Chapter Eleven
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The roar of the blast cracked the air wide open. Colt barely had time to turn before the water tank burst apart.
Steel screamed. Rivets popped. Rusted metal split like a rotten barrel.
Then came the wall of water.
It hit like a freight train, a crushing, cold wave that swallowed him whole. The ground vanished beneath his boots. He felt weightless for half a second, then slammed into something hard. Might’ve been the shed. Might’ve been the ground. Didn’t matter. His lungs seized, ribs flaring with pain.
He tumbled, twisted, soaked, and blinded.
Branches scraped past. Mud sucked at him. He managed to drag in a breath when the water receded just enough, then another.
“Brenna!” he shouted, coughing. “Harlan!”
No answer. Just water rushing over debris and the groan of the collapsed tower still echoing in the woods.
Colt shoved up on his elbows, blinking through the water and grit stinging his eyes. Every breath stabbed his ribs, sharp and deep, but he pushed past it. The explosion had knocked them all off their feet, but the killer might still be close. He scanned for movement.
“Brenna,” he called, his voice rough.
She stirred a few feet away, soaked and stunned, but alive. She coughed, then sat up, shaking her head like she was trying to clear it. She brought the Glock up and checked the barrel, her hands steady despite the tremble in her breath.
Smart.
There was no telling if the danger was over, and Colt no longer had his primary weapon. It’d been knocked loose, so he drew his backup from his slide holster.
“Harlan,” Colt shouted.
No answer.
He tried again, louder this time, forcing air into his aching lungs. A moment later, a figure staggered from behind a half-collapsed tree. Harlan. He limped toward them, cuts trailing down his face, a bruise swelling on his cheek. His shirt was torn and dripping, but he held his gun up and checked it just like Brenna had.
“You two good?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained.
“Yeah,” Colt said. “Hurts like hell, but still breathing.”
They were all soaked to the bone, dripping and battered. The waterlogged ground squelched beneath them as Colt forced himself to his feet. His vest felt twice as heavy. His ribs throbbed like a bad tooth, but he wasn’t going down.
“We need to find Wallace,” he said. “Now.”
No one argued.
They fanned out, eyes scanning the soaked terrain, calling Wallace’s name while keeping their weapons ready. Colt’s boots squished in the wet grass, and his ribs ached with every step. The air still carried the scent of scorched metal and old water, the wreckage of the tower looming behind them.
Colt heard the approaching men before he saw them, the steady crunch of boots on wet leaves and the low murmur of voices. Noah’s backup arrived fast, two figures striding throughthe trees like they owned the land. They moved with purpose, cutting through the brush without hesitation.
The taller of the two, Cal Granger, had a calm, easy gait and wore a Texas Rangers ballcap low over his eyes. His tan shirt was soaked, but he didn’t seem to care. The half-smile tugging at his mouth made him look like he was on a casual stroll instead of walking into a possible kill zone.
Garrett McCall was all sharp edges and tension. His dark, buzzed hair was plastered to his scalp, and his eyes were already scanning the surroundings as if expecting an ambush. He gripped his rifle like he had something to prove.
Colt gave them both a nod. “Appreciate the quick response.”
Garrett returned the nod and glanced at the collapsed tower. “Looks like we missed one hell of a party.”
Garrett made a sound that might’ve been a laugh, then moved into position without another word. Cal followed, already checking the area near what was left of the shed.
