The Hunt Begins

Hudson held the rifle tightly, his heart pounding in his ears. He leaned back against the cold metal of the kitchen counter, his breath short and labored. The smell of spilled wine and gunpowder filled the air.

He had killed a man.

The truth of it sank into his bones, but he pushed himself to concentrate. Thinking was out of the question now. The shot had been so close. They were on the move.

He needed more weapons.

His eyes scanned the kitchen. It was spacious, meant for serving the elites of society. A playground of survival.

His hands moved quickly—he reached for a meat cleaver on the cutting board. His fingers clamped down on the handle of a pepper grinder, smooth and heavy, good for a blunt blow.

He then looked at it—a butane torch.

PERFECT.

He hid the torch in his pocket and gripped the cleaver in his other hand. Violence was expected in the situation.

"Status report," a voice interrupted the hijackers' radio.

Four men, armed with heavy weapons, arrived at the site, standing over the body of their fallen companion.

Blood had pooled around the victim's neck, staining the carpet a dark red color. His gun was missing.

A hijacker, wearing a black balaclava to cover his face, activated his vest-mounted comms device.

"Sir, we have a problem."

Silence.

Then a voice responded.

Deep. Cold. The Antagonist.

"Report."

"One of our personnel has been incapacitated. The individual targeted is armed. He is resisting."

A pause. Then, the voice chuckled softly.

"Interesting."

The individuals exchanged looks.

"Do we take him out?" one of them inquired.

Yet, the reaction was unexpected.

"The villain responded in a calm, almost amused tone, 'No. Spare his life.'"

A beat of silence.

"Wound him. Corner him. I want to see what he's capable of."

The hijacker paused before he replied. "Understood, sir."

And so the search commenced.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hudson exhaled, rushing through the kitchen.

He spilled a glass bottle full of cooking oil on the floor inside the doorway. If they were rushing, they'd slide.

He hunkered between the metal shelves, rifle ready. The cleaver was close to hand. Every muscle was screaming. Ready.

Footprints.

They were coming.

His hold constricted.

The attention had turned away from survival.

They required him alive. But he would not make it easy.