They had found her grandfather’s journal. He should have read all the passages leading up to his death, maybe that would have given him a clue as to who was behind this plot to start a war.
Dymka continued his forward momentum. The shooter had moved after he’d fired the first shot and then followed that with a volley, but Dymka knew all about that ploy. The cat had sprayed his offending odor everywhere, hoping Dymka wouldn’t be able to track him. Hoping he’d be intimidated by the leopard claiming the territory as his own. Dymka raged to get at the enemy, but he was an experienced fighter and he didn’t make the mistake of just rushing after the man with the gun. Mitya was certain their enemy had deliberately used the weapon in the hopes that Dymka would come after him.
Leopards were notorious for turning back on their enemies and hunting them. Dymka was no exception, but he’d also been learning lessons on fighting technique since he was a very small cub and Mitya’s father had his lieutenants turn their leopards on him. Sometimes Lazar’s leopard joined in the frenzy of ripping the young cub apart. He’d learned patience in a very hard world.
Dymka circled around to get behind the man. He had him spotted now. The man was up in a tree, naked, ready to shift when needed, but he was swiveling from one side to the other, trying to spot his enemy. Dymka inched forward, using the freeze-frame stalk of his kind. He couldn’t rush the man as long as he was in the tree, so he stayed very still, not moving a single blade of grass.
Time passed. Gunfire had long since ceased. The sound of trucks starting up could be heard in the distance. Dymka didn’t so much as twitch his tail. His hot gaze never left his prey. The man took his time, studying the terrain around him, looking with more than human senses, relying on his leopard to find any enemy close.
Dymka was downwind and never moved a muscle. He just waited with the patience taught to him by the lessons those terrible leopards had given him as he’d grown up.
Eventually the man began to climb down from the tree. Mitya studied him, trying to place him, but he could swear he’d never seen the man before. He had darker skin, as if he spent time in the sun. He looked weathered, although he was on the younger side, perhaps in his late twenties. This was not a man he had any kind of feud with. He wasn’t Russian. He slipped once, scraping his backside on the bark and swearing in a language often spoken in Bolivia—Aymara. That shocked him.
Drake Donovan definitely had ties in Bolivia and throughout all of South and Central America. He had ties practically all over the world. Was the vendetta against Drake? If it was, it didn’t explain why after Ania’s grandfather was killed, her father was shot and she was targeted.
Dymka didn’t move as the man jumped the last few feet, landing in a crouch and going still, looking all around him. Dymka lay about ten feet from him, concealed by taller grass, blending in with his surroundings.
Other than the pack he wore around his neck, the man was naked, and he didn’t seem in a hurry to dress. Clearly, he intended to shift and travel as a leopard across the Bannaconni ranch. He took a cautionary step in Dymka’s direction, still grasping the gun.
Dymka kept his eyes on the weapon. The man took another step, still looking around him, the gun dropping almost to his side. The big leopard charged, exploding from the grass, crossing the short distance in half a second, swiping one paw at the gun, nearly severing the arm as he sent the weapon flying.
Immediately, the man tried to shift, his body contorting fast, jaw elongating, fur beginning to burst through skin. Dymka took him all the way over, his heavy body pinning his enemy, teeth closing on the throat.
Mitya tried to back him off. He needed a prisoner to question, but there was no stopping Dymka once he went for the kill, not when he was so enraged and frustrated in the midst of the Han Vol Dan. He killed the man and then dragged his body over the hillside, back to the group of men waiting for him.
Mitya waited until Dymka released the body, dropping it almost at his cousin’s feet, and then he shifted. “Prisoners?” It was the first word out of his mouth. He needed a prisoner. Just one. Two would be better, but one would do. He needed to get to the bottom of this mess.
Fyodor shook his head. “Sorry, Mitya. They’re all dead.”
Mitya caught the jeans Timur tossed to him and stepped into them with the ease of long practice. “What the hell, Fyodor? Not one alive? That’s bullshit.”