“It’s coverage,” Tomas argues.
I glance at the terrain lines on my screen and feel my stomach tighten. The northern ridge ravine system is not one ravine, it is a web of narrow cuts that funnel into a single mouth. If you step into it wrong, you cannot see out until you are already trapped between rock walls and deadfall.
“It’s a blind choke point,” I say.
Tomas looks at me like he wants to laugh. “You don’t know that.”
I hold up the GPS unit. “I do. The elevation drops here, then narrows into a V-shaped cut. The walls steepen fast and the tree cover thickens.”
Ciaran lifts a brow. “She’s right.”
Tomas’s jaw tightens. “We’ve patrolled this ridge longer than she’s been here.”
“And you still miss patterns,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “That’s why you pulled me in.”
The words land harder than I intend, but they are true.
Kelsey lets out a slow breath, like she is relieved someone said it out loud. Jace studies Tomas with a flat expression that reads as warning.
Ciaran steps closer to the ledge of the outcropping and looks down into the ravine mouth. “We don’t split into the cut,” he says. “We approach from the high side and sweep down with visibility.”
Tomas opens his mouth again, then closes it when Ciaran’s gaze sharpens.
“Copy,” Tomas mutters.
We move again, angling along the ridge line instead of dropping. The terrain shifts under our boots from soft soil to rock and back to damp moss. My fingers go numb around the GPS unit, then warm again as the sun climbs and light starts cutting through the canopy.
When we reach the kill site, the smell hits first.
Copper. Wet fur. A sour, metallic tang that clings to the cold air like smoke. A sheep lies in a shallow depression near a fallen log, throat torn open, body twisted as if it tried to run and failed mid-step.
Kelsey crouches first, gloved hand hovering over the wound without touching. “Fresh,” she says.
Tomas circles the perimeter, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as if he is scenting even in human form. Jace steps farther out, scanning the treeline and the slope beyond like he expects the rogue to appear and applaud.
I kneel beside the carcass and keep my movements precise.
The wool is damp with dew and blood. The wound edges are clean in a way that suggests intent, not panic feeding. This is not hunger. This is message-making.
Ciaran watches me work, then speaks quietly. “Talk me through it.”
“Single strike,” I say, tracing the pattern without touching. “Deep bite, fast kill. No feeding marks, no drag pattern.”
Tomas scoffs. “So, it’s the same as the others.”
“It’s staged,” I correct, and lift my gaze to the surrounding terrain. “Positioned near a natural trail line. Visible if someone comes over the ridge.”
Kelsey shifts her weight. “To be found.”
“Yes,” I reply.
I pull my GPS unit closer and mark the coordinate, then overlay it with the prior sites. The dots form a faint arc, curving toward the ravine system Ciaran mentioned. The rogue is using the ridgeline like a highway, then dropping into cover when he needs to vanish.
“Exit route is the ravine web,” I say.
Ciaran’s eyes flick to my GPS. “You’re sure.”
“As sure as you can be without watching him move,” I reply. “The ravine gives cover, and it funnels toward the corridor you already have gaps in.”
