Jack Shelby stood up when he heard heavy footsteps approaching the door. He had been handcuffed to the desk nearly two hours before. He'd evidently got through to Captain Rikhalin in the end. When the submarine docked and the entire crew was ordered to disembark by harbour authorities, Rikhalin came back to the cabin and moved him from the pipe to the desk. There was a tacit understanding now. If he needed to, Shelby could break the desk and escape. Not so the pipe.

As the footsteps got nearer, Shelby's pounding heart slowed again. The feet were very human. Whiling away the hours in the empty submarine, Shelby's thoughts had naturally turned to imagining the thing that killed Li.

The thing that was probably also on board.

With each minute, his conception of the thing grew worse. Every sound he heard, he imagined it was the thing coming to slaughter him too.

It was Rikhalin who opened the door and Shelby was relieved, but the captain had another man with him, and he just didn't have that naval look about him.

"What's happening?" asked Shelby.

The Slavic-looking man said something to Rikhalin in Russian and then the captain obediently took out his key and started unlocking the handcuffs.

"Shelby, this is Agent Malakov," Rikhalin told him.

"What have you told him?"

"Everything." He looked apologetic.

"You're coming with me now," said Malakov.

The hunter moved through the submarine with difficulty. It hadn't been designed for beings as large as he was, and it had been hard enough getting aboard to begin with. Fortunately, then as now, there were no humans about.

He made his way up to the top deck.

Rikhalin took Malakov and Shelby back to the hatch.

"Give me the key to his handcuffs," Malakov demanded, as they stood at the bottom of the ladder. Water was splashing down from above now.

Captain Rikhalin reluctantly handed the key over.

"When are you going to release my crew?" he asked.

"When I have found my traitor," said Malakov as he undid one of Shelby's handcuffs. Then he put one hand and one foot on the ladder.

"What if there isn't one?" Rikhalin murmured.

Malakov hesitated. "Then the next time you see them, it'll be in Siberia." He started up the ladder, ordering Shelby to follow in English.

Rikhalin stayed at the bottom of the ladder, watching them climb toward the hatch. "Bastard," he muttered, wiping water off his face.

But Malakov was already on the wharf.

Soon Shelby was gone with him.

Rikhalin turned round in time to see the blank metal face of Death loom out of the passage. Then he felt the driving pain sear through his gut.

Shelby was struggling to follow Malakov along the wind-ravaged wharf. He was absolutely frozen, his jacket having been taken before he was tortured. For a second, he thought he heard a scream, stopped, and turned.

"Come on!" Malakov shouted over the wind.

No, it was just the gale, thought Shelby.

Captain Rikhalin lay at the bottom of the ladder, looking up. His hands and feet were all tingly, and he was wet, but not just with water.

A dark shape loomed above him. It was climbing the ladder. Before it reached the hatch, however, it appeared to vanish into thin-air.

But soon after, so did everything else.

The hunter stood at the end of the wharf, looking around.

This was not where he was meant to be.

He looked back down into the submarine. He had no interest in claiming that trophy. He didn't kill that one out of sport, but out of expediency.

It had got in his way.

Just then he felt the snap of a static charge as his cloak fizzled in the wet. He needed to get away from all this water.

He headed along the wharf toward the harbour.

"You must be pretty tired," Malakov said once they were inside.

He had brought Shelby to the harbour's master office, where it was at least warm and dry. The agent wiped his face on a hand towel provided by an ugly, silent man in his mid-twenties, and then offered it to Shelby.

"Take it. How long since you last slept?"

The Russian spoke perfect English, far better than Rikhalin. Warily, Shelby took the towel and began to rub dry his face and hair.

"About twenty hours," he said.

"You'll sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you and I get the train to Khabarovsk. I can tell you're not a fool. You know I can and will shoot you."

Shelby sighed. "Yeah."

"But only if you're trouble," the agent added with a smirk. "Just remember it's five thousand miles to Checkpoint Charlie, got it?"

Shelby nodded. He hadn't actually thought of escaping.

"Only one question tonight," Malakov said, taking out a small notebook and licking the tip of an even smaller pencil. "Your name."

"Shelby. Jack Shelby."

"Thank you."

Later Malakov was on the telephone. Shelby was locked in a room upstairs and Gustach's night shift replacement had arrived to take over.

"I'm surprised you've found something this quickly," Malakov said. "Yes, Jack Shelby. Oh, really? Now, that's very interesting."

The hunter stalked through the harbour stealthily.

Away from the water, his cloak was the perfect camouflage. He pursued his prey down windy passages and they never even knew he was there.

He climbed up several buildings to get a better shot, but by the time he reached the other side of the harbour, he hadn't killed a thing.

There was no sport in picking off a weaker opponent from afar.

Just like there was no sport in shooting the back of a coward. Many times he was within several paces of a target. He could reveal himself to them, his presence alone a challenge to combat. But they would just turn and flee.

In certain places on this world, men were arrogant and conceited. They didn't run away when faced with an unmatchable opponent. And it was these, who fancied their chances against his race, which made for the best sport.

But finding those men was even harder than killing them.

The hunter stopped on the road outside the harbour. It was night now, and the road was devoid of any vehicles. His species wasn't usually given to a sense of curiosity, but he looked along the grey beachhead with interest.

All along the coast, as far as he could see, the wave-lashed beaches were home to what looked like giant metal claws, sticking out of the sand. The hunter adjusted his mask's enhanced vision mode to get a better look. They weren't natural, and neither was the endless swirl of barbed wire behind the beaches.

Primitive humans and their alien logic were beyond this hunter. It almost looked like they didn't want their own sea craft to land here.

He soon lost interest when he saw what was along the coastal road. Remaining cloaked, he left the harbour further and further behind.

There were twelve of the things. They sat on the side of the road, in a gap in the barbed wire, looking out to sea. The hunter presumed they were facing forward, because the unmistakably gun-like protrusion growing out of the top was pointing down the beach, as if anticipating a target coming from the sea.

He knew at once that these were weapons.

As he got closer, he heard voices. He stopped, but he couldn't see where they were coming from, so he continued to get nearer.

But then the voices came again.

The hunter paused beside one of the twelve weapons and switched between vision modes. In infrared, the yellow-red heat signals appeared immediately.

They were sitting inside the weapon.

It was then the hunter realised it wasn't just a weapon, but a craft, too. It didn't have wheels, but it had treads. And presumably those inside could see out.

The hunter was very impressed.

The small cannon on his shoulder slid up silently and began pivoting in the direction he was looking. Twin blades swished out of his wrist-mount.

Finally, someone worthy of sport.

Shelby got about two hours of sleep.

There was a bunk in the small room where he was shut, but it smelled musty and had probably been there since the building was built. The same, Shelby thought, for the windows, which rattled incessantly in the wind.

After waking up the third or fourth time and feeling progressively less like sleeping, Shelby got up and went to the window.

For the first time, as he stared out to sea, it hit him where he was. He was in Russia, the Soviet Union, where everyone was a Ruskie, a Commie, a Bad Guy. But here, he was the enemy. And he could expect to be treated as such.

He wondered if they would kill him.

Malakov unlocked the door and came in without knocking. He didn't seem surprised to find Shelby not in bed. He was carrying a mug.

"I thought you might like a drink."

Shelby shook his head and went back to looking out the window. When Malakov didn't move, Shelby changed his mind and held out his hand.

The coffee was thick, and a little sickly.

"What's this, then?" he said, the hot drink filling a gap and making him feel altogether more pleasant. "Sleep deprivation to make me talk?"

Malakov smiled, but not with his eyes.

"I heard you moving around," he said plainly.

Shelby nodded, gulped down some more.

"You may choose not to believe this, Mr Shelby," the agent continued. "But I don't actually believe in the use of torture."

"We'll see," Shelby said between mouthfuls.

"In my line of work, the discovery of the truth is paramount. But torture can make you say anything." He paused. "Invisible aliens and all."

Shelby hesitated, the mug a fraction of an inch from his lip. Then he shrugged and finished the rest of the drink in a single swig.

The room seemed much smaller when there were two people in it. Malakov joined him at the window for a moment, then went and sat on the bed.

"Though, seeing as you're up anyway," he said. "I would really like to hear about your involvement with the United States military."

Shelby snorted. "I have no involvement."

"No?" went Malakov. "I see. Then perhaps you can tell me how you managed to get awarded the Congressional Medal of Honour."

Shelby froze. Then he sighed.

It was so cold inside the tank the two privates could see their own breath condense in the air. They were both wrapped up warmly, but had a small flask of vodka that they shared, which helped keep them even warmer.

You weren't supposed to drink on tank duty. The privates knew that. You were the first line of defence against a naval invasion, and being drunk was an offence that could get you a court martial. But it was just so damn cold at night. Which is why the lowest ranking soldiers in the Soviet army always got the job.

Vodka helped them pass long, uneventful nights with good humour. It's not like anything ever happened on their watch, anyway.

One of the privates was just commenting on this for perhaps the fourth or fifth time that evening when they heard the thud - and felt it too.

They both went silent, looked at each other.

"What was that?" the older one hissed.

It sounded like something had fallen on top of the tank.

"Who's there?" the younger one called.

After a moment, his partner burst out laughing.

"Who's there!" he echoed drunkenly.

The other couldn't resist this infectious drunken mirth.

Suddenly, the hatch above their heads was ripped clean off.

When he saw their attacker, the younger one screamed.

The older one didn't have time to. The beast reached in, tore him out of his seat with ease and then sliced his head off with a nauseating squelch.

The blood drained onto the survivor as he grabbed for the radio. He turned the knob, shouted against the static: "We're under attack!"

He looked up in time to see the beast standing over the hole in the top of the tank, a long spear levelled down in both hands.

"Help!" he screamed into the radio.

Then the beast drove the spear down, straight through him.

He started to scream, only gurgled.

The hunter lifted the spear up carefully, so that the body came with it. Then he held the limp form up by the neck as if to inspect it.

How weak and effete this opponent had turned out to be. Yet the corpse had an interesting bone structure. The spine would make a nice trophy.

Just then, a strange whining sound started coming from the far end of the tanks. The hunter dropped the body and stood upright. The whine was rising and falling in pitch. He'd heard a similar sound on the human ship.

Right before armed humans came at him.

He put away his spear and readied his shoulder-cannon.

Enticed by the prospect of something with a bit more fight in it, the hunter reactivated his cloak and jumped from this tank to the next one over.

Some of the other craft had started to growl and splutter smoke. Switching briefly to infrared, the hunter found most of them had two human occupants. Looking down between his feet, he found this craft was no exception.

The plasma bolts went straight through the roof.

At point blank range, the two humans inside were blown apart. For a moment, the entirety of the hunter's heat vision was speckled yellow. But then the splatters of blood quickly cooled and their infrared signals faded to purple.

In the distance came the sound of raised voices. The hunter snap-looked up, and as he homed in on them, also heard their running feet.

The hatch of the next tank flipped open and a scared-looking human rapidly scrambled onto the roof with a gun. Three flashing red diagonal lines intersected on his chest within a matter seconds, but the hunter waited.

Several of the tanks backed out into the road. The running humans gathered around and behind them, taking cover. They all had weapons too.

The hunter let slip a volley of plasma. The first hit the man on the next tank square in the chest. He was thrown up into the air. His lifeless body fell down between the tanks. The others saw it, came running toward it.

Came running in the direction of the hunter.

The other plasma bolts cascaded against the tanks. One of them exploded inside, but wasn't torn apart. From the others came their fleeing occupants.

There must have been twenty humans in the open now.

The hunter took out his spear again and extended it full-length. He lifted it high above his head and hollered loudly and proudly at the heavens.

Then he jumped down into the road, ready to fight.

The prisoner had been evading Malakov's question for over fifteen minutes when Gustach ran up the stairs and burst into the room unannounced.

"Why haven't you gone home?" Malakov snapped.

Gustach was wearing a wax coat, water dripping off it.

"Sir, you have to come immediately!" he cried. "I was just leaving when two dockers told me they found a body. Sir, it's Captain Rikhalin's, sir!"

Malakov stood impulsively. He glared down at Shelby, frowning suspiciously, but the American was just frowning right back up at him.

"Take me to it," Malakov murmured.

He locked the door on his way out.

The two dockers were standing at the end of the wharf, hidden beneath the mass of their weatherproof coats, peering down into the submarine's hatch.

Malakov pushed his way through them.

The body at the bottom of the ladder was soaked. Water splashing over the side of the submarine had washed away some of the blood. It had obviously been there quite a long time. Since Malakov last saw him alive, perhaps.

"Did he fall?" Gustach asked queasily.

Malakov ignored him. He climbed onto the submarine and then started down the ladder. The harbour master hesitated, then followed him through the hatch.

At the bottom of the ladder, Malakov pushed a hand through his hair to drive out excess water, then crouched over the corpse. He tugged the captain's shirt free of his trousers and then felt the cold, naked flesh around the fatal wound.

Gustach stopped behind him, a hand over his mouth.

"The skin recession here," Malakov muttered to himself, pushing a finger into the hole, black with congealed blood. "He was stabbed."

"You a doctor too?" Gustach asked.

Malakov ignored him again. He reached a hand under Rikhalin's body and felt around his back. "Exit wound, too. Not stabbed. Impaled."

"What killed him?" Gustach hissed.

Malakov stood up. "Not what, who," he said. "I thought you said everybody on the crew was accounted for and the sub was searched."

"It was! And they were!"

"He was murdered by a stowaway!"

"Uh-uh!" went Gustach defensively. "Not possible. We searched every nook and cranny. They would've had to have been invisible!"

Slowly, Malakov looked up.

The hunter surveyed the carnage in the road.

He had deactivated his cloak and was now visible to the naked eye. But there was nobody left to see him. They were all dead. All twenty of them.

He picked his way between the bodies, selecting which would become his trophies. Some of these had actually put up a decent fight.

But he was uninjured. Not even their noisy, chattering rapid-firing guns were a match for his burgeoning skills with pistol and spear.

But their fear at the sight of him visible, and their terror at his abilities, these were what really killed them. So the hunter didn't feel properly sated.

He felt the immediate urge to hunt again.

As he looked for any that might still be alive, he felt a splatter on his shoulder, then one on the other, then on his head. Rain.

The hunting would have to wait. He couldn't risk being seen out in the open without always having his cloaking device to recourse to.

For now, he had to seek shelter.

NOTES:
A significant shift in style, akin to the swift movie-esque cutting/editing, as suited to this more action-led chapter. So a quick pace is maintained satisfactorily throughout, even though this chapter actually takes place over the longest period of time (several hours have passed since the beginning at the end). It's easier to write like this (a coincidence that it was the shortest as well as the quickest to do), but can sometimes feel less involving. I suppose the most challenging thing about this chapter was writing from the Predator viewpoint, without ever resorting to anthropomorphising too much and saying 'he thought'.