Page 21 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

I stare at her. I memorize the curve of her shoulders. The pitch of her voice. The way the morning sun catches the stray hairs escaping her veil. I carve the image into the back of my skull.

I’ll burn the town of Crimson Hollow to ash just to hear that sound again. I’ll slaughter every breathing threat on this mountain before I let anyone put that armor back on her.

She catches her breath. She wipes at her veil, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous. You know nothing about bees."

"I know how to establish a perimeter."

Before she can argue, the tactical radio clipped to my belt hisses. A burst of static breaks the quiet morning.

"Alas. Report."

Mac.

The gruff, unimpressed voice of the club's unofficial mechanic grates through the small speaker.

My hand drops to my hip. I key the mic. My eyes never leave Susan. "Alas. Go."

"Got a ping from the Cozy Cup." Mac's voice is tight. Clinical. "Christie says a couple of suits walked in an hour ago. Out of towners. Cheap shoes, expensive watches. Asking directions to the county clerk's office."

My spine goes rigid. The sleeping dog inside me stands up, teeth bared. "Copy."

"Wait, it gets better," Mac continues. "Petra caught a call on the dispatch line. County surveyor truck spotted heading up the Ridge Road. Escorted by a black sedan. Tinted windows. Not locals."

The Syndicate.

They aren't just scouting anymore. They aren't just hiding in the trees. They’re putting suits in town and surveyors on the mountain. They’re moving the pieces on the board in broad daylight.

"Location of the truck." My voice drops an octave. It sounds like grinding stone.

"Five miles north of town limits. Heading toward the south ridge."

The south trail. Susan's property line.

"Understood." I release the button.

Susan is perfectly still. The smoker hangs loose in her grip. The laughter is gone. The weight crashes back down onto her shoulders in a split second. Her jaw tightens.

"They're coming," she says.

"No." I step forward. I put my bare hand over hers, wrapping my fingers around her work glove. "They’re driving around looking at trees. They aren’t coming here."

"They use my trail."

"Not anymore."

I turn her toward the farmhouse. "Go inside. Lock the doors. Don’t come out until I tell you."

"Alas—"

"Go." The command is final. It leaves no room for argument. I’m not asking a favor. I’m giving a tactical order.

She stares at the dark look in my eyes. She swallows hard. She turns and walks fast toward the house. I watch her until the wooden door of the farmhouse clicks shut. I listen for the slide of the deadbolt.

It slides into place.

I turn toward the tree line.

I pull the combat knife from my boot sheath. The black steel drinks the morning light.