It started as a rumour and nothing more. That was the reason the Jeep Wrangler trundled lonely down I-80, its pathway for the past few nights, parking in a secluded spot each and every day before returning on its journey through the Nevada landscape.


All for a rumour.


The hunt called to him, and he knew how to listen. If his heart still beat, it would be to the rhythm of kla-klick as the bolt on his rifle slid shut, loading another round into a chamber he paid more homage to than the Dark Prophet his covenant were keen to spout.


All for a rumour.


Billy only hoped it bore fruit, this rumour, and that his quarry would be the trophy he had been seeking for so God-damned long.