Three nights of cold observation.
Ruth and I had established a surveillance position on a ridge overlooking Malcolm's compound—far enough to avoid vampire senses, close enough for my enhanced vision to track movement. The ranch sprawled across fifty acres of Wyoming scrubland, barbed wire perimeter, guard stations at regular intervals.
"Fifteen confirmed," Ruth reported on the third night. She'd been counting heads, tracking patterns, building the intelligence picture that would determine whether we lived or died. "Plus three human servants who handle daylight security. They're armed—nothing supernatural, but enough to slow down anyone approaching during the day."
"What about Malcolm himself?"
"Stays in the main house. Doesn't patrol. Doesn't interact much with the nest." She handed me the binoculars. "He's old enough that he doesn't need to assert dominance anymore. They follow because they're afraid of what happens if they don't."
I studied the compound through the lenses. The main house was Victorian-era architecture—probably built when Malcolm first claimed this territory, maintained through decades of careful preservation. Lights moved behind curtained windows, shadows that might have been vampires or might have been nothing.
[COMPOUND ASSESSMENT: COMPLETE] [DIRECT ASSAULT PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 23%] [CASUALTIES EXPECTED: HIGH] [RECOMMENDATION: AVOID DIRECT ENGAGEMENT]
The System confirmed what my instincts had already concluded. Hitting the compound was suicide. Even with Ruth's support, even with every advantage I could manufacture, fifteen vampires defending their Alpha in prepared positions would tear us apart.
But Malcolm's feeding pattern offered another option.
"Show me the bar route again."
Ruth pulled out the map she'd assembled from three nights of tracking. The roadside bar sat twenty miles from the compound—a dive called "The Last Stop" that catered to truckers and travelers. Malcolm visited every Thursday night, arriving around eleven, feeding on whatever isolated victim presented itself, leaving before dawn.
"He takes two guards," Ruth said. "They stay outside while he hunts. Never inside the bar itself."
"Why outside?"
"Privacy, probably. Malcolm's old. Old vampires don't like witnesses to their feeding." She traced the route with one finger. "The drive from the compound takes about twenty minutes. He uses the same road every time."
Routine. Predictability. The vulnerabilities that four centuries of survival had bred into him.
"We hit him at the bar," I decided. "After he feeds, while he's distracted. Take down the guards first, then engage Malcolm directly."
"Two of us against a four-hundred-year-old vampire?"
"Two of us with preparation, dead man's blood, and surprise." I folded the map. "He won't expect an attack at his feeding ground. It's been safe for decades. That complacency is our advantage."
Ruth absorbed the plan. Her expression carried the careful neutrality of someone assessing whether their leader's strategy would get them killed.
"You've done this before," she said finally. "Cormac."
"Cormac was different. Personal territory, extended stalking, knowledge of his habits built over weeks." I remembered the mine—the darkness, the fear, the moment when everything had hinged on a single knife strike. "This is faster. More exposed. But the principle is the same."
"Survive long enough to get close. One chance to strike."
"Exactly."
The cold had settled into my bones over three nights of observation. Wyoming in July was warmer than Montana, but ridge-top surveillance meant exposed positions and minimal shelter. My hands ached from hours of holding binoculars. My back protested the awkward postures required for concealment.
Small complaints. Human complaints. The kind of discomfort that reminded me I was still alive enough to feel it.
"Two more nights," I said. "We observe his Thursday pattern, confirm the details, then execute on the following Thursday."
"And if something changes? If he varies his routine?"
"Then we adapt or withdraw. The System objective has a deadline, but dying before the deadline defeats the purpose."
Ruth almost smiled. "Practical."
"Survival usually is."
We retreated from the observation position as the sky began to lighten. Malcolm's compound settled into daylight dormancy—vampires sleeping, human servants taking over security duties. The transition was smooth, practiced, the kind of routine that came from years of operation.
I studied it one last time before we disappeared into the Wyoming wilderness.
Soon. Malcolm hunted on Thursday. Thursday was three days away. Three days to finalize preparations, acquire the weapons we'd need, position ourselves for the strike.
[OPERATION TIMELINE: T-MINUS 72 HOURS] [DEAD MAN'S BLOOD: ACQUISITION REQUIRED] [SILVER WEAPONS: ACQUISITION REQUIRED] [BACKUP PROTOCOLS: ESTABLISHING]
The System tracked every variable, calculating probabilities I could feel adjusting as new data entered the equation. Sixty-seven percent success probability. Thirty-three percent chance of death.
Better odds than I'd had against Cormac.
Not good enough to guarantee survival, but good enough to try.
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