Aleksander split the tasks clean. "Wednesday, Enid, Sofia—interview the families. Oz, check the ranger. I'll cross-reference here."He swiped through holo-reports under floodlights, patterns emerging slow—prior violent crimes on every victim.The group reconvened sharp, tension thick.
Wednesday started. "Interesting link."
Sofia nodded. "Same here."
Enid chimed in. "Ditto."
Aleksander smirked, not looking up. "All victims of violent crime right before they vanished. Domestic assault. Robbery. Attempted rape."
Wednesday tilted her head. "Exactly."
Enid crossed her arms. "How'd you—?"
"Pattern screamed it," he said, finally meeting their eyes.
Oz added, "Perps weren't our guy, though. Locked up or out of play during the actual abductions."
Sofia leaned on a table. "Could be his hunting filter."
Aleksander nodded once. " He scans the internet or papers, radio chatter. Targets the ones who fought off their first attackers."
Oz jumped in seamless. "Ranger backs it. Night Janet Lambert vanished, he logs some geared-up hunter in the preserve. Warns him—no shooting allowed. Then shots echo at 5 a.m. She went missing from that store at 9 p.m. previous."
Sofia picked up without pause. "Autopsies rule out rape or sexual assault across the board—even freshest remains. But feet? Destroyed. Multiple lacerations on soles, fractures, torn ligaments clearest on recent bodies."
Enid frowned. "From what?"
Sofia answers."Running barefoot over jagged terrain. Hours of it."
Wednesday's voice cut flat. "Hunts them proper, then."
Aleksander's gaze sharpened, pieces locking. "Orion. Constellation clears the horizon first time each year... in November."
Enid whispered, "His kill month."
Wednesday added low, "Greek myth. Means 'Great Hunter.'"
Sofia murmured, "That's the run—forcing the chase."
Aleksander shut the holo with a flick. "Reports room. Old files aren't digitized."
Wednesday, Enid, Sofia followed tight. Inside, malice slammed Aleksander—raw, directed. Desk clerk, PD Report Control.
Aleksander noticed the nameplate: George Marks. Casual tone. "Hello, George. Need reports on the serial victims—Janet Lambert, Tina James, Latrice Hicks."
George's smile slid easy. "Happy to help you."
Aleksander buried the reaction, caught surface thoughts: Latrice Hicks against a tree, tears streaming, hands shaking as she unbuttons under rifle point, head shaking no. Flash—exhausted 14-year-old on knees before her hunter. "I want my daddy... daddy..." Muzzle lifts to her chest.Aleksander's fist tightened microsecond, released. Aleksander knew one thing,he found the killer.
While George fetched the files smooth, handed them over, turned back to his desk.Sofia cracked Janet's file. "After Leroy finishes with her, he turns on the kid. Janet clocks him square in the face."Aleksander muttered even. "Checks out."
She flipped pages. "Latrice Hicks—mugged, grabs her bag back, breaks the guy's nose."
Enid lit up. "Tina James—pepper spray to the eyes."
Wednesday nodded slow. "Not mere victims. Fighters every one."
Sofia called over. "George—any records on other assault survivors who fought back?"
George glanced up, eyes lingering heavy on Wednesday, Sofia—bloodlust flickered hot, gone the next second. "Might take a few hours. Not computerized here."
Wednesday flat. "We will wait."
Aleksander tracked him subtle, stone-still. Cleaner. Evidence scrubbed deep. No proof yet.
Oz's phone buzzed mid-air thick. "Ballistics just dropped. Arisaka Model 38. Japanese bolt-action rifle. WWII import."
Aleksander eyed the photo Oz flashed. "Ammo's rare air."
Wednesday locked eyes all around. "Only army surplus spot in the city—on the boulevard."
Aleksander rose smooth. "Wednesday and I will take this one."
Aleksander and Wednesday pushed through the surplus store door, bell jangling over racks of camo, rusted bayonets, and dusty crates. Smell hit first—gun oil, mildew, old sweat. Herb Sutton, ex-military stocky behind the counter, eyed them sharp, faded tattoos peeking from rolled sleeves.
"Herb Sutton?" Aleksander opened, badge flashed low.
Herb grunted, wiping a rag over the counter. "What's this about?"
"Arisaka Model 38 ammo sales. Recent. Regular." Aleksander slid a photo of the deformed slug across.
Herb glanced, shrugged one shoulder. "Guy orders the same kinda ammo every year. November clockwork."
Wednesday rifled the receipt book Herb shoved over, black nails flipping pages methodical. "We got a name. Peter Brodsky."
Aleksander frowned—George's face burned fresh from those report room thoughts. "ID checked?"
Herb snorted. "Hell yeah. Last thing I need is ATF crawling my ass. License killer."
Wednesday tapped a receipt stack. "Same order. Year after year. Skipped 2020."
Aleksander leaned in. "Tina James vanishes that year."
She nodded once, eyes narrowing on an older slip. "2020—he orders a 'military M-95 with CP filter' too."
"What's that?" Her voice stayed flat, bored edge.
Herb scratched stubble. "Gas mask. Riot control issue. Filters tear gas."
Wednesday's head tilted micro, stare pinning Aleksander. "How'd he know Tina carried tear gas?"
Aleksander's jaw tightened—he had a guess previously. Now it's confirmed, George used his Jon in the report room to access police reports. Thus he was cherry-picking fighters.
"You ever see Peter Brodsky? Face?" Wednesday pressed Herb, monotone drag.
Herb chuckled dry. "Couldn't pick him from a lineup if ATF kicked the door. Guy was... not there."
Aleksander clocked it, dove into Herb's surface memories seamless: dim store, hunter cap low, dark glasses swallowing eyes, sweat jacket zipped dragon-high. Slight build—George's frame, unmistakable. Grabs deer eye rounds. "How much?"
"Take all ya want, buddy—on me."
George pauses aisle-end, glances up at a faded Orion patch display, smiles cold. Bags it, ghosts out.
Aleksander straightened. Peter Brodsky—an identity George probably stole.Wednesday closed the book snap. "We're done here."
Aleksander kept eyes on Herb, voice steady. "You got security cameras running here?"
Herb paused, then nodded toward the back. "Yeah, I do. But fair warning—most footage gets wiped quick. Storage fills up, and poof, it's gone. I can pull what's left, though."
"Sounds good," Aleksander said. "Show us the recent November pulls."
Herb led them to the cramped back office, flipped on a flickering monitor with a grunt. "Here—last batch before it cycled. Grainy as hell, but take a look."Feed spooled slow: timestamp hit mid-November. Same ghost figure slid in—hunter cap tugged low, dark sunglasses blacking out eyes, sweat jacket zipped to the chin. Paid cash for the deer eye ammo, body angled just right to blur the face from the lens. Clean dodge, every time.
Aleksander leaned in closer, clocking the jawline shadow, the lean build, that familiar gait on exit. George's echo, no doubt.
Wednesday stared at the freeze-frame, her voice flat monotone with that signature drag. "Crystal clear. He ghosts the frame every single time."
Herb chuckled dry, crossing his arms. "Told you—guy's not there. Like he knows every angle."
Aleksander straightened up smooth, committing the clip to memory. "Appreciate you digging that up, Herb. This helps."
Herb shrugged one shoulder. "No sweat. Just don't let the ATF pin it on my stock."
They nodded thanks and pushed back out into the dusk, bell jangling sharp behind them.