“The guards are inside,” Wyatt announced. “Let’s move.”

He was already leading the way, heading toward the spot in the swamp where he’d last seen the blurred images. The three of them cast around for signs and scents of the mysterious intruders.

“Over here, Wyatt,” Ezekiel said. “I’ve got a partial track, but it looks like a baby’s bare footprint. Am I looking at a bear cub? A really small one?”

Wyatt crouched down to examine the small smear of a footprint in the muddy leaves. He brushed the debris from the track, but there was only a heel mark and what had to be the ball of a foot. But it was tiny. Far too small to be a bear, even a cub.

“There’s blood over here,” Malichai informed them. “It’s splashed on the leaves and there are a couple of spots on the ground. The guards sprayed bullets over this entire area and they must have hit something.”

“If the guards actually did hit something, the wound didn’t slow it down,” Wyatt said. “I was watching it run, although it was so fast and smooth, I honestly couldn’t see an image, just a blur, but if they were hit, the body didn’t even jerk and they didn’t miss a step.”

“It’s a lot of blood, Wyatt,” Malichai said, moving through the brush.

“It’s the adult, not the infant,” Ezekiel added.

Wyatt frowned. Could whatever have been moving that fast be human? He doubted it. They were enhanced, all three of them, with animal DNA, and they could move with blurring speed, but no way could he have caught that entity, not the way it was moving.

He surveyed the brush and leaves. Malichai was right. Whatever it was had been shot and had lost a great deal of blood. They followed the blood trail deeper into the interior of the swamp. There was a spot where the creature had halted and the smaller one had joined it. There were no more tracks, but a few broken limbs on the bushes gave them away.

“Uh-oh,” Wyatt said aloud. “I think the smaller one was hit too.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Malichai replied. “They must have sprayed two hundred rounds into the swamp.”

“The blood trail ends here,” Ezekiel pointed out. “Whatever it is, it’s adept at hiding itself. I can’t even catch a scent.”

Wyatt sighed. “We’ll come back at daylight and see if we can pick anything up.”

“Good idea,” Malichai said with a huge grin. “Grand-mere’s cooking is calling.”

Chapter 3

Wyatt used sheer muscle to power the pirogue quickly through the shallow waters of the bayou back toward his grandmother’s property. The moon was no more than a sliver in the dark skies. Charcoal-painted clouds roiled above their heads and the water appeared an inky black surrounding them.

“Storm’s comin’ in,” Wyatt announced softly, and redoubled his efforts.

The wind picked up and the branches of the cypress trees, knobby knees in the water, swayed, setting the long trails of moss swinging macabrely. The long vines of moss swept the surface of the water and looked, in the wind, like hundreds of spidery arms reaching for them.

Ezekiel grinned at his brother. “This is living, Malichai. I could get used to this.”

Malichai shoved with the long pole, helping Wyatt to move the pirogue around the finger of land choked with tall reeds and back into the canal that would take them home.

“That’s because you’re sitting on your ass watching me work,” Malichai replied.

Ezekiel nodded. “I had noticed that unusual detail. But then, you’ll want a good appetite when we hit Grand-mere’s kitchen.”

Wyatt ignored the byplay. He knew when the heavens opened up, a torrent of rain would come down and the water would rise fast. The swamps and marshes were already at full capacity. He pushed himself harder, feeling the unease building in the bayou. It was always that way, subtle, but easy for one to feel if you were tuned to it.

As he neared the pier, he glanced up to the two-story house that had been his home for much of his life. The familiar light was on in Nonny’s bedroom. When her “boys” came home for visits, she didn’t go to sleep until they were all safe under the roof. That light meant home to him, it always had – a loving welcome even when sometimes the words weren’t spoken aloud.

The parlor light was on, unusual for that time of night. Nonny rarely had more than one light on in the house, especially if she was alone. He shoved with the pole, scooting them up the center of the canal, nearing the pier. That brought the entire house into his vision. A third light was on in the kitchen. Three lights. With anyone else, that might seem natural. No possible way with his grandmother.

They had no money in the early days and very little as they grew up. Things like electricity cost money and were never used unless absolutely necessary. Nonny still used candles in the house and sometimes gas lanterns, but never three electric lights.

Adrenaline hit hard, flooding his system. The water churned beneath the pirogue and the Fortunes brothers gripped the sides and stared at him, faces suddenly grim, waiting for him to let them know what was wrong.

Stay quiet. Nonny’s in trouble. Before the dogs could catch their scent, Wyatt sent them a silent message to remain silent.

Neither man asked questions. They knew him. Trusted him. They’d served hundreds of rescue missions together under heavy fire and they knew he was as steady as a rock. If he said Nonny was in trouble, she was. Wyatt never wanted to take that kind of solidarity and trust for granted. Both of his friends were ready when he drew the pirogue next to the dock in the deepest shadows of the cypress trees lining the waters.