I move low through the underbrush, quiet as a ghost, circling wide. The paint gun in my hand is an extension of my arm, steady, cold, familiar. I creep forward. Every one of my steps is preplanned. Every breath controlled.
He shifts his weight, stepping to the right and then the left to scan deeper into the woods, and that’s all the opening I need.
I’m behind him in seconds.
I strike hard and fast, slamming my elbow into the back of his head. He stumbles forward with a grunt, arms flailing, as he drops his gun. I don’t give him time to recover. I grab the collar of his shirt, yank him toward me, and drive my knee into the back of his leg. He collapses, hitting the ground with a muffled curse. I’m on him before he can turn, one knee on his spine. I hit him with the gun, aiming at the base of his skull. He slumps forward, face first into the dirt. Unconscious.
Threat eliminated.
I stand slowly with my heart rate slowing. There’s a warm rush of satisfaction in my chest. The kind that comes from doing what I was built to do.
Fast. Clean. Efficient.
I don’t let it linger. Instead, I keep my gun raised, scanning the tree line with my breathing even and my brain alert.
Because in this game, victory can be bait. If Richardson was meant to be a distraction, then I need to know who or what’s coming next.
I see no one.
I take Richardson’s gun and tuck it into the back of my waistband. I grab him under his arms and drag him over to a tree with a narrow trunk. It may not hold forever, but all I have is my belt, so I tie him to the tree with that, wrapping the belt around his neck and cinching the buckle on the other side of the tree trunk. I pull it tight with just enough pressure to make waking up uncomfortable. To panic him, but not enough to cut off his air. Richardson won’t be able to chase me like this. He won’t even stand without strangling himself. It’s crude but effective. The kind of solution my father would call resourceful.
The kind that says,I won.
I’ve just finished with Richardson when I hear footsteps over to my right. Someone clomping along, not even trying to hide. I follow the sound and findThomson walking with his head hanging down. My heart stops when I see the huge red stain across his chest, the one that makes it look like he’s bleeding out.
“Are you okay?” I ask, stepping forward to intercept him, with my voice high. If he’s hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s the only person who knows me,reallyknows me.
He startles hard, throwing his hands up to shield his face.
Pity stirs.
I know that reflex. It’s the instinct of someone used to being hurt. Of someone who’s learned that flinching early might save you from worse later.
I do it too.
“What?” He peers between his fingers. “Oh, it’s you, Carrson.” His hands drop to hang loose by his sides.
“You got hit?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“Yeah.” He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger. “Fucking Samantha. I didn’t even hear her coming.” His shoulders slump. “My father’s going to kill me.”
I walk closer, put my hand on his shoulder, and give it a gentle squeeze. Not hard. Just enough to sayI see you. I get it.“Sorry, man.”
A long, tired sigh. “Not your fault.” He straightens and asks, “Who’s your target?”
“Nelson.” I pause, studying his reaction.
Thomson frowns, his brow wrinkling. “That’s a weird choice.”
I throw up my arms, vindicated. “Thank you! That’s what I thought too. What do you think it means?”
“Dunno.” Thomson shrugs. “High Council’s probably up to something, but I have no idea what.” He catches the frustration in my face and adds a soft, “Sorry.” He glances toward the house. “I’d better get going. Time to join the losers in the ballroom.”
“Okay. I’ll see you back there after I take down Nelson.” He nods and walks off, dragging his feet like he’s on his way to the gallows.
I turn back toward the woods, gun in hand. Whatever game the council’s playing, I have a feeling the sooner I finish,the better.
I wander for the next twenty minutes, chasing sounds that never lead anywhere. I hear the pounding footsteps of someone running, the thud of fists on flesh, but by the time I track them down no one’s there. All that’s left is the aftermath. Crushed leaves, a few drops of blood glistening on the forest floor, but no people.
