Chapter Seventeen: Debriefing
The extraction was clean.
Two medics, a pilot, and a CO who asked questions Maya couldn't answer. She told them about the crash. About Torres. About walking for three days through the jungle.
She didn't mention the clicking.
She didn't mention the shape on the ridge.
And she sure as hell didn't mention Ramirez.
They flew her to a field hospital in Quito. Treated her for dehydration, exposure, and second-degree burns. Kept her for observation. Asked more questions.
Maya gave them nothing.
Because how do you explain what she'd seen? How do you put into words the feeling of being studied—of being weighed and measured and found... acceptable?
You don't.
You smile. You nod. You sign the discharge papers.
And you go home.
Chapter Eighteen: Home
Three weeks later, Maya stood in her apartment in Seattle and stared at the city lights.
Rain streaked the windows. Traffic hummed below. The world turned like it always had—oblivious, comfortable, safe.
But Maya couldn't shake the feeling.
The sensation of being watched.
Not by something malicious. Not by something cruel.
Just... watched.
She'd tried to go back to work. Tried to fly again. But every time she climbed into a cockpit, every time she looked out at the sky, she felt it.
Eyes in the dark.
Her therapist said it was PTSD. Survivor's guilt. Hypervigilance.
Maya didn't correct her.
Because the truth was worse.
The truth was that she knew it was still out there. Still watching. Still hunting.
And some part of her—some small, irrational part—was glad.
Chapter Nineteen: The Package
The package arrived on a Tuesday.
No return address. No postage. Just a plain brown box sitting outside her door.
Maya opened it carefully.
Inside: a single item.
A data chip. Military-grade. Encrypted.
And a note, handwritten, on water-stained paper:
You asked why it let you go.This is why.— R
Maya plugged the chip into her laptop.
The screen flickered.
And then—video.
Grainy. Night-vision. Dated 16-NOV-2011.
The fuel depot. The jungle. And there—standing in the center of the clearing, barely visible through the static—it.
The creature.
The Hunter.
It stood perfectly still, head tilted, looking directly at the camera.
And then it did something Maya didn't expect.
It raised one hand.
A gesture.
Recognition.
The video cut to black.
And at the bottom of the screen, a single line of text appeared:
WE CHOOSE OUR PREY.AND SOMETIMES, WE CHOOSE NOT TO.
Maya closed the laptop.
She sat in the dark for a long time.
And then she smiled.