And somewhere behind them, Thomas was about to realize he’d chased the wrong man into the wrong terrain.
23
Thomas
Thomas felt it before he admitted it.
Something was wrong.
The men moved through the ravine with practiced ease, boots silent against stone, eyes sharp. This was their terrain—remote, unforgiving, perfect for pressure. He should have felt satisfied.
Instead, irritation crawled up his spine.
“They’re moving west,” Diego said quietly, crouching near the water’s edge. “Tracks are fresh. Sloppy.”
Thomas frowned.
Sloppy didn’t fit the Ranger.
Trigger had been careful in town. Controlled. He hadn’t panicked—not even when Rylie disappeared from the church. Men like that didn’t suddenly forget themselves.
Unless…
Thomas scanned the trees, the rocks, the narrow bends of the ravine. Everything looked right. Too right.
“Slow down,” he ordered.
Diego glanced at him. “We’re losing daylight.”
“I said slow down.”
The men obeyed, spreading out, their formation tightening. Thomas stepped closer to the false trail, studying the scuffed mud, the torn scrap of thermal blanket fluttering faintly on a branch.
A smile tugged at his mouth.
There you are.
“So,” he murmured. “You’re tired.”
That thought pleased him.
Rylie had always believed she was stronger than she was. This—this flight, this desperation—proved she’d been wrong. She would fold. She always did.
But the unease didn’t fade.
Thomas straightened slowly.
“Diego,” he said. “Where’s the echo?”
Diego hesitated. “The… what?”
“The echo,” Thomas snapped. “Footfalls should carry more here. Water amplifies sound.”
Silence followed.
Too much silence.
Thomas’s smile vanished.
