PREDATOR: AN ANDREW HALE SERIES

GAME ON

I sat there in that damned wooden chair, the legs creaking every time I shifted. The sheriff’s office was empty, too empty, and the air smelled like stale coffee and old paper. Sunlight slipped through half-broken blinds, cutting thin yellow lines across the desk where Sheriff Riker should have been sitting.

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t anywhere.

I drummed my fingers on the armrest, trying not to let irritation show on my face. I’d already been here long enough for my patience to start peeling away, layer by layer. If there was one thing I hated more than incompetence, it was avoidance — and that was exactly what this felt like.

The reverend had spoken earlier. Nervous man, pacing like he was carrying something sharp under his tongue. And the sheriff? Nowhere.Interesting pattern.

Just interesting.

You guys haven't realized that I'm a master in this game.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, scanning the room like clues might appear if I glared long enough. Everything was too neat. Too normal. Nothing out of place. Nothing hurried. No sign that the sheriff had left in a rush.

It was like he’d simply… vanished.

And I wasn’t leaving until he showed up.

I’d wait all damn day if I had to.

I ran a hand over my jaw and sighed. Something wasn’t right in this town — the girls, the silence, the way everyone’s eyes darted away the moment questions floated near. And now? The sheriff conveniently missing.

“Convenient,” I muttered under my breath.

Just as I leaned back, ready to settle into a long, stubborn wait, my phone buzzed violently against my thigh. The sound jolted me — not because I was startled, but because I only had one contact set to that vibration pattern. One person who knew to use it when trouble was real, not imagined.

Sally.

My partner.

I answered immediately. “Sally? Talk to me.”

Her breath hit my ear first — short, shaking breaths that stabbed straight into my chest.

“H-Hale—” she gasped, voice trembling so hard it barely sounded like her. “Andy… I—I got hit.”

I shot up from the chair so fast it scraped loud against the floor. “What do you mean hit? Sally, what happened?”

“A car,” she choked out. “It was speeding… too fast. It didn’t even try to stop.”

My stomach twisted. “Where are you? Are you bleeding? Talk to me.”

There was a small cry, pained but angry. “I… I’m near the diner. By the old gas station.” Another shaky breath. “Andy… I swear… it was intentional.”

Everything in my body froze.

Intentional.

I grabbed my jacket and was out the door before she finished the sentence. The cold air slapped me in the face as I ran down the steps, not bothering to lock anything behind me. I jumped into the SUV, jammed the key into the ignition, and tore down the quiet main road like hell itself was on my bumper.

My pulse hammered in my ears.

I shouldn’t have sent her. I told her to ask around casually, blend in, see if anyone in town whispered something loose. It was supposed to be harmless.

But harmless didn’t exist in places that hid bodies now did it?

“Sally, stay on the line,” I said, forcing my voice steady as I sped through the nearly empty streets.

There was a small sniff. “I’m okay. I think. My arm hurts… my knee too. But I can move.”

A pause. “Andy… someone tried to send a message.”

My grip tightened on the wheel.

Not a message.

A warning.

“Don’t talk,” I said. “Save your strength. I’m almost there.”

Every street felt too long, every corner too sharp. Who the hell tries to run down a federal agent in ? Someone bold. Someone desperate. Someone who knew we were getting too close.

When I turned onto the diner road, I spotted her immediately — sitting on the curb, shoulders slumped, one hand pressed against her coat sleeve where the fabric was torn. Her hair was messy, strands sticking to her forehead, and she looked… shaken. Really shaken.

I threw the vehicle into park and ran to her.

“Sally,” I breathed out, crouching in front of her. I didn’t touch her yet — not until I saw where she was hurt. “What did they hit you with? A truck? Sedan?”

“Black sedan,” she whispered, looking up at me. “Tinted windows. No plates.”

Of course it had no plates.

Cowards never came with name tags.

“I—I heard the engine rev before it sped toward me,” she added. “They aimed. Andy, they aimed at me. That was no mistake.”

The anger that surged through me was white-hot and instant. A clean, sharp burn.

I scanned the road behind her, every instinct screaming. Whoever did this might still be nearby. Watching. Waiting to see if we understood their little warning.

I raised a hand, motioning for her to stand slowly. “Can you walk?”

She shook her head, even though her face tightened from pain.

I helped her to the passenger seat, carefully guiding her inside. When I shut the door, I lingered for a second, staring out over the empty stretch of street.

Too quiet.

This town was choking on secrets.

I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. “We’re going back to the motel. You need to rest. I’ll file a formal—”

“No,” she cut in immediately, her voice still shaky but firm. “No reports. Not here. Not yet.”

I turned to her. “Sally—”

“If the sheriff didn’t report those missing girls,” she whispered, “what makes you think he’ll report someone trying to kill me?”

I had no answer.

Because she was right.

I started the engine, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I pulled onto the road slowly, watching the rearview mirror like a hawk.

Sally rested her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. Then she spoke again, softer this time, but the words were sharp enough to cut straight through the air between us.

“Andy… someone is not happy with our investigation.”

And just like that, the last piece clicked into place.

This wasn't an accident.

This wasn't just a mere coincidence.

This was a warning.

They were telling us to back off.

This was a back off or get packed off.

This was a declaration of war.

And I don’t back off.

Not ever.