Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“I can do this,” she whispered.
“I know.” He slid forward to the front of the Jeep, boots sloshing through water pooling in the dip beside the curb. The hood rattled under the rain, sheet after sheet pouring over it. “Fire slow. Count it out. One. Two. Three. You have six bullets. Use them all.”
“Okay,” Amka whispered.
“Now.”
She fired.
He moved.
Rain came sideways, sharp and cold, battering his face as he broke cover. He sprinted across the open street, not looking back. Another shot. Then another. Her timing was good. Each one gave him a second more.
He hit the far sidewalk, turned, and slammed his back against the building. The concrete was wet and cold, but it gave him cover.
Two more rounds. Then nothing.
She ducked.
He rounded the corner, jumped for the fire escape, and caught the lowest rung. The metal was slick, so he tightened his grip and kept climbing. He passed the second floor, and then the third, rolling onto the roof and staying low.
Wind ripped across the building. Rain came harder up here, straight across from what felt like every direction. He crawled toward the far corner. No movement. But this was the spot. It was the only place that gave a straight shot across the intersection.
He found the shell casings by touch before he saw them. Still warm. Just a few. No scatter. The shooter had control. That told him something.
Too late, though. He was already gone.
A truck engine roared down the street. Lights cut through the storm.
Christian looked over the edge.
Brock’s truck skidded into view, tires kicking up water. Doors flew open. Brock went right, behind cover. Ophelia moved left, gun drawn, sweeping.
“It’s clear,” Christian called down.
Ophelia ran around the SUV, crouching as she must’ve checked on everyone.
Christian didn’t wait. “Make sure they’re all right,” he said. “I’m going after him.” He took the wet stairs down the back, jumped the last two rungs, and hit the ground hard. Gravel shifted under his boots. The wind shoved him sideways.
He pulled out his phone. The screen lit, and he thumbed on the flashlight. Maybe his brothers had been correct in forcing him to get the phone. It was coming in handy. His gaze caught on a boot scuff in the wet dirt, and then bark torn from the low shrub beside the walkway. Weight had come through here, moving fast.
He followed it.
No theory. No instinct. Just movement, one sign after another, through the back lots behind the native association and the library.
He angled into the storm, tracking the trail toward the edge of town.
Toward the school.
The trail cut behind a tool shed and through a gap in a rusted chain-link fence. Christian followed, every step careful and measured. The rain made it harder. The storm pushed leaves flat, erased weight, and filled shallow prints until everything blurred. But not all of it. He caught where a boot had dragged through soft earth, clipped the edge of a concrete footing, and left a faint smear on wet metal.
He dropped to a crouch beside a narrow line of crushed grass. The shooter had gone through there fast, off balance, maybe trying to keep from slipping. That told him something. Probably not military. Could’ve been, but didn’t feel like it. No retreat plan. No sign of a lookout. No suppression shots on exit. The guy’s plan had been to just run and disappear.
Christian’s plan would involve pain. A lot of it.
He passed the edge of the old playground with its metal swings rattling hard in the wind, plastic slide shaking with every gust, and cut across the mulch, already half-flooded. The shooter had gone straight through. Christian followed the broken path to the far fence, hopped it, and landed low in a crouch.
The trees opened just enough to show the logging road ahead. A well-used cutout near a tributary of the river with an excellent fishing hole. Everyone knew about it and used it often. Ruts, tire tracks, animal signs—all of it churning in the mud. No clean boot prints anymore. Just chaos in every direction.
Christian stopped at the edge, lifted his head, and breathed.
Not just air. Information.
His brain ran through it like it used to back in Afghanistan. After a raid. After the target had gone to ground. It wasn’t magic. It was training. Repetition. Sweat. Sand. Death.
He scanned the dark.
The shooter could’ve gone anywhere now, and the storm had masked the engine of his vehicle.
Yet, Christian didn’t move. He listened. Watched. Felt. There were things his body caught before his brain did. A pattern in the silence. A direction in the wind. A small, instinctive pull that something was off just east of the split in the road.
He didn’t know who the shooter was, but he was going to find him.
And when he did, he wasn’t going to ask questions first.
But the bigger question burned hotter than the rest. Who had the bastard been aiming at? Out of all the possibilities, only one of them had been inside a fireball yesterday. One of them wasn’t supposed to still be walking.