the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters.
—Richard Connell, The Most Dangerous Game
I'm in the New Hampshire woods to kill a man.
I'm an ex special forces member and trained sniper, but I have no blood lust—to me, it's just a job.
Barry Mere, on the other hand, has killed four civilians and two police officers—and he's got an M4 Carbine and can hit targets from a fifth of a mile away.
Kirstie, my partner's spotted him in a shack on the ridge, and now I've got a job to do regardless of how I feel.
After about ten minutes of crawling through long grass, I’m close enough to make out his features—it’s Mere all right.
He’s using his scope to sight and track the slowly advancing officers.
I inch forward and make it to the wall of the shack.
I’m right beside a doorway and the door’s ajar.
Since Mere’s focused on the advancing SWAT team, I figure I can easily surprise him from behind.
I have no other plan—just swing in through the doorway, and order him to freeze. Shoot, if he refuses.
Simple and basic.
I take a deep breath and barge in.
He’s standing, waiting for me. Somehow, he must have heard or sensed me coming.
There’s this moment when we both freeze staring down each other’s gun barrel.
Neither of us shoots.
“What’s it gonna be?” he drawls, almost casually. “I shoot you, or you shoot me?”
“It’s over Mere—there’s a team of officers out there—either way, it ends here.”
“Mebbe—but then again, I don’t have anything to lose.”
“Why’d you do it?” I ask, hoping to get him talking—to build a bridge.
He smiles cynically. “I’m a hunter—got tired of four legged game.”
“You kill people for sport—for the thrill of it?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, that’s about it. They should have let me join the force—that’s what I really wanted—but they turned me down.”
“You wanted to be a cop?”
“That’s right. I was damned good—a crack shot—in perfect shape. They say I failed the psychological testing.”
I don't doubt it. He has a dead look in his eyes.
“So, this is how you’re getting back at the system—taking revenge?”
“I suppose. I just wanted to do what you’re doing—track down criminals—use my skills. I don’t think we’re much different.”
“You made your point, Barry—you proved you’ve got the skills. Why go on?”
“They’re just gonna lock me up, put me on trial and execute me.”
He's right, but that's not going to help either of us here.
“You can get a lawyer. Personally, I think you just lost it and went crazy. You don’t have to die.”
He looks at me narrowly, as if sizing me up.
“What’s your name?”
“Jake—Jake Winslow.”
“Where’d you get your training?”
“In the forces—I was stationed in Afghanistan.”
He nods as if my explanation confirms something he was thinking.
“They need guys like us, Jake—guys to go out and do the killing for them.”
“I know. I’ve thought of that a lot.”
“You got your chance. I didn’t get mine.”
“I know, but this isn’t the answer.”
“Then what is? What am I gonna do?” This is all I know—all I want. I’m a hunter, Jake—just like you.”
He’s right. There’s no way out—for him, or for me.
“Tell you what I’m gonna do, Jake. I’m gonna count to three and we’re both gonna fire. Whoever’s left standing wins.”
“That’s dumb, Barry. Neither of us is gonna miss.”
“That’s my point, Jake. That’s why we’re both alike. It can’t end any other way.”
He looks at me and smiles—a charming, boyish, lop-sided grin—and I wish it were different. I wish there were some other way out.
As I stare at him I hear a single shot and wonder who is stupid enough to fire off a round.
But as I stare, a black hole appears in the center of his forehead.
He slumps and collapses as if deflated. His body topples slightly forward and his head ends up almost touching my boot.
Blood oozes from the hole in his forehead.
I feel nauseous. I turn and make it outside the doorway where I double over and puke.
Kirstie’s right beside me, holding me, consoling me.
And then, men in camouflage suits surround us.
One of the men, a young, blonde crew-cut guy, is smiling ear to ear.
“I made him and squeezed off the shot. It was textbook.”
The others backslap or high five him—they have a grudging admiration for skill.
Kirstie and I stand aloof from the circle of hunters around the body.
The chase is over. The target acquired and subdued.
“A good kill,” the Commander smiles.
Kirstie's fingernails dig deep into my arm. Her eyes are willing me to be still—to stop the shaking.
But the men don't notice. They're happy.
They’ve spent the day fulfilling their duty—and now it's time to celebrate.