The Hunter in the lead didn't lunge for Thomas. It went for Kofi.
It dodged Kofi's muzzle sweep with a fluidity that looked like water flowing around a stone. It grabbed the barrel of the rifle and shoved it upward just as Kofi fired.
CRACK.
The bullet went into the canopy. The Hunter drove a fist into Kofi's solar plexus. The big merc doubled over, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
"Fire!" Thomas roared, bringing his mag-lite down on the skull of the second Hunter.
The impact made a sickening crunch, but the creature didn't drop. It absorbed the blow, shook its head, and hissed—a low, guttural sound that vibrated in Thomas's chest.
Jax was faster. He didn't strike; he retreated. He kicked a cloud of dirt into the third Hunter's face, blinding it, then slashed his knife across its Achilles tendon.
The Hunter dropped, but it didn't scream. It simply turned over and began crawling toward Jax with its hands, its eyes fixed on him. No pain. No hesitation.
"Back in the van! NOW!" Jax shouted.
Thomas grabbed Kofi by the vest and hauled him toward the sliding door. Maggie pulled it open, and they tumbled inside, Jax diving in last.
"Go! Go! Go!"
Thomas threw the van into reverse, tires spinning in the mud, then slammed it into drive and swerved around the fallen log, bouncing over the rough terrain.
"They flanked us," Thomas panted, checking the rearview mirror. "They didn't just attack. They cut off our retreat."
"They're waiting," Lucas said, his voice trembling. "They're learning our patterns."