Lyra’s idling jeep purred like a tiger, a low growl. She liked to think the machine looked forward to the hunt. After all those years of strict protection, finally there was a hunting quota on jaguars.
Lulled from waiting, Lyra spotted the sleek, dark form approaching the watering hole late. She brought her gun to bear and aimed carefully, not wanting to damage the coat. A shot, a pop, and a whining motor. Perfect.
Watching the wild car spin the other motored wheel futilely, letting it tire itself out, Lyra patted her jeep. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be my favourite.”