Tomas crosses his arms. “Or he goes high and doubles back.”
I look up at him. “That’s possible. But if he goes high, he risks silhouette exposure against the ridge.”
Tomas hesitates, then shrugs like he cannot argue that without sounding petty.
Kelsey stands and takes two steps outward, eyes fixed on a patch of disturbed ground. “Tracks,” she says.
We move toward her.
The soil is damp and dark, and the prints are fresh enough that water still glistens against the sides. Large paw imprints, deeper than a normal wolf, with claw marks that dig into the earth like the animal wanted to leave proof.
I crouch, measure the stride with my tape, and compare it to the direction.
The tracks angle downhill, then—abruptly—veer left and loop back in a sharp arc.
Tomas frowns. “He turned around.”
“No,” I say. I point to the arc where the paw prints lighten. “The pressure changes. The stride shortens here. That’s deliberate.”
Tomas crouches too, closer now, the earlier bravado replaced with curiosity. “So, he’s limping.”
“He’s not limping,” I reply. “He’s altering his gait.”
Kelsey’s eyes narrow. “To confuse trackers.”
“Yes,” I say. “If he doubles back on his own trail, then breaks hard to the side, he creates a false lead. You follow scent, you end up circling yourself.”
Ciaran’s mouth tightens in something like grim approval. “That’s smarter than a normal predator.”
“That’s what I keep saying,” I reply, keeping my tone controlled. “He knows you track by scent. He’s using it against you.”
Tomas’s gaze flicks to Ciaran, then back to the tracks. “So, what do we do.”
“We stop assuming straight lines,” I say. “We assume misdirection. We look for where he breaks off after the loop.”
Jace points toward a dense patch of young firs. “There’s a disturbance there.”
Kelsey moves first, stepping carefully, eyes locked on the ground. I follow close enough to see what she sees, but not so close that we tangle. The fir branches scrape my jacket and leave damp needles against my sleeves.
The trail disappears for three steps, then reappears faintly on a rock face where mud has smeared.
Ciaran exhales slowly. “He’s heading toward the ravine after all.”
“Or he wants you to think that,” Tomas says, quieter now.
I glance at Tomas, then nod once. “That’s very possible.”
Tomas huffs a laugh under his breath, but it lacks the earlier edge.
Ciaran pulls his phone from his pocket and steps a few paces away, turning so the rest of us cannot read his face. He makes the call quickly, voice low but firm.
“Alden,” he says. “We found fresh tracks on the north ridge. The kill is staged, and the trail doubles back.”
He listens, gaze fixed on the treeline like he expects the Alpha to step out from between the trunks.
“Yes,” Ciaran continues. “Cassidy mapped an exit route through the ravine system. We have confirmation it aligns.” He pauses again, shoulders tightening slightly. “Copy,” he says. “We’ll hold.” Ciaran ends the call and turns back toward us. “He’s coming,” he says.
Tomas straightens and flexes his fingers like he is preparing for impact. Kelsey’s posture shifts subtly, more alert, her gaze sweeping the woods again with renewed intensity. Jace takes two steps toward the backtrail, positioning himself without being told.
