A Predator's Game

Part 9

As the strike team ventures into his domain, the boundaries between technology and myth, hunter and hunted, dissolve into shadow.

After losing track of Grayson and the mysterious "Hellstorm," Wilson's routine pursuit takes a dark turn.

Deep in the woods surrounding Grayson's compound, elite Ghost operatives encounter moving shadows and an unnaturally hostile environment.

Their communications fill with inhuman sounds and impossible sightings as their capture mission becomes a desperate fight for survival.

Trapped in this nightmare, Wilson realizes his team may have stumbled into something far beyond his own understanding.

Grayson moved first, slipping between trees like a phantom, his form vanishing into darkness as if the shadows themselves had reached out to claim him.

His new gift felt like a shadow that embraced him like a second skin, becoming one with the darkness.

He wove through the expanse of the shadows in eerie silence, circling his hunters.

Still susceptible to tones of light, weaving in and out of the darkest areas of the forest flanking his adversaries.

The strike team, trained to hunt men, had not come prepared for what lurked in these woods.

The first operative barely had time to process the weight that slammed into his chest before razor-sharp claws raked across his visor.

Sable, a streak of raw muscle and untamed fury, leaped from the shadows and crashed into the soldier with terrifying force.

The impact knocked him backward, his rifle tumbling from his grasp as he staggered under the bobcat's relentless assault.

She tore at his helmet, her powerful limbs throwing off his balance as he stumbled blindly into the thick underbrush.

The moment his footing failed, he crashed against an exposed root, and before he could rise, Sable was on him again, her fangs closing over his throat.

His garbled scream was lost to the night.

The comms crackled with static, then a panicked voice broke through. "Contact! We're engaged—something's here! I—" The transmission cut off in a gurgled choke.

Wilson sat up straighter, eyes locked onto the live feed from the Ghosts' body cams.

The screens flickered, distorted by an unnatural interference.

One of the feeds showed rapid, disoriented movement before cutting to black.

"Alpha-3, report!" Wilson barked, his voice cold and commanding.

Silence.

The second Ghost pivoted toward the sound of his teammate's struggle, but his reaction came too late.

Nyoka descended from above, his talons flashing in the green haze of the night vision, slicing into the exposed flesh beneath the man's helmet.

The soldier jerked violently, his hands flying to his throat to swat away the unseen attacker. His grip on his rifle loosened for just a fraction of a second.

Then, Grayson stepped from the darkness behind him, his movements impossibly fluid, his Hanzo .45 raised.

He pulled the trigger once, the silencer whispering death into the night.

The round punched through the back of the soldier's skull. He collapsed without a sound.

A burst of static erupted through Wilson's headset. "We've lost Alpha-3 and Alpha-4! Something's hunting us."

The operative's voice was ragged, his breaths sharp and uneven.

"Stay in formation! You are professionals. Get your eyes on the target and tranquilize him!" Wilson snapped, masking his growing unease.

The remaining two Ghosts responded with the swiftness of professionals, adjusting their formation, their rifles sweeping the woods.

Their night vision flickered, the shifting darkness playing tricks on their depth perception.

They knew they were under attack.

They just didn't know from where.

"Command, we are going infrared! Night vision's compromised! We're being stalked!"

The lead operative's voice was taut with controlled fear.

Wilson's jaw clenched as he manually switched feeds, but the interference was worsening, static crawling across the screens like tendrils of shadow.

"It's him. It's the Gunmaker," Alpha-1 said, his voice thick with fear and speculation.

He still wasn't quite sure what it was.

The forest swallowed sound.

The comms, once alive with clipped orders and heavy breathing, fell into eerie silence.

Even the static had receded, as if whatever force had been distorting their signals now listened, waiting.

A force of nature erupted from the underbrush.

Ogun's roar split the night, shaking the trees and sending a shockwave of primal fear through the remaining Ghosts.

His massive frame crashed into the third operative like a battering ram, the impact so sudden and overwhelming that the man barely had time to react before he was airborne.

His rifle spun uselessly from his hands, forgotten as his body collided with a tree trunk.

The sickening crunch that followed left little doubt—he would not be getting up again.

Only one remained.

The team leader.

From his station, Wilson watched the remaining feed, his fingers tightening into a fist.

His HUD flickered with interference, but he could still see the last Ghost adjusting his stance.

He wasn't running. He wasn't panicking.

He had recalibrated his gear, lenses shifting to compensate for the unnatural darkness.

This one was different.