Chapter 22 : BAIT AND SWITCH — PART 2
The hunter network dead drop looked like every other abandoned gas station in rural Montana.
Peeling paint. Boarded windows. A faded sign advertising fuel prices from a decade ago. But the mailbox at the property's edge—rusted, unremarkable, positioned exactly where Catherine's intel had indicated—served a different purpose entirely.
I'd parked a quarter mile out and approached on foot, timing my arrival for 2 AM when the highway saw minimal traffic. The glamour was active: Sebastian Morrow's face, businessman's posture, nothing that would attract attention if someone happened to drive past.
[DEAD DROP LOCATION: CONFIRMED] [NETWORK ACCESS: HUNTER COMMUNICATION CHANNEL ALPHA-7] [MESSAGE PROTOCOL: CODED TEXT, KNOWN ALIAS SIGNATURE]
The message I'd prepared was simple. Hunters valued brevity—long explanations raised suspicion. I used a format Catherine had provided, the kind of shorthand that experienced hunters recognized and trusted.
Bozeman. Industrial district, east side. Old textile warehouse. Eight vamps, young and stupid. Body count climbing—three homeless this week, probably more. Local cops sniffing around but clueless. Someone should handle this before it makes news.
I signed it with an alias Catherine had confirmed was respected in hunter circles: "Roadhouse Contact." A name that carried weight. A name Gordon Walker would recognize.
The message went into the mailbox. The drop was complete.
I retreated to a rooftop two blocks away and settled in to wait.
The network operated faster than I'd expected. Within four hours, a pickup truck pulled up to the abandoned station. A man in his fifties—weathered, professional, moving with the careful economy of someone who'd survived decades in a dangerous profession—retrieved the message, read it, and made a phone call.
I couldn't hear the conversation, but I didn't need to. The message would route through the network. Within hours, every active hunter in three states would know about the Bozeman nest.
Including Gordon Walker.
[MESSAGE DEPLOYED] [NETWORK PROPAGATION: IN PROGRESS] [ESTIMATED REACH TO GORDON WALKER: 6-12 HOURS]
I drove to Bozeman.
The warehouse sat unchanged from my last visit—brick and decay, vampires sleeping through the daylight hours, unaware that death was driving toward them. I found an observation point on a water tower half a mile out and waited.
Gordon Walker's truck appeared at sunset.
Black pickup, mud-splattered, running boards custom-welded for rough terrain. The license plates matched the information in the Hunter Intel Network: Kansas registration, Gordon's personal vehicle, the same truck that had carried him across a dozen states hunting things like me.
He wasn't alone. Two more vehicles followed—a van and a sedan. Six hunters total, by my count. Gordon had taken the tip seriously enough to bring backup.
[GORDON WALKER: ON SITE] [SUPPORT TEAM: 5 ADDITIONAL HUNTERS] [ARMAMENT: HEAVY — MACHETES, CROSSBOWS, ACCELERANTS] [TACTICAL APPROACH: OVERWHELMING FORCE]
They spent an hour on surveillance. Watching the warehouse. Confirming the vampire presence. Planning their approach. Gordon moved with the patient efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times before—no wasted motion, no unnecessary risks.
At full dark, they hit the warehouse.
I watched from the water tower as chaos erupted.
The hunters breached three entrances simultaneously. Flash-bangs went in first—disorienting even for vampires. Then the assault team, moving with military precision. Crossbow bolts sang through the night. Machetes caught moonlight before biting into undead flesh.
The vampires fought back. They were young and fast, and some of them had survival instincts that nearly let them escape. Nearly. Gordon had positioned shooters at every exit. No one got out.
Fire came last. Accelerant splashed across the warehouse interior. Flames climbed the walls, consuming everything—vampires, evidence, the nest that had terrorized Bozeman's homeless population for months.
Thirty minutes. Start to finish. Eight vampires reduced to ash.
Including the one who'd seen my face.
[REDIRECT OPERATION: COMPLETE] [CASUALTIES: 8 VAMPIRES (ELIMINATED)] [WITNESS STATUS: NEUTRALIZED] [GORDON WALKER STATUS: SATISFIED, DEPARTING EAST] [HUNTER THREAT LEVEL: YELLOW (25) — DECREASED]
I stayed on the water tower until Gordon's convoy disappeared down the highway, heading away from the coalition territory. His body language through the binoculars suggested satisfaction—a successful hunt, clean kills, no complications. He'd found exactly what the tip promised.
He'd never know who had given it to him.
The motel room I found three towns over had the same water stains on the ceiling as every other cheap motel I'd occupied since transmigration. Same thin mattress. Same smell of cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Same anonymous comfort of a place where no one asked questions.
I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, processing.
Eight vampires. Dead because I'd chosen them as bait. They'd been killers—preying on innocents, leaving bodies, drawing the kind of attention that would eventually have gotten them destroyed anyway. My intervention had simply accelerated the timeline.
But I'd still made that choice. Still pointed Gordon Walker at them like a weapon. Still watched them burn.
This is what survival costs.
The thought came without judgment. Without guilt. Without much of anything at all, really.
That should probably concern me.
I closed my eyes. Sleep came easier than it should have.
The drive back to the Haven took four hours. I passed the warehouse site—fire trucks still present, human authorities processing a scene they'd never understand. Arson investigation, probably. Criminal activity suspected. The official story would never mention vampires.
The system worked exactly as designed.
[RETURNING TO COALITION TERRITORY] [OPERATION SUMMARY: COMPLETE SUCCESS] [COALITION SECURITY: IMPROVED] [PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT: STABLE]
I pulled into the territory perimeter as the sun climbed above the mountains. Ruth met me at the entrance, her expression carefully neutral in the way that meant she had questions she wasn't asking.
"Catherine's here," she said.
"Since when?"
"Arrived an hour ago. Said she wanted to see you immediately."
I parked the rental car and walked toward the Haven. Catherine waiting with news could mean any number of things. Good news. Bad news. Tests I hadn't anticipated.
Only one way to find out.
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