Something satisfied moved behind his eyes. He dropped the smile.
“Okay,” he said.
The drone zipped straight up like a startled bird. A second later, the forest spit echo-softpops—suppressed fire—off to our right. The gray-jacket man didn’t draw; he stepped backward and vanished into trees that suddenly had too many shadows.
“Down!” I shoved Zoe as the first round stitched bark above where her head had been. We hit the ground and rolled into the depression below the switchback berm. Dirt fanned my tongue with the taste of old needles and iron.
“Two shooters, right flank, ten and one o’clock,” she called, calm even as adrenaline lit her fuse. Her voice steadied me more than any cover. “I see dark beanies and rental-store vests. Not locals.”
“Copy,” I said, counting the rhythm of the shots and hearing the distance shifts. I popped smoke, left to make them think we’d break that way, and threw a rock to the right so it cracked branches and drew their fire.
Morepops. A twig near my ear disintegrated. Zoe returned two clean shots, not to hit—THE angles were bad—but to make them respect the idea of being hit. They paused.
I heard something hitting metal. The faintest tick of metal on metal floated up from downslope. Hood latch. Son of a— They were trying to take our exit off the board.
“We’re going to the culvert,” I said. “Southeast. Thirty yards.”
“Copy.”
I reached for her. She was already there, palm slapping mine once—here—then our bodies snapped in sync. We moved—not fast, not slow, the speed that got you home. Smoke curled with the wind; the shooters adjusted; the drone tried to lead them like a conductor counting time. I didn’t let it.
We slid under ferns tall as kids and into the culvert mouth—concrete dark and cool, a wet wind breathing out of it. A trickle of water licked my boots.
Behind us, a new sound: tires on gravel. A van nose crept into view at the low road, white and familiar in a way that made the back of my neck crawl. The same blocky bumper from the pier. They’d made good time.
“Forest,” Zoe breathed. “Guest list keeps growing.”
“Birthday party,” I said, because humor was a life preserver, and she caught it with a look that said Don’t you dare sink.
Something clinked overhead—metal against concrete. I looked up and saw the fishing line again, this time strung across the culvert's mouth just inside the shadow. The can wasn’t making a rattle. This one had a small clay lump tied to it.
I didn’t think. I tackled Zoe deeper into the tunnel, hard enough to drive air out of both of us.
The charge popped behind us—small, concussive, a mean little slap that turned air into fists and dirt into teeth. The world lurched; grit sprayed our backs. The opening half-choked with fallen duff and a caved lip of concrete. Not sealed. Tighter.
“You good?” I asked, hands on her shoulders, my mouth too close to her ear to be professional.
She coughed, blinked dust out of her lashes, and nodded. “My jacket is deeply offended, again.”
“Your jacket will file a complaint later.” I shifted, put my body between her and the light as another suppressed round pecked the edge. “We go through. It opens in a ravine after fifty yards.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we create a new exit.”
She cut me a sideways look, eyes bright and maddeningly alive. “That is an actual plan?”
“It’s a mountain plan.”
“Copy,” she said, and squeezed my wrist once—quick, electric—before she crawled ahead. I took rear, listening to the van’s engine idle, the drone’s faint buzz, the soft crumble of dirt as someone slid into our smoke.
Halfway in, another sound threaded the culvert, wrong enough to raise every hair on my arms: a wet click and a soft whine like a battery charging.
I went still. My night vision painted the world grainy. Up ahead, faint blue blink, low to the water.
“Zoe,” I said, very quiet. “Stop.”
She froze. “Trap?”
