Freddie McBain was stalking one of the deadliest killers known to mankind.

    So far, the hunt had lasted seven long days and he was exhausted.

    The killer, in contrast, was gaining in strength every minute.

    Soon, he’d strike.

    There was nothing Freddie could do but wait.

    The waiting was always the worst thing.

    And the pressure was starting to get to him.

    Only last night, he’d had a nightmare in which the killer had somehow found out where he lived, broken into his house, crept upstairs, kicked down the bedroom door and stood at the foot of Freddie’s bed, grinning an evil grin:

    Hey, kid! Surprise! Surprise!

    You thought you were chasing me. And all the time I was chasing YOU!
   
    Ain’t so smart after all, are we?

    Anyways, look at this dump. Ain’t you got anything better to do than hole yourself up in your bedroom day and night staring at a computer screen?
   
    What are you? Some kind of geek saddo?
   
You deserve to die.  Painfully.  Ah’m gonna scrunch your bones and splash your blood all over this nice stripey wallpaper and lovely fluffy carpet.
   
    It’ll be a mess.  Your Mom ain’t gonna like it.  But I sure will!
   
Now, say good night for the last time, kid – it’s lights out for you FOREVER!!

    The stupid dream had lingered all day, spooking him.

    He shuddered, grabbed a Red Bull from the stash under his desk. The energy drink helped him keep his head together. After all, against a foe as cunning as this one, a cool, analytical mind was his most important weapon.

    That, and the extensive database he’d built up on the killer.

    The facts were pretty gruesome. He leaned back in his chair and ran through them in his head for the hundredth time.

    The killer would come when his victims least expected it.

    He would strike with unbelievable speed.

    And he wouldn’t be fussy about who he killed. Women, children, old people. Babies fast asleep in their cots.  All were potential victims.

    In a single killing spree, if he felt particularly vicious, hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent souls might perish.

    They’d be beaten black and blue. Choked. Suffocated. Torn apart limb by limb.

    He’d work in a frenzy and be done with his terrible business in a few, dreadful hours. 

    Hannibal Lecter was a Boy Scout in comparison.

    No wonder he had a reputation as the mass-murderer of the century. Even if he killed everyone on the planet he still wouldn’t be satisfied.

    The authorities, for all their money and resources, were powerless to stop him.

    All they could do was pray. And pick up the pieces afterwards.

    Stopping him was an impossible task. What could Freddie do? A boy, alone in his bedroom, in his pyjamas?