Harlan’s jaw locked. Not just behind them now. The road ahead was collapsing in a haze of dust and fire. He could see the jagged maw of asphalt where the pavement had been torn apart, black smoke curling into the morning air.
Trapped.
The word thundered in his head, cold and final.
His gaze swept the tree line, his instincts screaming. Whoever had boxed them in wanted them pinned here, easy targets.
“Keep your eyes open,” Harlan warned her. “He could be coming for us.”
Laney lifted her weapon, her gaze fierce despite the fear that he knew was chewing at her.
Every second stretched tight with the smoke. The heat. The crackle of fire from the ruined road. And the knowledge that the next attack could come from anywhere.
The dirt rolled like fog, choking the air and clinging to the windshield. Smoke swirled through it in dark curls, stinging his eyes and turning the whole world into a haze of gray and black.
Harlan shifted the Glock in his grip, the polymer frame steady in his hand. He angled forward, trying for a glimpse of Sherry by the culvert, but she was gone. Either she had crawled away or someone had dragged her off. And if he couldn’t see her, then he couldn’t see who else might be creeping through that cover toward them.
His gut tightened.
A grenade launcher. Nothing else hit like that. And if their attacker had two rounds, odds were good he had another. Maybe more. One shot into the SUV would rip through the cabin and turn Laney and him into red mist.
His finger flexed against the trigger guard.
It could be Billy. The man was unstable, unpredictable, and he’d vanished into the trees the night before. But Brannigan wasjust as likely. He had motive, plenty of anger, and a knowledge of explosives.
And then there was Sherry Dalton. Bleeding in the dirt, hands bound, looking like a victim.
Maybe too much like a victim.
Could she be running this show? Could she have an accomplice pulling the trigger while she played bait?
Harlan’s instincts screamed not to trust any of it. He swept the haze again, Glock raised, every nerve stretched tight as wire.
Backup was still eight minutes out. Too long to sit here like ducks in a shooting gallery.
“We can’t wait,” Harlan said, keeping his voice low but firm. “We’re going to have to risk moving.”
Laney’s eyes flicked to him, steady and determined. “I know.”
The smoke still hung thick, curling around the SUV and swallowing the edges of the road. He swept the Glock across the haze, trying to pick out movement. Nothing but shadows shifted in the swirling dirt. His gut was tight, knotted with the knowledge that another grenade could hit them at any second.
Then he spotted it. The culvert. The concrete mouth sat low and intact, maybe forty feet ahead. Sherry was nowhere near it now, but it was shelter, the only real cover he could see.
“It’s our best shot,” he told Laney.
Her lips pressed tight. She knew what he was thinking. A culvert like that could be rigged with trip wires or pressure plates buried in the dirt. Whoever had planted the first bomb there knew the ground too well not to leave surprises behind.
Still, waiting here was suicide.
Laney gave a short nod without hesitation. “Then we move.”
Harlan felt a pulse of something fierce—admiration, fear, maybe both—as he tightened his hold on the Glock and scanned the haze again. If they went for that culvert, they would either find the cover they needed or blow themselves sky-high.
Either way, staying in the SUV was not an option.
Harlan shoved open the glove box and grabbed the spare magazines. He shoved one into his pocket, slapped another into his vest. Laney mirrored him, sliding fresh rounds into her own weapon, her movements sharp and precise.
“Take an extra,” he said, passing her a loaded clip.
