Standing as still as Wilson is, the creature might as well not see him at all, its lower jaw coming within scant feet of the top of Wilson's head as if he were no more interesting than the foliage. If it's sighting by scent, it's no better at that than seeing.

If he can slip back into the shadows, he should be able to move swiftly and silently to a position far enough removed that discharging his sidearm will provide Wilson the distraction he needs to escape. He takes one slow backwards step and is dropping into a crouch again when the sun pushes through the gray clouds and reflects off his left arm like a beacon.

There is little time to do more than shout roughly at Wilson to run before he himself is running away from the door, dodging around tree trunks as the jungle behind him explodes with pursuit.