The hum of a second engine approached, but this one was lower, stealthier—a high-speed boat cutting through the cove. We doused our lights, crouching low in the ferns as a group of men in tactical gear stepped onto the beach. They carried long-range rifles and a glowing tablet.
“The signal is right here, it stopped moving,” one of them hissed, his voice carrying over the water. They weren’t looking for us; they were following the pings from the very chip we had just extracted. They thought they were closing in on a trophy, not a surgical site.
The male bear let out a low, vibrating growl from the darkness behind us, a sound of pure primeval rage. I felt the hair on my neck stand up as he began to move toward the interlopers. He knew exactly who had put the “poison” inside his mate, and he wasn’t waiting for the police.
“Don’t,” I whispered, but the bear was already a shadow in the brush, moving with a terrifying, silent speed. One of the men raised his tablet, confused by the sudden shift in the signal’s location. He didn’t see the massive paw swinging out of the darkness until it was too late.
A shout of surprise was cut short by a heavy thud and the sound of breaking wood. The hunters scrambled, their flashlights dancing wildly through the trees as they tried to find their target. They had come to this island to be the predators, but the roles had just been violently reversed.