"Dempsey used your DNA for his formula. Not just the idea, but your actual DNA. The bastard made you the Mother of his creation. Since he now has your DNA mapped, he can recreate it. You're now considered expendable."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jackson pauses in his motion, stilling his light-speed heart to listen. Slowly the voices become clear, the tones bouncing with an echo effect from tree trunks and branches. With a faint frown, the hunter wonders at the deadening effect the leaves have on his heightened hearing. In that brief moment of sanity, Jackson makes a mental note to discuss the seeming sound vacuum.

In the next instant, Jackson is once again nothing but a hunter, prowling; stalking; salivating at the chance to devour. His steps carry him forward, tracking the scents as he identifies every addition.

The mutt first. So she can watch. Then the old man. He's dying anyway. He pauses, tilting his head slightly, a faint frown creasing his forehead. Yet, whatever made the noise is gone. His paranoia sets in and for a moment Jackson is frozen in place, unable to move though every instinct tells him to press on.

Go for the kill. The weak feed the strong. If you don't move you are food. Release the beast. Release the beast.

Repeating his psychotic mantra, Jackson presses forward, each step an exclamation of his dominance. He follows the scent of the husky, salivating in his eagerness to consume everything in his path. Like a haunting, winter wind, Jackson stalks his prey.

~~~~~~~~~~

Kyra looks from Michael to Matthew and finally to her Uncle. She shakes her head slightly then shrugs off the mounting tension. Her voice is clear yet carries a tone previously unheard: even Wolf perks his ears at his Mistress' authority.

"There's nothing we can change about that now, and I'm not about to run from some vigilante-esque hunter. Lock and load, gentleman, this is the curtain call." Kyra turns to the husky, speaking softly yet with that same note of command. "Guard, Wolf. It's coming."

Michael raises a brow, looking from George to Matthew as Kyra gives her opinion. "Matthew, you know him best, you're on point, so to speak. Michael, if you would, please secure each room, windows then doors. Uncle George, take stock of the weapons on hand and make sure they're ready. There's time for tears when it's over." The last is nothing more than a whisper, spoken only for her own benefit.

Kyra moves through the kitchen, locking the back door and windows. She then turns off the lights. As she moves back into the livingroom, Kyra tells herself to breathe, looking to the files spread out on the coffee table. With nerves of iron her eyes pass over countless "volunteers" for Dempsey's experiments.

Matthew breaks into Kyra's thoughts, alerting her to a new wave of adrenaline washing through her system. "Kyra... he's here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His heart races within his chest, pounding a schizophrenic techno beat. So close. Nearly mine. But... Jackson jerks back from the house, almost as if stung. The scents assault his nose; traces in reverse. A low growl pulses within his chest as Jackson newly examines the yard.

With hair on end, the hunter listens intently to the occupants of the house. They think they are ready for me. She is strong. Stronger than I thought.... He narrows his eyes, tuning his aural receptors in order to hear their conversation. A frown creases his brow as the only sound other than the night is a low, deadly, canine growl.

..........

Wolf growls low, menace in his animal voice. Kyra places her finger to her lips, shaking her head as MIchael opens his mouth to speak. Pointing to a legal pad, Kyra quickly scrawls, "He can hear whispers." She then picks up her HK, careful not to make a sound.

Michael watches Kyra for a moment, simply focusing on her. As his thoughts begin to drift along more gentle pathways, Michael shakes his head, jerking his attention back to the trial at hand. He moves with silent care to a position against the east wall, under the large window facing the forest. With a nod of his head, Michael directs Matthew to take up stance across from him.

Matthew answers his brother's direction with immediate compliance, taking up his position under the bank of windows against the west wall. His own thoughts carry him back in time to his first session with Hawkman.

It had been Jackson's fifth injection and the Captain had looked so strange then. Matthew hadn't meant to stare, yet Jackson had taken offense, leaping from the gurney with every intention of ending Matthew's life. As the MPs had pulled Jackson off of Matthew, the Captain had spit the only words Matthew had ever heard him speak. "I will feast on your heart, Lieutenant."

..........

Sour sweat. The Lieutenant is scared. That will make him sloppy. Jackson continues to sniff, his steps silent in the early morning hours. The old man is tired. And drunk. Too much Scotch, geezer. He pauses at the southwestern corner of the house, farthest away from his victims.

Jackson raises his head, the setting moon almost invisible through the treetops. As perfect dark settles over the house, bathing everything in a blanket of blackness, Jackson picks up a small handful of stones. His footsteps carry him further north along the west wall.

With careful aim, the hunter tosses the first stone toward the far south window. A satisfied smirk dangles from his lips at the light tap of stone to glass. Psychotic laughter scuttles just within Jackson's mouth, begging for release, yet fading away into a recycled breath.

.............