I keep walking a few more steps, then glance down as if I’m checking my footing, and that’s when the shadow moves.
A man in a dark jacket bursts out of the brush. Medium height, solid build, ball cap pulled low. As he grabs for a bag at his feet, I catch sight of the pale skin of his face and trimmed beard. I don’t see enough to identify him with certainty, but he fits.
He bolts in the opposite direction, and I’m after him in the next breath, bucket and rake dropped and forgotten. I vault over the fence and jump clear of the ditch in a spray of loose gravel. My boots hit uneven ground and keep going.
He’s fast, but not panicked. He moves like he’s already mapped escape routes before he ever took the position.
“Hey!” It’s pointless, and I know it as soon as I shout it.
He doesn’t look back and doesn’t miss a step. Instead of going deeper into the trees, he cuts west, a route that’ll put houses and alleys between us. It’s a smart move that’ll give him more options, better cover, and maybe even civilians to complicate the chase.
Adrenaline burning through me, I close some of the distance crossing an open patch, but he’s still about thirty yards ahead when he cuts south, and I lose sight of him.
I sprint with everything in me and lock onto him again on the second side street down.
The backstreets of Moon Ridge are no help. They twist around uneven property lines and switch from cracked pavement to gravel to dirt. Narrow lanes run past garages, old sheds, fences, laundry lines, and trash cans, and he runs like he knows where he’s going anyway.
I gain on him when he hesitates at a chain-link gate, maybe finding it latched when he expected it to be open. He glances back at me, and even with the hat’s brim shadowing his eyes, I catch the sharp assessment in his face. No fear. Calculation.
I’m close enough to see his hand disappear beneath his jacket, and every nerve in me activates at once.
Gun.
I veer sharply to the left and throw myself toward the side of a detached garage as the shot cracks through the alley, its sound monstrous in the tight space. Wood explodes above me as a dog starts barking nearby.
For one frozen second, the shot replays inside my skull. Then training takes over.
Idiot.
I flatten to the garage wall, my breath harsh and my pulse hammering. I went after an armed man without bringing a weapon, without backup, and without even sending out a comms update.
He was near the school where Elena and T.J. are, and something possessive and furious in me wantedto get my hands on the bastard before he could disappear again. That doesn’t make it less stupid.
After two beats of silence, I risk a look around the corner and find an empty lane. Further down, the hedge at a narrow cut-through is still moving. I push off the wall and run in that direction, because part of me is still stupid enough to hope he made a mistake, but the path gives him three possible directions, and two parked trucks break sightlines.
Nothing’s moving except a curtain in a nearby house, where someone’s probably cautiously peering out.
There’s no runner and no vehicle peeling away, just sunlight on a once-again quiet mountain street and the metallic tang of discharged gunpowder in the air.
I force myself to stop and breathe and think.
The school.
CHAPTER 34
WESTON
I pivot and retrace the route at a controlled pace, my senses constantly surveying my surroundings. He might have circled back. He might have a partner, and they might be counting on me charging back blind.
But the path back to the school is clear, and when I get there, I take out my phone and call Buck.
“Talk,” he answers.
“I spotted him.”
“Location?”
“South side of the school. Concealed position in the brush.” I keep scanning as I speak, my eyes moving constantly. “He ran. I pursued, but lost him.” I add into the silence, “He drew on me in the alley behind Cooper Lane and Elk Trail. Fired once and missed.”
