Sam came to with a start, flat on his back, amid some thick underbrush.

It took him some seconds to realize what had happened. His freefalling body must have hit the bottom of the cliff at the place where it began to taper off, because after hitting the rocks he'd slid or rolled for more than 100 feet before coming to rest in the thicket in which he now lay.

It took him a few moments longer to comprehend that he must have taken another large caliber bullet, this time to the side of the head. The round would have traveled more than 1,200 yards—Bennet either was a very good or a very lucky shot—and had lost most of its velocity along the way. He didn't feel fortunate, but he would've been in much worse shape had he been shot by the same weapon up close.

There was no time to think of that now.

He tried to sit up, blacked out, and tried again. On the good side, after again nearly losing consciousness, it occurred to him that the tsunamis of pain in his head and neck helped him forget his throbbing and debilitating back injury. He tried twice more to rise, without success.

Finally, after many minutes, he pushed to a sitting position and looked around. Visibility in the underbrush was limited except, perhaps, for someone atop the cliff from which he'd just fallen. He needed to move.

After several feeble attempts, Sam finally made it to his feet and staggered 100 or so yards to a small creek. He drank deeply of the cool, soothing water. Even Sam's enormous constitution had its limits. Dysentery from the untreated water might kill him by the end of the week, but dehydration could kill him by the end of the day. It was several hours until noon, and the weather already was hot.

An examination of his resources established that he had a t-shirt, jeans, and boots. Fortunately, Camille had pestered him into stopping to have the ancient boots resoled after he'd given her the tour of his neighborhood. He chuckled. You got that going for you. Otherwise, strength and wits were his only weapons.

Drinking again, he assessed his injuries. The pain in his back was tremendous, but bearable. Lifting his left arm several times, he imagined he would be able to loosen it up and possibly regain full range of motion by the end of the day. As it was, he scarcely could raise the arm above his shoulder.

He stood to look around and winced. His neck and head were another matter. There was still a pronounced ringing in his right ear, and he was unable to move his head left or right at all. Gingerly, he found he could move it up and down, but only slightly. Although he no longer worried that he might pass out, a titanic headache split his skull. Clearly, he'd been concussed but had no idea what he might do about it.

The actual fall had left him with only minor aches and pains. You should have just jumped, he scolded himself.

Most people would've panicked, but Sam had been in worse scrapes and come out on top. There was no sign of bleeding, no broken bones, and his healing was vastly greater than the average person. Within the next few hours, his physical condition should improve significantly.

He just needed to stay alive that long.

So, either way, or whatever his prognosis, staying put was not an option. His enemies may have assumed he was dead—that might win him a short respite—but they would come looking soon, if only to confirm the kill.

He stood, did his best to look around, and began to move upstream, working his arm and neck as he did. Thirty minutes later found him deep in the woods of a mountain slope. There were many tracks and trails in the forest, some of them suitable for a vehicle, but it was best to avoid those. This area had been used often.

Sam felt no need to hurry; true hunters never did. He'd shaken off pursuit, at least for the time being, and the dense wood was proof against the small drones that he finally realized were circling overhead. Happily, there was no sign of tracking dogs.

With great ease, the city dweller revived the stalking skills that had kept him alive and victorious for two years in the Central Highlands of Viet Nam. Sam moved seldom, paused often, and looked, listened, and smelt constantly. Eventually, during one of his many pauses, he heard the slight chug of a diesel engine in the far distance. Rather than edging away, he moved closer, ever so slowly, first on foot and then on his belly.

Peeping over a rise, the old scallywag looked down onto a large military vehicle sitting in a clearing of a mud road. None of the five men who crewed it seemed to be watching or on guard. The light machinegun mounted on a pedestal in the middle of the vehicle was unmanned. One mercenary seemed to be eating, another was on the radio, and a third stood watching the radioman. Two others loitered nearby, their weapons more or less at the ready, but neither appeared to give attention to their surroundings.

Sam waited. There was no telling who else might be about.

His vigil went on for close to an hour. By the end of that time, one of the men had fallen asleep, the others had slung their weapons, and one went about completely unarmed. The old veteran was aghast. It was amateur hour. Even in his current weakened state, he could have gone down and murdered all five with little effort.

For just a moment, mercy for these ridiculous creatures entered his heart. Then it faded. They weren't actively stalking him. But it was clear from their radio communications, which he easily could hear from his perch, that they merely were waiting for a drone to spot him so they could effortlessly surround and kill him.

Not just douche bags, but lazy douche bags, he thought.

The fate of the group was sealed when one of the men, one of two with heavily accented English, brought up the subject of the "jackrabbit." Over the next 10 minutes, the entire silly assemblage laughed and bantered about when they'd last seen her, gotten a shot off at her, or what vile things they'd do with her when they caught her. Even for a well-travelled and worldly man like Sam, the conversation was revolting. It was clear from their chatter that the mercenaries were talking about Celia's sister, Lydia—a mere child.

The pulsing rage deep in Sam's mind, which in no way had abated, now became a hammering drumbeat.

The old man began to slip closer. By the time he was within 10 or 15 yards of the nearest of the mercenaries, another half an hour had passed, and the group looked as if it was preparing to leave. All five converged on the vehicle.

It could not have gone better for the old Chicagoan. The hour or more of rest he'd enjoyed while watching them had done wonders. His head was still searing agony, but the mobility of his neck and left arm had improved.

He stood, walked casually to the nearest man, and grabbed him by the nape. Whipping the unsuspecting man about, Sam struck him in the nose with all his might. The mercenary slumped dead at Sam's feet. Stepping over the first man, he repeated this operation with a second mercenary before the other three even realized he was there.

There was a sudden ecstasy of activity as the men fumbled and grabbed for weapons. Sam seized the nearest mercenary, lifted him overhead, and hurled him as hard as he was able at another man who'd jumped up and made a grab for the machinegun mounted on the truck. The two mercenaries went flying and landed in a hard heap on the far side of the vehicle.

Three long strides brought Sam within punching distance of the last man, who just managed to get off a few shots into the dirt with his automatic rifle before Sam struck him once in the body to quiet him and then once hard in the head to end him. Circling the truck to where the other two struggled to rise, he dealt a single vicious blow to each. All five men were dead within a minute.

Sam felt neither hatred nor pity. These men had taken up weapons and stalked an unarmed man like he was an animal. What they'd done to victimize a child, though, was simply unforgivable. They got what they deserved.

The sudden squawk of the radio drew him to the vehicle. The sound of the gunfire must have carried. He picked up the mic and signed on—there had been plenty of time to learn their call signs—and Sam then informed their commander, who went by the call sign delta6, what had become of his men. Sam then invited the commander, and anyone else listening, to come join them, before he tossed the mic away and turned to leave.

He dismissed the idea of taking a weapon. But hunger caused him to turn back to the truck to rummage about. Out of the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention. When he turned, there was a young girl, clad in rags, standing stock-still in the clearing not 20 feet away.