Shadow Hunter

By Gloria Esquerra

"Never, ever forget that these creatures are the predators of our species. They’ll take the old, adults, teenagers, children, infants. They do not discriminate. In one way or another, we are their sustenance. The vampire continues his immortality with human blood, the shape shifter requires our body, and the demon feeds on our soul. The abominations go on and on."

This is what seventeen-year-old Ryder Jae Lee has been taught since she was surrendered by her Native American parents, as a four-year-old child, to be taught the techniques and skills she would need to become a Shadow Hunter—one who vanquishes the evils of the unseen world. Trained to be a warrior by both her clan and three ex-Army Rangers, she is gifted with the ability to sense the unseen world. When her sister is killed by one of the undead, Jae swears revenge and sets out on a cross-country road trip, accompanied only by the ghost dog, Siri, and the ever-present tracking of her back-up team. There is just one problem—Caden, the vampire, is as able to sense her as she is him, and his hold on her heart is both compelling and destructive. Will she be able to carry out her mission? More importantly, what will happen to her if she does?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gloria Esquerra
• Release date: Sep 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466082830

Gloria Esquerra

Gloria Esquerra lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her family and pet desert tortoise, Orbie. She is Native American and has a BA and MA in Elementary School Education. Gloria loves to write, read, and watch martial arts movies.

Book preview

Shadow Hunter

~A Shadow Hunter Novel~

Gloria Esquerra

The Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 Gloria Esquerra

Note: to provide the reader with more of a sample from the actual story, most of the traditional front matter and the Table of Contents appear at the end.

SHADOW HUNTER

"Today is a good day to fight,

today is a good day to die."

~Crazy Horse, Oglala Sioux

Prologue

I have always known of the existence of monsters—vampires, werewolves, shape shifters, demons. The abominations. I come from an ancient people who have spoken of them in frightened whispers around night fires. I will not reveal the name of my tribe, for fear of revenge, for the creatures are out there, watching and listening. My clan, in particular, is peaceful and disinclined to kill. They hold to a truce made with the monsters eons before my time. As long as their evil does not pollute our land and their fangs do not tear at the skin of our people, we leave them to their secrets.

We sense the passing of our own, whether their death is from natural causes or is brought about by one of these vile beings. If you can imagine a shimmering spider’s web, holding fast in a strong wind, you might understand the intricate, unbreakable connections of my people. A tear occurs with the passing of each loved one, for all are cherished. Only time can heal the web. Death is a part of life, but when it comes violently to one of our own we mourn, our heart shatters, but we leave the slayer to the law—most of the time. When death comes at the hands of a monster, we know. The rip in the web reverberates in brilliant visions. Cries of revenge move over the land like a wave. The one destined to be the hunter scents the killer at the moment of slaughter, and the scent remains until revenge has been exacted.

The brilliance of my grievous vision has not dulled with time. The sweet, disgusting scent remains undiluted; the insistent call for revenge persists. They say my sister was demanding in life. And so she is in death, as well. He killed her, so I hunt him without mercy. I shall destroy him with the ashes of his own kind; ashes purified by fire and sacred ceremony, and the blessed stones of the four corners of creation entrusted to me by our holy men.

I am called Ryder Jae, shadow hunter. My prey is death, a blood drinker, the killer of my only sister. He calls himself Caden.

Chapter One

It’s cold and I’m driving into a wind. The wind moving through the Pass isn’t strong, except for the occasional gust that buffets my truck, but the chill factor has dropped the temperature down to miserable. It matches my mood. The sun has fallen behind the rugged terrain. Shadows creep. Inhuman things appear to come alive. It’s probably my imagination, but the night seemed to convulse momentarily. I thought I saw something gray and gangling flash across the road. But I’m exhausted. I despise this freakin’ highway. I just want to be home.

We rolled out of the Pass clocking 87 as dusk settled over the land that stretched endlessly before us. Allison Moorer’s haunting voice filled the Ford’s cab as a green road sign flashed by. Ten miles to go before we hit the town of Raton, New Mexico. I cranked up the volume and eased up on the gas. I didn’t need another speeding ticket.

A Soft Place to Fall is a favorite song of mine. I play it at least four times every day. It fills me with anger and bitterness, fuels that energize me and keep me going. The lyrics say nothing of what has befallen me or my lot in life, but the melody, Moorer’s mournful voice, and the longing for my own soft place to fall, remind me of all that was stolen from me: my childhood, the ordinary teenaged life I might have had, the sister I will never know, the warm embrace of family.

My lone companion is Siri, a ghost dog, a tri-colored deception in the corporeal form of a harmless beagle. She is a hunter, as I am, and like me, she smells the Dead One. Her senses are supernaturally keen, yet seem to leap to an even higher level of sensitivity as we approach towns or cities. At the moment, she is up on all fours, sweeping the area in the same way a police Black Hawk helicopter scours the night with its spotlight, searching for losers. Siri’s body swings 360 degrees as she searches for…what? An anomaly?

The passenger window slid down, and a blast of cold air quickly displaced the warmth in the cab.

I looked at the ghost dog. Do you mind, Siri? It’s cold.

She froze in the direction of Taos. A soft sound rumbled low in her throat.

I sent the window back up. I know where he is, and he certainly knows we’re rolling into Raton right now. He thinks we’re playing his game, Siri. Look over there. I pointed to the right. Forested mountains—his kind of killing ground. Isolated. Where it’ll be just him and me. You don’t need to warn me of anything, Siri. I know.

A green overhanging interstate sign announced Raton, New Mexico: Gateway to the Land of Enchantment. Funny, I grumbled. Like he’s enchanted.

I suspect the creature considers me a pathetic joke, but the reality is: hell’s nightmare is dead wrong. He thinks he’s waging war with a naïve teenage mortal who still jumps at her own shadow. The ghoul is probably laughing his head off right now, picturing my reaction as I barrel past the sign. He probably thinks I’m just some little suicidal mouse to play with. But I’m not suicidal, and I don’t play with dead things. I destroy them.

Idaho is five weeks gone. That’s how long I’ve been chasing the fiend. I’m dragged along by a compulsion to destroy him by a scent so thick it’s a wonder normal folks can’t smell it. It’s like a vaporous contrail streaming out behind him, only it has tentacles—hooked tentacles—with the hooks dug deep in my being. That scent yanks me along like a willful dog straining at the leash. Ripped out of my home state, shot across rain-soaked Washington, practically whiplashed onto Interstate 5, I raced after him as we tore south through Oregon, heading for California. Light chasing darkness. Darkness the pace car.

The road offers hazards of the mortal kind. A microburst sending me hydroplaning nearly into a concrete barrier, road rage screamers hurtling insults and flipping me off, a pair of jackasses exposing their junk, thinkin’ I’d be impressed. Outside Paradise, California, before the Dead One hooked us east, a knife-wielding piece of shit attempted to hijack my truck. I dropped him with a kick to the head, then ran over a leg just to make sure he got the message: some girls don’t play easy. About then, angry bitterness commandeered the driver’s seat of my emotions, shoving terrified over to shotgun.

Blowing off California, the vampire cut across Nevada, heading north back up to Idaho, then ripping east across Wyoming, zigzagging, backtracking, looping all over the place. I wondered whether the monster had been fueling up on crack heads.

I’ve seen him several times, just glimpses really, except for that time just outside lower Targhee National Forest. I was eating an early breakfast at a 24-hour establishment. Siri had dematerialized when I stopped the Ford. The cell in my backpack went off, but when I checked the number, the display screen was blank. Yet it chimed again.

A foul mood and curiosity prompted me to answer the call. Hello?

Good morning, Ryder Jae. Enjoying your coffee, Sunshine?

A split second before the silky voice came through the cell, a brilliant pulsar slammed my brain and his scent hit me full blast. I shot up out of my seat, splashing hot coffee all over myself.

He thought my panic hilarious. Laughter poured out of my cell phone and I turned my eyes to the windows. There he was, leaning carelessly against the door of his flashy, metallic-gray Z4 BMW roadster, his pale-white face grinning back at me, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the light filtering through the trees. He looked like the ultimate movie star, just like he does in my visions. Didn’t change things, though. He’s still my sister’s killer, and I still intend on being his.

The chased resumed. I pursued him to Cheyenne and would have kept going, but an order to stop came loud and clear, just as I was about to swing onto Interstate 25.

The order was issued by three men—all retired Army Rangers—who make up my tactical support team. So I stayed put in Cheyenne for thirty-six hours, to catch up on needed rest and to keep a sparring appointment at Donnie’s Dojo. Three times already I had broken the rule of no nighttime driving and that was three times too many for the Rangers. So what was the Dead One’s response to me hanging back in Cheyenne? He texted me—It’s not over—then waited for me to catch up outside Fort Collins. I know he deliberately lingered there because his scent was overwhelming and fresh when we bowled through. Both Siri and I rocketed into high alert at the first whiff.

To say the Dead One gets off on his games is an understatement, but I’m learning his tricks and tactics. Soon I will destroy him. It won’t be tonight, and probably not tomorrow either, but soon.

Siri rotated my way. I waved her off and leaned forward to check the printout lying on top of the Rand McNally Deluxe Road Atlas & Travel Guide.

There’s a truck stop on the other side of Raton—the Flying Red Feather. I threw Siri a sour look. Multicultural as well as enchanted, huh? We’ll fuel up there. I’ll get something to go, refill the Thermos, and then we’ll jet. How’s that sound?

The silent, mysterious creature who rides with me settled back on her haunches and stared straight ahead.

Interstate 25 swept us past the town. I took the exit ramp to the Flying Red Feather, pulled into the expansive parking lot, and drove to the side where dirt meets asphalt. I leaned over to push open the door for Siri, but she was already gone. Opening the door for her is a silly gesture, but it makes her more real, more alive to me.

I reached for my cell, flipped it open, and pressed 2. Time to communicate with a Ranger.

The speakerphone was on. Trisha Yearwood was singing Walk Away Joe when he picked up on the other end. I envy this Joe guy Trisha was crooning about. What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk away from the insistent visions and voices that keep me chasing a vampire who thinks he’s a freaking comedian. I turned the iPod down.

The man on the other end sounded relieved to get the call. Where are you?

Gassing up in Raton.

There was a pause. That’s about a hundred and eighty miles from here. You’ve got a three-hour drive ahead of you.

More or less, yeah.

Another pause. What do you need?

The truck needs servicing. Can you arrange it with Ford?

Done. Tires?

Probably should be checked. It’s been a long haul.

I scrutinized the parking lot, as I was taught to do by the Army Ranger who spoke with me.

Done. What else?

A hot shower, warm bed, and I need to do laundry. I also need to pick up a few things.

Sounds like a plan. Anything else?

A clue to why I’m being ordered home?

Don’t you want to come home?

Yeah, but—

We’ll talk when you get here.

I frowned and checked my fingernails. Max and Lonewolf there?

They will be.

Great! The gathering of the Rangers meant only one thing: I’m in big trouble.

Funny how things worked out, huh? I said, thinking to divert some of the blame away from me and onto the vampire.

Meaning?

The DO is here. I’m here. Coincidence?

The Ranger snorted sarcastically. No coincidence, Jae. He cracked our system. He read my e-mail ordering you home. We’ve known for some time now that someone has been making inquiries about you. He’s tracking you, just like we’re tracking him.

Fabulous! Guess my thinking he’s clairvoyant is way off the mark, then, I said, resentful. I told you he has my new cell number.

He’s gaining access somehow. We’re working on that problem. Clairvoyant? I don’t know about that. But he’s very intelligent…for being dead.

I threw a hand up in the air. Perfect! I’m hunting an undead nerd! I heard a chuckle at the other end. But he wouldn’t know whether I’d obey the order or not, would he?

Like I said, Jae, somebody has been nosing around. We pretty damn sure it’s him. A buddy who’s still active alerted us that someone’s been attempting to access our military files. The ghoul knows we’re retired Rangers. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to figure you’d follow orders, and that if you didn’t, one of us would go get you and haul your ass home.

I nodded. What he said was true. The Rangers expected me to follow orders and rules laid down for my safety, and if I didn’t, they’d come to fetch me. They’d already threatened to do just that.

This stuff I’m hearing, I said. Not at all encouraging. Scary.

You’re hunting a scary thing, Jae.

I know. I watched Siri come through the line of piñons that marked the Red Feather’s boundary. I ride with a scary thing too.

Anything else?

No.

Kino. A pause ensued before the Ranger said, Be careful then. Oh, Jae?

Yeah?

Happy birthday, Honey.

Thanks, Joaquin. My eyes welled with tears, and my throat tightened. I didn’t think he remembered. I didn’t think anyone remembered, or cared, that only a few hours ago I’d turned seventeen.

See you in a few.

Yep, I clicked off. I dashed away the tears with the back of my hand, then pushed open the passenger door to watch a corporeal ghost dog spring into the truck. I pulled the door firmly shut behind her. I’m going in to order my food and use the ladies, I told the ghost dog. I’ll be right out to fill up the truck.

I tooled the F250 closer to the building. Telling Siri to keep a lookout, I zipped up the brown leather bomber’s jacket I wore to keep my holstered 9mm Colt SSP pistol hidden and the cold out. Grabbing my Thermos and my khaki green canvas backpack, I jumped out into the cold wind. Closing the door behind me, I hoisted the backpack over a shoulder, beeped the truck’s security system on—just in case Siri decided to dematerialize—and made a beeline for the truck stop. A sign posted on the glass doors warned No Firearms Allowed. I hustled on in. No alarm went off, but a pillow of warm air welcomed me.

My gaze swept the nearly empty dining area. Five truckers sat at the counter, eating. Their conversation was sporadic and muted, yet I could hear their words clearly from where I stood. That’s the way it is with me. All my senses are enhanced, actually. It happens to shadow hunters when they become a hunter. A family of five sat silent at a table waiting for their order. I figured them to be fellow travelers since they looked as weary as I felt. Six burgundy Naugahyde booths lined the wall opposite the counter. All but one were unoccupied. I couldn’t see their faces because of the tall back of the booth, but I knew from a pair of outstretched, booted legs that extended into the aisle and a camouflaged hat peeking out over the top that the occupants were males, and something about them was not right. I chose a path away from them to make my way to the counter.

Laminated menus stood propped between a cluster of condiments and a basket of jams and jellies. I took one and began a cursory scan of it. I flicked my eyes up at the gold-veined mirror that lined the wall behind the serving counter and picked up the faces of the two white men occupying the Naugahyde booth. Unshaven, they looked like they had just come in from the hunt, one in a green camouflage, the other in brown, each with matching billed caps. They spotted me too, and were checking me over like I was an interesting piece of trash. Something in their eyes gave me the creeps. Perverts, I thought. Twisted perverts. Sadistic words from depraved fantasies began to flow in lewd murmurs between them. Their words sent a chill down my spine, and I wished I hadn’t stopped here.

The waitress manning the counter labored over to me. She was a heavy woman, with huge knockers packed tight in a pink uniform. She spoke in a breathless voice. What can I get you, Honey?

I lifted the laminated menu up to shield my mouth and talked low. I’d like the chicken sandwich on toasted wheat, leave off the tomato, and I’d like my Thermos filled with coffee. No sugar, just cream. Make it golden. And if I could have one of those Styrofoam cups, I’d appreciate it.

You got it. Any fries?

No thanks.

Anything to drink? Coke? Lemonade?

Just the coffee.

The waitress looked up from her writing. All to go?

Yes. I’ll be back to get it and pay.

I flashed a glance up at the mirror. The two perverts were no longer watching me, yet an ice-cold feeling washed over me. I went to ultra-high alert.

All righty, Hon. I’ll have it ready and waiting for you.

I turned and made for the restroom. A couple of females came in to use the facilities while I was in the stall. My hand rested on the handle of the Colt until their voices verified they were women and not the two perverts.

After washing my face and hands, I brushed my teeth. I have this thing about my teeth. When I run my tongue across them, I have to feel them clean and smooth. I hate any kind of junk on them: plaque, food, whatever. Ever since I saw the vampire’s fangs bloodied up with my sister’s blood, I’ve been this way. I’m compulsive about brushing.

Fueling up done, I returned to collect my order and my Thermos. Right off, I noted the absence of the two perverts. I looked over the entire establishment, hunting them. When I was satisfied they were gone, and after another thorough scoping of the parking lot, I headed outside to my truck and the ghost dog.

Ten minutes later, I rolled the Ford’s engine over and took off for Interstate 25. A quick glance at the rear and side mirrors revealed nothing suspicious, only night and white lines ahead of us. I turned up the iPod and settled in for three more hours of blacktop.

It’s always a struggle to ignore the powerful scent trail left by the vampire. My blood heats at the smell and the instinct to hunt intensifies, but an order is an order, and the Rangers are strict. I zoomed pass the Taos exit with the needle hitting close to ninety. I had to get past the turn-off lest I gave in to the compulsion to hunt. Siri began a deep-throated rumbling.

Gotta go with the plan, Girl, I explained. I’ve been ordered to Santa Fe. We’ll be there tonight and tomorrow. We’ll head for Taos again day after tomorrow. He won’t be going anywhere. Not without me.

The low rumblings continued.

I waved her off. Look, I’m tired. I’ve got to get some sleep. I need a hot shower in a friendly place and a warm bed. The truck needs servicing and I have laundry to do.

Another growl, only this one was softer.

I lowered the window and inhaled the scented air. A brilliant strobe light brought an image of the immortal turning to look my direction. He was seeking me, searching the night for my whereabouts, and when he found me rushing away from him, I sensed him at first perplexed, and then growing displeased. I was no longer playing according to his rules. I laughed out loud at his annoyance.

But my elation was momentary. A vision of a young Indian girl, lost and terrified, whisked in and out of my mind so fast that I wondered for a split second whether I had experienced an actual vision or whether my exhausted brain had just cooked it up. I sat back in my seat and searched for her, in my mind and in the darkness, but the image was gone.

The ghost dog reclaimed my attention when she moved to the back seat to stare out the window in the direction of Taos. I powered the window up and turned to look at Siri, noting as I did a road sign announcing an upcoming exit: one mile to the Cimarron turnoff.

I have my orders, Siri. We’re going to Santa Fe.

We sailed southward, away from Taos, away from the Dead One, the voice of Tyler Hilton sweetening the night.

The traffic was unusually light for an interstate. The moon was rising full and bright white. Nice night to be on the road, if I wasn’t so doggone stiff and weary of asphalt and white lines. Weeks on the road takes its toll, even on the young, but I was homeward bound, and that’s all that mattered. My spirits were high.

We rolled onward, with the high beams parting the darkness and the iPod running through my playlist. My thoughts toured the circuit that is my life, lingering at the few bright spots that glowed on the seventeen-year line: my family, my friends, and a sexy bad boy named Jensen Colter. I’ve had a crush on Jenson going on two years now, ever since my best friend Taralynn introduced him to me outside the movie theater in our small hometown. He has dark hair, a perfect face, and a perfect ass that hugs the seat of a perfect Harley. The boy is hot—wet the finger, touch the butt and make a sizzling sound hot—and so far out of my league that I can only fantasize about him. So I do, quite often. Like now.

Half an hour out of Springer, we picked up a tail. The vehicle followed us some ten miles, always lagging a mile or so behind us as we rolled. Then, as if the driver became bored with that game, the vehicle kicked up its high beams and pedal was put to metal. Expecting at any second to see the flashing red and blue lights of a New Mexico Highway Patrol car, I checked my speed. Cruise control had it locked on 80. In the rear-view I watched the bright lights eat up highway. No flashing lights, only steady high beams threatening to run me over. I flipped off cruise control and unzipped my jacket. Something isn’t right here.

Siri bolted upright, scaring the hell out of me.

"What? What?" I shouted, totally spooked.

Foreboding sounds bubbled deep in her throat, warnings I should heed.

I know, I know... let’s see what happens. Might be highway patrol. Can’t tell yet. Easy, Siri, easy.

The car moved up to hug my rear bumper, then slowed, allowing a short distance to separate us. Its high beams flicked on and off four times, then remained steady. What the hell was that all about? A single blue light began revolving on the car’s dashboard.

Bullshit! My bellow rebounded off the inside of the cab.

The two Raton perverts sprang into my mind, and a cold fear began a slow climb up my spine. It wasn’t the Dead One idling behind me; that much I knew. His scent and the brilliant pulsars that blast my mind when he’s near would have overwhelmed me long before this, and the vehicle behind me wasn’t close to being a sports car. The wide spacing of the headlights told me it was a boat. And I knew whoever was back there wasn’t a legit New Mexico HP, not with that bullshit blue light slicing the night.

I swore loudly. If that’s a cop, I’m freakin’ Snow White.

Keeping an eye on the car behind me, I took my time easing the truck off the road and onto the shoulder. I flicked off the snap that secures the Colt, took the semiautomatic out of its holster, and placed it just under the ribbed hemline of my jacket. I carry my gun cocked and locked, and I have no hesitation firing it if I need to. My motto is the same as Maxwell Kidd’s, one of the Rangers: Fight crime, shoot your gun.

Siri issued more warnings.

I have to stop, I said, my heart pumping in overdrive. Doesn’t matter if it’s a legit cop or not. Whoever it is will just continue to play cat and mouse with us anyway. I have to take care of the situation now. God, I have the worse shit-ass luck in the entire friggin’ universe!

The boat pulled to a stop behind us, its high beams keeping the make of the car indistinguishable. I watched through the side mirror as a man dressed in dark clothing slid out. The night and his hat, which he pulled low over his brow, worked together to keep his face hidden, but I spotted the sidearm that rode his right hip when he hitched up his pants and adjusted his belt. The man paused beside his vehicle for a moment to stare back at me. Glowing chips of blue flashed on and off his darkened form. He reached a hand back into the vehicle and brought out a long object. He slapped his left palm with it, then flicked it on, and started for my truck.

Siri went eerily silent. The man strode up to my door and twice rapped the window with a long black flashlight. A Mag-Lite, I guessed, like the one I carried on the back seat. He kept to the side of my truck and directed the beam of light at the side mirror, limiting my vision with the reflection. I couldn’t get a good look at him.

I paused the iPod and powered the window down a few inches. What’s the problem, Officer?

The officer’s tone was curt. Guess you’ve got to get somewhere real quick, huh? Let’s have a look at your license, registration, and proof of insurance.

What did I do wrong?

Exceeding the speed limit, Miss. Step out and let’s see the paperwork.

No way was I speeding, Officer. I had it on cruise control. Below eighty.

You were speeding, Miss. I got you at eighty-seven. Now turn off the engine, and come out of the vehicle with your license, registration, and proof of insurance.

A blatant lie. Eighty, yeah, but not seven over that.

The bogus patrolman stepped around to face me, but I still couldn’t see him. He had the Mag-Lite directed straight at me, blinding me.

I lifted a hand to shield my eyes. Sure, but I’d like to see your badge first, Officer.

The beam of light tipped away from my face when the officer reached for a top pocket. I took the chance to check out his uniform, only it wasn’t. Dark pants and a dark shirt purchased at a military surplus store do not make a highway patrolman’s uniform, regardless of the official-looking hat sitting low atop the man’s head. And the equipment real law enforcement officers lug around their waist and upper torso was not there. Besides, isn’t the badge of every lawman supposed to be visible at all times? Just like the phony blue flashing light, everything about the man standing on the road next to my truck shouted Trap.

Something silver flashed past my window, too quickly for me to tell if it was a genuine policeman’s badge or some toy out of a Cracker Jack box.

The Mag-Lite rapped my window two more times. Now, out of the truck, Miss.

I didn’t get a good look at that badge, Officer. If you would slide it—

This dillydallying has gone on long enough, Miss. Get out of the vehicle or you will be forcibly removed and placed under arrest.

Not until I get a good look at your badge. I was exhausted, but far from being stupid. I have the right to check your credentials.

Siri moved to the back seat, causing me to cast a look at her through the rear-view mirror. She was standing taut, staring intensely at the car behind us. A sense of thickening danger caused me to tighten my grip on the Colt.

A convoy of eighteen-wheelers, several miles back of us, popped over a rise in the interstate and came barreling toward us. I noted them, as did the phony cop. He pulled out a pad of paper and faked writing me a ticket. The convoy whizzed on by. An SUV and a pick-up truck followed. They all disappeared down the interstate and into the night, leaving me alone with a probable psychopath.

Maybe I should have tried to flag one of them down or created a scene to get one of them to stop. Catching up with the convoy wouldn’t have been a problem, and my chances of survival would have soared. That would have been the wise thing to do, but being threatened and played for a sucker infuriates me and tends to make me react irrationally. This is a weakness that troubles the Rangers. I wanted a fight, and I wanted to inflict pain on the creep standing outside my truck.

The fake cop jammed the pad of paper into a pocket and took to slapping his left palm hard with the Mag-Lite. You’ve had your fun and you’ve seen my badge. I want you out of the vehicle! Now!

Movement in the passenger-side mirror of my truck caught my attention. The passenger door of the supposed patrol car opened, and a man lifted out. He stood behind the opened door, a dark figure holding a rifle so that the barrel pointed upward. All along, I had suspected I was being stopped by one of the perverts I had seen at the Flying Red Feather. Now I was positive, and his partner was behind me, hefting a rifle. A couple of sexual predators trolling the interstate.

I reached for my cell phone, and that sent the psychopath standing on the road next to my truck into a rage.

"Shut off the engine now and get out of the truck!"

He slid one hand down to grip the butt of his sidearm, while yanking violently on the handle of my locked car door with the other hand.

Time for action. I powered the window down and the Colt went across the doorframe. The psychopath’s head jerked backwards in surprise and he took a hurried step back.

Take your hand away from that gun or, so help me God, I’ll fill you with lead! I coldly warned him. He lifted his hand slowly away from the sidearm. "Now, move over to the median with your hands high and tell that rifleman buddy of yours to do the same. Tell him now, or I swear to God, I’ll shoot you dead!"

The psycho’s stunned eyes remained locked on my semiautomatic. He hesitated, his eyes questioning my willingness to use the pistol.

I helped him make the correct decision. Drop the flashlight and that gun on your hip. Do it carefully, and do it now. When he didn’t move, I added, I’ve got 15 rounds in the magazine and trust me, I’m very willing to waste a few of them on you and your buddy back there. Now, order him up here with the rifle raised so I can see it. Then, both of you move over there to the median. Any wrong moves and you’re a dead man.

The Mag-Lite and pistol clattered to the road. The psycho’s gaze stayed fixed on me. I could almost feel his murderous rage. He was probably already getting off just fantasizing about the way he was going to torture and mutilate me. Bastard!