The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning by Jason Kristopher

of a pistol with a suppressor attached.
    “I could kill you right now,” the man said as he gazed down at the reverend in his plush leather seat.
    Wright had never felt so violated, as if the stare of this man was somehow able to peer into his soul.
    “I could kill you, and no one would ever know. You would just be dead when they came to find you.”
    The man waited a minute more, then pulled the gun away and returned it to a holster on his side. “I want you to remember that, Your Grace.”
    He stepped around the desk and took one of the seats facing the reverend. Wright followed his progress like a sunflower that had been in the shade too long.
    “How…”
    “How dare I?” the man asked. “Or did you mean, how did I get in here? Or maybe, how long will it be until someone tries this again?”
    Wright sat back in the chair, stunned into silence and unable to formulate a single thought.
    “To answer your questions, I did it because you needed to have it done, to prove that it was possible. I got in here through the laziness and ineptitude of those ‘guards’ you hired, bribed, or threatened. About how long it’ll be until someone tries it again… that’s a question only you can answer.”
    The man threw his feet up on the desk and leaned back in the chair. “You’re going to hire me to keep just this sort of thing from happening again. I’m your new bodyguard, attaché, second-in-command… whatever title you want to give me. My job is to make sure you live.”
    He took a cigar and Zippo lighter from his pocket and lit it with a practiced ease. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. My name is Harper Grey.”

CHAPTER TWO
     
    Spanaway, Washington
     
    A light dusting of snow glinted on the ruins in the late-afternoon sun. The crisp late-winter air brought her the sounds of old buildings long past rotting, of the small creatures that hid and burrowed and scavenged for any meal they could find. The same air whipped errant strands of her too-long red hair out of her dark grey hood. The strands disappeared as she tucked them back inside, beneath her facemask. She barely noticed the action she had performed a hundred times. Her focus was another scent she had picked up, the one she’d been waiting for these last few hours.
    It was rare, though not unheard of, for a Hunter to lose their prey. To turn a corner with knife raised in killing position, only to find the walker vanished without a trace. Stories were told of so-called “ghost walkers,” immaterial and impossible to catch. She played these down to rumors, to too much back-room hooch being drunk by men and women who should know better.
    But on this, her final qualifying hunt, she wondered. She’d tracked her prey for almost a full day, waiting for the right moment, the safe moment, to make the kill, only to lose sight of it while crossing what remained of an alley. So she had climbed to the upper story of a decrepit store. The crater next door and the scattered shoes in all directions told her exactly where she was.
    Tom Reynolds had told her the story of his escape from the zealots on Z-Day, but she hadn’t expected to actually see the place. She knew she shouldn’t be this far from the bunker.
    Man, I am so boned…
    She remained still, and her camouflage helped her blend into the shadows of the second story. Hours spent in the same position were taking their toll, though. She ached to move something, anything, just to relieve the tension in her muscles. A shift in the wind brought the overpowering stench of a walker even through the filtered mask. She knew it was close, but where?
    Without realizing it, she’d leaned a little forward looking for her target. That slight change in pressure was enough to set her leg trembling with repressed energy. She bit her lip, trying to massage the thigh cramp she could feel building without moving more than she had to. It wasn’t working. She needed to move, now.
    The growing darkness provided