Page 220 of Primal

The watch on my wrist—Payton’s synced to mine—pings. 14% battery. 112 BPM.

Elevated but not terrified. Yet.

The trees close ranks like prison bar shadows as I carve east toward Group 3’s sector.

Let Group 4 wonder where their third hunter went. They’ll figure it out when the screaming starts.

The walkie buzzes again. “Hunter #13, confirm position.”

I crack the thing open with my knife. Inside, the circuitry is pristine, corporate, pathetic.

The modulator chip is a brittle little bastard, smaller than a fingernail, wedged between circuits.

I peel the chip free, then duct-tape it inside the mask’s mouth slit—jammed against the mesh so my voice hits it first.

Crude. Ugly. Effective. The chip will modulate raw input, no walkie required.

“Payton.” Garbled into something between a growl and a death rattle. The trees flinch.

The walkie—now a gutted carcass—sputters on the ground. “Hunter #13, respond.”

I adjust the mask (third time the left eyehole’s tried to blind me) and pick up pace, middle-finger abs glowing in the dark.

Somewhere ahead, a twig snaps.

There you are.

I take one step toward Payton’s pulse.

Three other Ghostfaces materialize from the trees.

Oh, good. The committee’s here.

I spread my hands—bare, because apparently, my dumbass left the damn gloves in the duffel—in a ‘What the fuck?’ gesture.

Sounds scatter in the dark. Impossible to pinpoint.

Ghostface #1 peels off toward a crash somewhere behind us. Ghostface #2 cocks his head at a whimper to the east, then melts into the shadows.

That leaves Ghostface #3.

And me.

We stand there, masks tilted at each other. Then—

A scream. Too shrill to be Payton. Too close to ignore.

Ghostface #3 dashes toward it like his dick depends on it.

Fuck precision.

I sprint after the motherfucker, letting the pulse in my teeth guide me.

The list of things I’ll do starts with disembowel and ends with taxidermy. Hell, if he so much as breathes in her direction, I’ll turn his knife into a rectal thermometer.

Ghostface #3 is moving like he knows these woods—probably some tryhard who’s done this before. But I march like I own them.

Branches whip at my arms as I cut through a thicket.