That made the game far more interesting.
48
Trigger
Rylie didn’t run.
That was the first thing that told me I still had her.
Her phone signal blinked in and out—deliberate. Not panicked. Not erratic. Short bursts just long enough to be seen, then gone again.
Breadcrumbs.
She wanted me close.
“She’s pacing herself,” Saint said over comms. “Stops every six to eight minutes. Signal pops, then disappears.”
“She’s managing battery,” I replied. “And distance.”
Havoc glanced at me from the passenger seat, eyes sharp. “She’s leading him.”
“And me,” I said.
That was the danger.
Rylie wasn’t just walking into Thomas’s trap—she wasshaping the battlefield.
The truck rolled to a stop just short of the logging road. I killed the engine and stepped out, boots hitting dirt softly. The forest was quiet in the way only early morning could be—fog hanging low, sound muffled, everything deceptive.
I crouched, scanning the ground.
There.
A partial boot print near the shoulder. Light tread. Controlled pace. No drag.
“She’s not injured,” I said.
“Or she’s hiding it,” Havoc replied.
I swallowed the spike of fear and pushed it down where it belonged.
“She doubled back here,” I continued, tracking the disturbance in the underbrush. “Then cut east. She wanted eyes on the approach.”
“She’s checking her six,” Riley said. “Like she’s been doing this her whole life.”
“She grew up with a sheriff,” I said quietly. “She learned.”
We moved fast but silent, spacing tight, angles covered. This wasn’t a rescue yet.
This was aninterception.
My phone buzzed.
Once.
A message—no text preview, just coordinates.
I stopped cold.
