The Hunters (7)
Only two hunters from the Dutton Cavalry had been rescued alive. One was a lightly injured man who, despite being dazed and having soiled himself, had managed to walk out on his own two legs. The other was a critically injured pilot from the co-pilot's seat, unconscious with fractures throughout his body. The rest were all dead, left where they had fallen. Nielsen didn't push to risk further danger for the sake of the deceased.
The pig that had eyed me warily never charged again, even as it bided its time until the end. But it would remember my scent—and that of the hunters—as one with today's grudge. Pigs were said to be even smarter than dogs, after all.
The police and rescue helicopters that arrived after the report came not from the west at Richfield, but from the east at Sand Ledges. This Sand Ledges had once been barren, uninhabited wilderness, but now it served as the front line for authorities countering the "Trembling Giant's" invasion. Behind that front line sprawled camps of all sorts—mystics, environmentalists, and assorted riffraff—forming a makeshift town. It was no surprise, then, that police and rescue teams were stationed there to handle any trouble.
The lieutenant from the state highway patrol didn't demand much testimony. The crash had been captured on multiple cameras, after all. Even if he had to take detailed statements, the two survivors would come first, Nielsen and his team second, and my group along with that quarrelsome couple a distant third. The alias and contact info I'd provided as a witness would prove utterly useless in the end.
By the time ground reinforcements arrived—police and local volunteer police service (VPS) members—the militia's work was done.
"You okay?"
At my question, the militia leader, leaning against the helicopter and tilting back a can, flashed a weary smile. "What wouldn't be okay at this point? Just a bit tired, that's all."
What Nielsen was sipping wasn't beer but an energy drink. With the flight back ahead, he couldn't touch alcohol, so he was chugging it to muster some energy. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, "Thanks for earlier."
"You mean for not taking a refund?"
"Heh."
Nielsen let out a hearty laugh, though it carried a bitter edge—likely from dealing with the angry couple just moments ago. They'd demanded not just a refund for the ruined tour, but compensation for emotional distress. Their point: the Pioneer Hunter Brigade had recklessly endangered customers with their rescue operation. Nielsen's refusal meant he'd see them again in court soon enough. America was the land of lawsuits, after all.
After a moment of silence, Nielsen spoke up again. "I've never seen a pig act like that. They're usually skittish creatures... They perk up at suspicious smells, flee at the crack of a gunshot, and wouldn't dream of charging anything bigger or louder than themselves."
Like helicopters, for instance. I corrected him. "Saying they're naturally skittish isn't quite accurate."
"Pardon?"
"You have to distinguish between innate nature and learned survival strategies. What we know of animal behavior is murky empirical knowledge—unclear where instinct ends and adaptation begins. The patterns you've taken for granted in prey over the years? Much of it was forced by the law of the jungle."
"..."
"If you've been a soldier, you know how power changes people. Animals aren't so different in that regard."
"So it's not just that one odd pig?"
I shook my head with a cynical smirk. "The world's just in transition. As newly empowered creatures adapt to their changed positions, it'll drift further from the familiar."
Nielsen pondered that, drained the last of his drink, and crushed the can with a crunch. "Hearing that just saps my confidence even more."
The "even" was an unconscious slip. "You don't strike me as someone who'd flinch at tougher prey... Sounds like internal friction in the brigade."
"...That obvious?"
"Figured as much. Few people thrive on professional peril."
The uneasy air among the hunters was too blatant to ignore. Militias were fundamentally community clubs; even as for-profit entities, mindsets didn't shift overnight. In such a loose, anomic group, expelling a member was enough to sour the whole lot. The outcast would gripe to friends and neighbors, breeding resentment. Even those who'd backed Nielsen might waver upon reflection. His decisive stance wouldn't match the leader they thought they knew.
Truth be told, Nielsen had meddled a bit much. But from my vantage as head of a far larger organization, the brigade's real issue was the lack of firm decision-making and hierarchy. An outfit on the brink of dissolution every time the leader slips? No way it swims with the big fish.
This was the first growing pain nearly every organization faced. Survival here set the ceiling for growth. And Nielsen's meddling? Not entirely misguided. A noble militia risking life and limb to save reckless rivals who disrupted the hunt? Prime gossip fodder, perfect for image-building. Toss in the lawsuit buzz, and Pioneer Hunter Brigade's name recognition would skyrocket.
So, the time to snap up shares in this undervalued startup was now—while the greenhorn leader lost confidence over petty human drama, exaggerating his woes. To me, it was an unbidden but decent investment rolling in. A businessman's instinct to spot profit in every moment; a strategist's to chew over even minor tactical gains.
I tossed out the pitch lightly, like impulse-buying on a whim. "Ever thought about taking investment?"
"Investment? From you?"
"Yes."
As confusion flickered across Nielsen's face, I pressed on calmly. "You'll face some fallout from this, but I see you as a tree that can grow big. Just need proper nutrients—and no sap-sucking pests."
"I appreciate the words, but—"
"Let's start with a million dollars."
Nielsen, who'd been about to demur, clamped his mouth shut. "How much equity would that buy?"
I had no greed for shares per se. What I wanted was a local outfit operating steadily here: feeding me intel, providing safe houses and backup transport without exposing my movements, handling occasional off-books jobs—all while blissfully unaware of their true utility. They'd pay dividends if flush, cover upkeep if not. A million for that? A steal.
Kyung-tae had suggested basing staff here, but dumping manpower in uncharted territory was wasteful. No need to fixate on Pioneer Hunters; they were just convenient, quality-checked by my own eyes. Saved time and opportunity cost scouting alternatives. As hunted prey turned hunter, every move I made had to count for two or three.
Nielsen's eyes shifted, weighing it. "You serious?"
Anyone else pitching this would've sounded like a bad joke or scam—especially a stranger met today. Normal reaction: What the hell? But I'd casually refused five grand without hesitation, flashing wealth. Deciding solo proved my authority over the group. If he couldn't smell money from me, he had no business sense. Business luck strikes anywhere; customers turning investors was common. My bold rescue join-in must've impressed too. At minimum, I wasn't ordinary.
"Does this feel like a joke?"
Turning his question back, I watched suspicion fade as he mulled again. Emboldened, playing entrepreneur, he tested: "A million's shy of one chopper. Add our vehicles, helos, gear, weapons, real estate—tangible assets top seven million. Manpower's worth more. For instance..."
"Manpower's value?"
Cutting him off, I nodded toward the side instead of quibbling. Shame flushed Nielsen's face. There, brigade members glanced our way, murmuring grimly—contents obvious without hearing.
Hands in pockets, I jutted my chin at him. "Not assets or manpower. Your value."
"Investing in just me?"
"Heard of it? SoftBank's Son Masayoshi met Alibaba's Jack Ma and committed twenty million in six minutes."
"Twenty mil..."
"Yep. Twenty. He'd offered thirty; Ma turned it down. I'm no Son, you're no Ma—but we've sized each other up longer than six minutes, right?"
"..."
"Even taking your seven mil assets at face value: real estate's collateralized, two choppers conditionally leased from DoD and locals, the last one's still on payments—" Kyung-tae's nosiness paid off here. Without him, no casual intel drop. And casual meant credible. "With upkeep and payroll bleeding monthly, nitpicking cash on hand just embarrasses you. Bluntly, half your shaky leadership stems from finances, I'd bet. Am I wrong?"
A boss's authority flows from payroll. As a fledgling venture, Pioneer Hunters likely scraped by without delays—forget generous pay. Green CEOs crave financial stability first, prospects second. I'd been there. Plus, this ex-soldier ran pricey gear from the start. Classic newbie error—like a restaurateur vowing "only premium ingredients."
"No need for anything else."
Delivered with cool detachment. "I'm investing in the man I saw. Name your price: what percent for a million?"
"...I'd need to discuss with equity-holding comrades—"
"Six minutes."
Another rude interruption. "Those two decided in six—investor or recipient. Swift judgment shows caliber, not rashness. Convincing your team? That's your caliber to prove. Decide now, or no deal."
Slick excuse or not, pressuring sans reflection was scammer 101. Though the line between hustler and mogul blurred. Business folk rigged contracts galore, then blamed marks for stupidity.
Tormented, Nielsen rasped, "Fifteen percent. I'll try convincing them."
Anxiety lingered post-pitch—too high? Too low? Face gave it away. I offered a generous tweak. "Three million for twenty-five percent."
He swallowed hard. Three mil bought two solid used light helos (5-10k hours). Still, hold a quarter. No cash interest, but shares meant leverage. My hounds could raid a house casino for that in a night. Bottom of our food chain as apex predators.
"One condition."
Caution flared in his eyes. Ignoring it, I stated the obvious. "Seize control. Boot the disloyal without mercy; demand firmer loyalty from allies. Half-measures doom you."
"That's..."
"Do it, and my stake backs you always."
Tension eased from his face and shoulders. "Not easy."
No kidding. He'd started this to aid struggling friends and neighbors—Pioneer Hunter Brigade's core identity. Strictly speaking, rejecting me preserved that. I might be lightly corrupting a wavering soul.
So what?
"Separate ideals from reality. Dragging dissenters risks starving everyone. Save who you can first."
Nielsen sighed heavily, extending his hand. I clasped it, sealing my gain—and one man's retreat.