She popped an almond in her mouth and smirked. “Sure. Swooning.”
The humor was good. It kept us relaxed. But underneath, the tension was sharp. Lane and Jason were covering a nearby ridge, deputies patrolling the perimeter. Still, I understood this—North wasn’t giving us clues for free. He wanted us here. He was guiding us.
The trail narrowed, switchbacking along a cliffside overlooking the valley. Wind cut sharply, carrying snowmelt. Zoe kept her pace as if she’d grown up in boots, though every so often she muttered about how “city pavement didn’t try to kill you.”
“Rule three,” I said, offering a hand as she stepped across a loose rock slide.
“I thought rule three was don’t hydrate,” she said, still taking it.
“Rule three is don’t look down unless you’re ready for what’s waiting.”
She peeked. Saw the drop. Went pale. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” I said quietly.
She froze at that, eyes flicking up to mine. Something raw moved through her expression—caught between denial and the truth she wasn’t ready to say out loud. Then she shook her head, huffed, and kept moving.
Smart woman.
We crested the ridge, and that’s when I saw it—an old ranger station, half-collapsed, tin roof rusted through. It should’ve been abandoned years ago. But the smoke curling from the chimney told me otherwise.
Zoe crouched beside me, eyes narrowing. “That’s it.”
“Yeah.” I scanned the treeline. Too quiet. No birdsong. No squirrels. The forest itself was holding its breath.
“Trap?” she whispered.
“Definitely.”
Her lips curved. “Good. I’m in the mood.”
Before I could tell her to hold, she tugged my sleeve, leaned close, and whispered, “And if this goes bad, just know—your trail mix sucks.”
Then she kissed me, quick and fierce, and pulled away with her Glock already in hand.
I exhaled, muttering, “Trouble,” and followed her down the slope.
We were ten yards from the station when the door creaked open. A man stepped out—gray jacket, forgettable face, the one we’d trussed like a raccoon days ago. Only now he was free, calm, and carrying a walkie.
His voice carried across the clearing, almost casual. “Welcome back. Mr. North’s been expecting you.”
The walkie crackled, and North’s voice rolled through, silk and certain. “Detective. Mr. Reed. You followed the trail. Good. Let’s see how well you run it.”
Behind the station, engines roared to life—three more vehicles pulling out of the tree line, headlights slicing the dark.
Zoe cursed under her breath. “Please tell me you brought a bigger net.”
“No,” I said, chambering a round. “This time, we bring fire.”
17
Zoe
The ranger station creaked like it remembered better days. The door hung crooked, the porch sagged, and the chimney smoke smelled like damp wood and gasoline. Forest’s hand brushed mine—steady, grounding—but my pulse still kicked like a drumline.
Gray Jacket leaned in the doorway, casual as a cat. “Boss said you’d come. Said you couldn’t help yourselves.”
I tightened my grip on the Glock. “Funny, he say anything about me duct-taping you to a pine tree last time we met?”
