...The moonlight painted his pursuers’ faces in sickly light—three grinning death masks just yards from his defenseless position. The fourth, Elvis Montoya, a shadow behind them, staying well back from the violence—violence of which he was the ultimate creator. The men fanned out before him, three against one, a constellation of doom in the growing darkness.

“Venido aquí, pequeño querido. Give up now and we’ll be gentle.” Wheedling tones, followed by more sadistic laughter. Montoya snapped his fingers, the sound eerily loud. One of the men handed him a camera. Adrian’s own camera! Montoya laughed and brought the camera up to his chest, checking the flash. “Now!” he ordered the men.

I don’t think so! Adrian answered silently. Out loud, he shouted, “Hobble this, you bastard!” He flew from his prone position, dashing directly at the nearest assailant. By the time the surprised Colombian thought to raise his automatic weapon, Adrian was upon him, a seething ball of fury and desperation. Gun rendered clumsy and useless at such close quarters, the son of a bitch swung his weapon at Adrian instead. Ducking a clout from the rifle barrel, Adrian seized his moment, striking with deadly accuracy, bashing the man’s face with the jagged rock he’d grabbed when he’d fallen. A shadowy fissure appeared where a cruel, blue-ringed eyeball had been.

Adrian yanked the rifle from his enemy’s spasming clutch and gifted the prone man with a brutal kick, payment in kind for harsh beatings received.

The other two advanced on him. Adrian swung the gun butt like a club, keeping them at bay, knowing it was all over even as he stepped backward, pinned again between the enemy and the churning river.

“¡Olvídese de él! Just shoot the sum’bitch!”

Good, Adrian thought. A clean death.

“No. I want him alive! Capture him!”

Montoya’s words sent snakes of fear slithering down Adrian’s spine, squirming in the depths of his bowels. He stood his ground, still holding the purloined rifle like a Louisville Slugger. Any attempt to shoot one man would result in his instant death by the other.

And suddenly, that sounded good. Very good, in fact. He turned the gun barrel outward, aiming for Montoya. At least he could do this last good deed for the world—if, in fact, good could arise from murder.

Montoya sneered, raising Adrian’s camera in answer, obviously confident his henchmen would protect him.

A streak of lightning split the sky, illuminating the deadly standoff. Startled, his hands clenched. He felt rather than heard the shot. Had he hit anything? Anyone? He’d never even held a gun before, let alone fired one.

When his blurring and burning vision returned, the echoes of light silhouetted a screaming shape as it descended on the attackers. Dagger-claws flashed red as first one, then the other, went down beneath the black velvet onslaught, guns forgotten in primal panic.

The jaguar released the man’s throat—Adrian would never know if he’d shot one of them or if the jaguar had taken out both. Three bodies lay in the muck, two with great red gashes where their throats had been. The one Adrian had clobbered with the sharp stone groaned and shifted, catching the cat’s attention. Adrian clenched his eyes shut, wishing he could do the same with his ears, as groans became screams, then gurgles, then silence.

Three bodies. Three only. Montoya had escaped.

Surveying the carnage, Adrian gasped, bile rising in his throat. “Oh, God!” he whispered, but apparently not quietly enough.

The great cat lifted his head and faced Adrian. Bits of flesh dripped from its scarlet maw. It tossed its head, sending bloody droplets to join their purer cousins in the puddles below. Slowly, head lowered, it advanced. Cat eyes met human eyes. Adrian took a shaky step backward, then another.

The rain-saturated embankment melted beneath his feet. Adrian gasped instinctively for air as he plunged into the river where the angry current snatched him under.