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The serial perpetrator known as the Sandman is a highly organized killer who (at this point in time) appears to be further refining his skills with every abduction and murder.

The only hint of disorganization (and it is a significant one) is in the timing of his kills—the first two were four months apart, but the third only seven weeks after the second. Should this trend continue, he could strike again in less than a month.

Jacques had intended to fly with no particular destination in mind, but Adam’s comments about a possible killer in their territory had him turning east; he wanted to check out something he’d spotted the previous day in the desert.

In a hurry to make a meeting with his wing at the time, he’d noted it with the intention of sending a couple of junior soldiers out to check what it was and clear it up if necessary.

From his fleeting glance, it had appeared to be either a dumped vehicle or parts of one.

The folks around this area were good about not polluting the landscape, but there remained the occasional idiot who thought to take the cheaper route, never mind what might leach into the soil and from there into the water supply.

But the spot he’d noted would also make an excellent place to stash a vehicle, Jacques had realized after he took flight.

All but invisible from the air, it was directly off a dirt track that was pretty much unused, but that did eventually lead to a major highway.

The specific area wasn’t quite a canyon, more a depression in the landscape with a few scraggly trees around, and there , an overhang below which a large object glinted metallic under the sun.

After ensuring there was no movement below, he came down to land on the immediate top of the overhang, where he sat and listened for any hint of another presence.

Nothing.

Satisfied, he flew down to land in front of the overhang before peering into the shallow cave beneath with his falcon’s piercing vision.

This, thought the human part of his mind, was no dumped vehicle.

While hardly the newest model or in the best outward condition, it was obvious to him that the vehicle was in working order.

Similar to the kind of rugged four-wheel drives the clan used to go up and down the Canyon, the tires were high, with an excellent grip, the body one that could handle the harsh desert environment.

Shifting in a cascade of light that was pure pain and brutal ecstasy, he rose from his crouch to look inside the vehicle through the windows, but made sure not to touch anything. If it was being used for criminal purposes, the last thing he wanted to do was wipe off or contaminate the evidence.

Though the likelihood was that it was wholly unconnected to murder—could just be a local who liked off-roading in the desert.

If that were the case, however, there’d be no reason to leave it out here, exposed to the elements—the overhang was enough to shield it from overhead sight, but not from the desert winds and heat.

Unless, of course, it wasn’t registered or had issues that meant it wasn’t roadworthy, but the owner considered it plenty good enough to drive around the desert—and had a strong dislike of any kind of authority.

Jacques could appreciate that. He didn’t exactly like any authority aside from his wing leader’s.

Many of the humans in Raintree felt the same way.

There was a reason they lived in a town without a mayor.

He spotted nothing much inside except for a crumpled-up wrapper from what might’ve been an energy bar, and a bottle of water, but that was enough to tell him the vehicle was in current use.

No dust on the dashboard, either.

As for the back, the windows were tinted to such an extent that he couldn’t see anything through them. It didn’t matter. He had enough to run the car, find out to whom it belonged.

He shifted back into falcon form.

As always, his vision became even sharper, his heartbeat faster, his sense of himself expanding and contracting at the same time.

He was now closer to the ground than in his human form, but the span of his presence was wider, his wings bigger than his arms. He took off with the raptor part of him at the forefront of his consciousness, his aim to head directly back to the Canyon.

Despite his focus on his destination, however, he never lost sight of his surroundings—he’d been a scout for the clan in his younger years, had excellent peripheral senses and reflexes—so he saw the shiny car parked on the side of the road a bare five-minute drive from the hidden vehicle. Spotted, too, the person next to it.

That person lifted their arm in a wave, and Jacques dipped his wing in reply.

When the individual waved him urgently closer, he went lower.

He had no reason not to…and no reason to expect that the next thing the person raised would be a weapon.

He was fast, he was trained, and he was strong.

He managed to turn enough that the first shot from the laser weapon barely singed his wing.

But he was also a creature of the air who’d been lured too close to the ground.

The second shot pierced his torso while he was still climbing—even as he released a warning cry to his clan.

Agony exploded through his body, but some part of him was thinking through the pain, and that part attempted to shift.

He’d break a few bones if he fell from this height, but he wouldn’t die—and the thin blade of laser weaponry would injure far less integral organs in his human body than in his falcon self.

The third bolt of icy fire caught him mid-shift.

He fell hard enough to send a storm of dust into the air, felt his heart stutter…and heard the cries of falcons responding from a distance.

The car on the road started up.

The coward who’d shot him, the imposter in the skin of one trusted, was running away. Too late. Jacques had seen them.

Jacques would…

The thought slipped out of his grasp even as he attempted to hold on to it, the taste of wet iron filling his mouth.

The last thing he saw was red spreading on the ground in front of him.