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ordered to kill anyone who walks into this forest. That’s reason enough for me.”
    “And what if her family comes looking for her?” asks another.
    “Then we shoot them, too,” says the man. “Radio Viktor. Tell him to come back now.”
    “Viktor won’t be coming back.” The moment I say the words, the man standing in front of me looks me right in the eyes.
    “What?” His expression changes as he goes from simply being on edge to suddenly being highly suspicious. “Who are you?”
    “The last person you will ever meet.” I dive onto my stomach as the spring-loaded log launches into the air. With a pressurized hiss, it spins like a lawn sprinkler, spraying thick blue gel in a wide circle before crunching softly back down on the snow beside me. Molecular acid eats through flesh and bone faster than molten steel burns through Styrofoam, and all around me that fact is proven true as I hear guttural croaking and wet gurgling sounds coming from every direction. The wildly contorting men desperately clutch at their faces as their noses, eyes, lips, tongues, and vocal cords are rapidly liquefied. One man claws at his collapsing skull, and his jaw detaches into the palm of his hand as his skin drips like molten wax from his disintegrating fingers. Only one of them manages to make any kind of stifled scream as they all drop one after the other, crumpling into heaps as what remains of their heads dissolves into mushy pink puddles of hair and blood. It’s pretty gross, but very effective. I must admit, Onix sure can fabricate some pretty nasty gadgets, but I’m not gonna let him take all the credit. After all, I did design this one myself.
    No need to hide these bodies; there’s no one left to find them. I throw the empty acid log into some nearby thicket, put the other two logs and one of the men’s pistols in my shoulder sack, and head through the trees into their camp.
    There’s a steaming pot of hot water hanging over a lazily flickering fire surrounded by a ring of stones. There are three self-assembling enviro-shelters, six folding stools, and two open plastic footlockers with cans of food and field rations. Two of the shelter doors are open, but the third is closed and secured with a padlock. I kneel beside it, unscrew the end of a log, retrieve my multitool, and easily pick the lock. Inside, there are two folding beds and a small table with a tidy stack of books, a computer slate, and a manila folder. I open the folder and sort through the documents inside.
    Halfway through the files, I find what I’m looking for: a map. It shows the forest, a red circle indicating the position of this camp, and, farther in, two and a half kilometers northeast of here, a small building. That’s where my target must be. Harold Rachtman, the ex-Blackstone board member who stole highly classified computer files on Richard Blackstone and fled into hiding. I want those files. I need to know all I can about the man so I can get close to him . . . and kill him with my own two hands. I memorize the map, step out of the shelter, fish a compass out of my pocket, and start running.
    I crunch through the snow as quietly as I can, but I also keep up a good pace. It isn’t very long before I see smoke rising out of the chimney of a small wood cabin up ahead. I cautiously approach, circling around through the trees skirting the side of the rustic building. As I get closer, I see movement from the corner of my eye and quickly dart out of sight. I carefully peer around the side of the tree and see two men with automatic rifles slung over their shoulders walking from behind the cabin. One offers the other a cigarette, and they stand at the corner smoking and talking quietly.
    I watch and wait. It doesn’t take very long before they finish their cigarettes, share a drink from a flask, and separate, heading in opposite directions around the outside of the cabin. One disappears from view around the back, and I wait a little longer, until