37
Forest
The ridge was silent, save for the wind whispering through the trees. North stood twenty paces away, pistol loose in his hand, that damn smile carved across his face.
I squeezed the trigger first.
The rifle cracked, bark exploded off the tree beside his head, and then the world detonated into gunfire.
North dove left, rolling behind a boulder, his pistol barking fire. Bullets ripped through the brush where I’d stood a heartbeat before. I hit the dirt, chest slamming the ground, and returned fire.
Stone chips stung my cheek. I moved, fast and low, circling. North’s shadow flickered with every muzzle flash, his grin visible even in the chaos.
“You’re good, Forest!” he shouted between shots, voice carrying smooth and maddening. “But good men always fall!”
I shifted, firing three quick bursts. One clipped his arm—he cursed, ducking deeper.
“You talk too much!” I roared back, sliding to cover behind a log.
The forest echoed with the duel—rifle against pistol, predator against predator. Every shot was a heartbeat. Every breath tasted like smoke and iron.
Then—silence.
I edged from cover, rifle tight, eyes sweeping. The bastard was fast, clever. This could be his trap.
But then he broke from the shadows, charging hard, pistol raised.
I fired. The first round slammed his shoulder, spinning him. The second ripped through his thigh, dropping him to one knee.
He still smiled, bloody teeth flashing. He raised his pistol—one last desperate move.
I didn’t give him the chance.
I squeezed the trigger and put the final round straight through his chest.
North staggered back, surprise flickering across his face for the first time. His smile faltered. He looked down at the spreading bloom of red, then back at me.
“Well played,” he rasped.
And then he fell.
The ridge went still. My breath thundered in my ears, but my hands didn’t shake. The bastard was finally down.
Behind me, I heard Zoe’s voice—hoarse, raw, but steady. “Forest?”
I lowered the rifle, chest heaving, and turned toward her. She stood in the treeline, eyes wide, taking in the scene.
“It’s done,” I said, voice like gravel. “He’s dead.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, the mountain was quiet.
38
Zoe
Iran the last stretch of the ridge, lungs burning, boots slipping on loose gravel. The echoes of gunfire still clung to the air, sharp and bitter. And then I saw him.
Forest stood in the clearing, rifle lowered, smoke curling from the barrel. North’s body sprawled in the dirt at his feet—still, bloody, no smile left.
