Upon reaching the summit he would climb the highest tree he could find. From there he hoped to spot a boat that he could steal.

  If he was successful, he had a good idea what direction home lay in. South. He’d heard mostly old folk speak in hushed awe of the Ile des Esprits but had always dismissed their stories as tall tales spouted by the ignorant. His gut instinct told him he’d been wrong.

  The engine noise grew closer, then stopped—they had to be within a hundred yards.

  Pierre dipped into the dregs of his formerly bottomless fortitude and charged up the grade at nearly a sprint. Fronds and branches slapped him in the face, and his left leg burned in agony as he bounded over rocks and gnarled roots of ancient trees.

  Fatigue forced him to halt after a few minutes. He listened but heard very little. His headlong dash through the jungle had silenced the birds and insects. They should resume where they’d left off, but they did not.

  The hunters are close.

  But Pierre could run no longer. He moved on at a fast walk, the best he could manage. As he skirted a rock formation he espied a dark fissure in the stone, nearly hidden by surrounding scrub bushes.

  There!

  Hopefully the opening would lead to a cave or at least be large enough to hide in.

  Except the hunters would spot the hole as easily as he had.

  He climbed a few feet over scattered boulders before reaching the fissure, which bore some distance into the rock. He uprooted two shrubs before entering the cave and arranged them outside the fissure in a manner that would hopefully hide the entrance. He descended several feet, relishing the cool air drafting up from the depths of the earth. Wet, rotting leaves scattered on the cave’s uneven floor gave off the scent of decay. Beneath that foul smell he detected a more powerful stench resembling garbage rotting on a hot day, which made him squint and wrinkle his nose.

  His bare foot came down hard on something brittle enough to snap beneath his weight. Within the confines of the cave, the sound echoed loud as a pistol shot.

  Shit! Could they have heard it outside? Likely yes, he figured as he descended further.

  A few feet later, at the very limit of the light penetrating from the surface, an object on the floor caught his eye—the carcass of some animal, a fresh kill with gnawed ribbons of meat still clinging to the bones. Fat flies buzzed lazy circles over the carrion in the chilly cave air, and the stench of corruption walloped him again with a force so violent that he retched, though he only produced a few drops of bile.

  Get past it. Get into the dark.

  He took his first tentative step around the carcass.

  A scrabbling noise came from dead ahead. Dim light reflected from two shining golden eyes so vivid he could make out the black vertical slits in their gleaming, mesmerizing depths. Teeth like yellow razors multiplied around a large, gaping maw that emitted a hissed growl. The reek of carrion on its breath nearly made him faint. Shit blasted from his bowels, when he felt the wind from its snapping jaws.

  He turned and fled over sharp and slippery rocks. He reached the cave mouth and crashed through the brush he’d used for camouflage.

  The bullet took him in the chest, lifted him off his feet, and spun him backward. Pierre didn’t even hear the shot. He landed supine on the rocks, head spinning, unable to breathe. His heart had stopped, blasted to ribbons of sinew and dangling cords of vessels. During the final seconds of his life, one word echoed in his head:

  Why?

  ***

  “Success?” barked a grizzled, stocky man as he exited the jungle brush at the base of the rock formation. He wore classic khaki safari attire and carried an M14 with a powerful scope at port arms.

  “You tell me,” answered a thinner man dressed in brand-new jungle camouflage, his .308 magnum still smoking in his grasp.

  The stocky man moved forth to join him and admire the kill. Both were white-haired, around sixty years old, the thin man as polished as the stocky man gruff.

  “Congratulations, señor,” called a third man as he stepped around a boulder. “I think we have a winner. But who?” He grinned beneath a thick black mustache and slung his rifle over his shoulder as he approached.

  “Not the general,” said the t
hin man in a mocking tone.

  “Yeah, who knew judges could shoot,” responded the stocky man. Though he’d retired from the Air Force ten years before, some still insisted on addressing him by his military title, but his present honorific was Chairman of the Board at the world’s largest electronics firm.

  “Leave it to a lefty, I always say.” The thin man, a US federal judge appointed by Bill Clinton, preened as he looked upon his handiwork. Few knew him for an avid hunter; his ardent supporters would have been shocked. He’d handed down many rulings in favor of strict gun control from his bench on the Circuit Court of Appeals. He would sit on the Supreme Court within a few years, after the American people elected a left-wing radical in 2020. This had been decided many years before.

  “A most skillful shot, señor. The kill of the day is yours.” Mustache man nodded his respect.

  Some men were made of steel, others of stone, but most were composed of weaker stuff—glass or paper. After a lifetime of maneuvering in Central American politics, finally landing a position as chief advisor to a dictator despised throughout the free world, the man with the mustache liked to think he could spot a man’s mettle at a glance.

  But he had clearly underestimated the judge from America.

  “Thank you, Minister Aguilar,” said the judge.

  “The runner’s worth three points,” the general said. “That brings our score up to seven.”

  “We would have gotten five for him if you hadn’t turned on the tracker,” the judge admonished with a sneer.

  “Beats not bagging him at all. Wasted most of the day on him as it is.”

  “And nightfall approaches quickly,” the minister—deputy minister, actually—lamented.

  The general waved a dismissive hand. “Hell, if there are any left, we’ll spotlight the sons of bitches and mow ’em down like deer.”

  “Ah, ever the sportsman.” The judge snorted a laugh. “Let’s see if we can find some other targets before sunset... before it comes to that.” He guffawed as the general—who had exactly zero kills for the day—seethed. “Spotlighting.”