I step through the gap and sprint down the incline.
He follows at a slightly slower pace, striding down and taking a good look around before motioning to a spot between the thick trunks of two trees.
I lean back against the tree he points at, and he stands in front of the other.
He’s got me where he can keep an eye on me, while also watching out for our would-be trespasser. He knows what he’s doing.
It’s reassuring, I guess, but the sooner this night is over, the better.
I switch my phone off after he shows me he’s turning his off.
Then we stand there, senses fully engaged as we wait.
I count down the minutes inside my head, as it gets even darker in the forest.
An hour passes without incident, and I can’t help wondering how long we might be out here.
Then, I hear it. The snap of a twig underfoot.
It’s the first sound to indicate someone is moving through the woods.
I glance at Owen. Clearly, he already heard it. His head is cocked and he’s moving slowly to stand up straighter, readyinghimself to strike. I follow suit, turning slightly to be in a position to help catch whoever’s about to walk into our trap.
The tall guy who appears at the bottom of the incline is muttering under his breath as he staggers to a stop. His head lifts and he sighs wearily.
Owen grabs his right arm from behind, placing his gun at the base of the man’s spine.
“Move, and I pull the trigger,” Owen warns.
I take hold of the stranger’s left arm, making double sure he can’t make a move against us.
The man doesn’t respond, neither verbally nor physically.
I exchange a glance with Owen.
Something is off here.
Owen frowns as he puts his full attention on our uninvited guest.
“Who are you, and what are you doing trying to sneak into Goldcrest?”
This time when there’s no answer, Owen prods him in the back with the gun, reminding him it’s there, I guess. I’m not sure it’s making an impression on the stranger.
“Answer me, or I start putting bullets into your body,” Owen threatens.
The man lets out a choked sob and sags forward.
He’s heavier than he looks, but neither of us let go.
“Fuck …” Owen curses, before he puts his gun back into its holster.
“What are you doing?” I ask, tightening my grasp as Owen’s grip loosens.
He moves around to look at the guy’s face, his hand still on his shoulder.
It doesn’t seem like a smart move.
This guy can’t actually be crying.
