He smiled softly at her before touching a finger to her lips, before slipping back into the brush. He quietly slipped around to the side, and drew his compound bow, no longer in the present, but back in the Afghanistan for a few seconds, getting ready to finish supporting a hit of a terrorist cell's base. He shoved the rest of the memory away, two enemy tanks and a helicopter killed to allow four wounded to extract, earning him a congressional medal of honor, and focused, his breathing slow and steady, just like he was hunting. It would be a quick strike, the bow was HIS, and he knew it like his own body. It pulled up and to the left, exactly 1.13 feet at one hundred yards. He could already see the strike, the arrow right above and in front of the first chaser's ear, glancing up slightly due to the bone before severing vital portions of the brain, leaving him physically alive but clinically brain dead before he even registered that he had been hit.<br/><br/>He could hear them, slowly making their way forward, no doubt careful by their standards, but to him, they were as loud as a newborn foal, leaves rustling from their passage, twigs snapping from their footwear. He felt his breathing begin to instinctively quicken, causing his body to flood the bloodstream with adrenaline, everything coming both into sharp focus as well as blurring slightly as his battle rage began to take hold. He heard rather than saw the bush he was aiming in front of twitch, and waited a quarter of a second, before releasing the arrow, and then rushing forward, his boots softly thudding into the ground as the arrow arched toward where the target should be. They were no longer people, just upright sacks of flesh to be eliminated as quickly and efficiently as possible. The compound bow was slipped into its holder on his back, even as he drew his combat knife into his off hand, intent on cutting the target's spine, ensuring they were truly dead before he moved to the second one.