“We’re in good hands,” Zooey said. “I’d like more backup, but we’re kind of doing this under the radar.” She plucked a black shirt out of the trunk, tossing it to Abby, who found a pair of dark cargo pants that looked like they’d fit her. “I’m gonna go try these,” she said.
Her stomach was jumping by the time she’d changed into the clothes. It took a few deep breaths over the sink to gather herself.
She was a farm girl, so she’d grown up with a rifle in her hand, to ward off predators and to hunt with her father. It was one of the few activities that seemed to cheer him, so they’d spent a lot of time in the woods when she was younger.
But hunting deer and hunting a man were two very different things. When she walked back into the cabin’s main room and found Paul and Cyrus loading weapons and flash-bombs into a duffel, her stomach clenched.
God, she was a journalist, not an FBI agent. She had no training to do this.
But there wasn’t much choice. She was in this to the very end. Just like Paul.
“You know how to use this?” Cyrus asked, handing her a bolt-action shotgun.
She took it, the weight of it almost a comfort in her hands, and nodded.
“You willing to use it?” he asked, and there was something searching in his eyes that made her go cold, that made her want to shrivel away from him and hide. This was a guy who had seen some shit go down—maybe even been the cause of it. And if she didn’t fall into line and have his back, she’d be in trouble.
“I am,” she said.
“Good.”
He moved away, and Paul came up to her, handing her a black beanie.
“Your friend is very intense,” she said, pulling the hat on, trying to hide the beacon that was her red hair.
“Here, let me,” he said, and he reached over, twisting her hair and then tucking it gently into the hat. She tried not to suck in a sharp breath when his fingers brushed against the nape of her neck, but she couldn’t stop herself.
His eyes flickered, dropping down to her mouth, and she thought about how this could be it. She could get shot and die out in the woods tonight. And she would’ve never told him . . .
The regrets threatened to swamp her, because this wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right place and she had never, ever felt like the right girl.
“Thanks,” she whispered, because she was a coward.
He smiled. “Any time.”
“Harrison, how many flash-bangs do you want to bring?” Cyrus called, and Paul turned away, the moment breaking.
Abby tugged the hat down over her ears and hurried over to Zooey, to check on the restraints.
The sun was setting soon.
And then the hunt for Ryan would be on.
Chapter 24
Paul traveled, low and quiet, through the forest. Darkness had fallen, and as he moved through the underbrush, he couldn’t help but think of the last time he was doing the same thing, creeping toward a cabin that held a dangerous man.
The Mancuso case had been a turning point for him, even though he hadn’t realized it at the time. He’d been too reckless then. Unable to listen to Maggie’s instincts, too intent on being the one who was right.
He was leaving that behind and focusing on the future . . . as soon as he was finally able to put his past to rest.
Ryan held the answers to questions he hadn’t even realized he was supposed to have. And Paul was going to hear all of them.
“I’m in position,” Zooey said over the radio from her spot on the old mining road, half a mile north.
“Approaching the tree line,” Cyrus said. “Abby, are you in position?”
“Just a second,” she said, sounding a little out of breath. “Nearly to the truck.”
“Remember, a quick stab of the knife,” Paul said. “Then drag down. You’ll need to put some muscle into it.”
“Got it,” she said.
He’d reached the tree line and flattened himself against a trunk, squinting in the weak light of the moon, trying to spot Abby.
There she was, a dark blur coming from the east, circling around the truck that was parked in front of the cabin. He watched, counting silently as she hit the first tire, then the second, then the final two.
“Tires are done.”
“Fall back,” Paul ordered. “Find a place in the tree line. Stay hidden. And keep your eyes on the front door.”
He waited a beat and then said, “Let me know when you’re out of sight.”
Another tense minute passed, and then: “I’m out of the way.”
“Zooey, stay sharp. Cy, start the count,” Paul ordered.
Cy began to count from ten, and the two men moved in unison, coming at the cabin from two sides. They moved like a well-oiled machine, the flash-bangs they tossed through the windows going off, four deafening bangs, one right after another, echoing through the forest, as light brightened the clearing like lightning.
Paul had circled back to the front door, and as soon as the light cleared, he kicked open the front door, his gun drawn, Cy at his back as they charged inside. “Hands in the air!”
Paul peered through the smoke of the flash-bangs rising in the air and as it cleared, he saw what was slumped over in the chair set in the middle of the rustic cabin.
“Christ,” Cy swore, taking in the sight as they both lowered their guns.
Ryan Clay was dead, half of his skull missing, blown away, presumably, with the double-barrel shotgun that was lying on the ground next to him.
“What’s going on?” Zooey asked over the radio.
“Zooey, I need you to get down here,” Paul said. “We’ve got a dead body you need to look at.”
“Ryan Clay?” she asked.
“Yup,” Paul said.
“He’s dead?” Abby asked over her own radio. “I’m on my way.”
Paul, thinking about how Abby reacted to the mere possibility of exhuming Cass’s body, cursed, shutting his radio off. “I’m gonna head Abby off,” he told Cy. “This is . . .” He made a face, staring down at Ryan’s body.
Headshots were always messy.
“She doesn’t need to see this,” he finished. “She’s a civilian.”
“I understand,” Cy said. “Go protect your woman.”
Paul couldn’t deny the satisfaction of Abby being cast as his. It was a base kind of desire that he probably should be more enlightened about, but right now, he felt on edge, primed to protect.
Things weren’t right here. He’d wait for Zooey’s expert opinion, but all his knowledge and training was telling him that Ryan didn’t kill himself.
He stepped down off the porch as Abby approached through the darkness, the rifle strap slung across her chest. She looked like the kind of woman who went off to fight wars, tall and strong and willing to do anything, no matter the cost.
“It’s bad,” he said.
“I figured,” she said, crossing her arms. She looked over his shoulder, at the cabin door and swallowed audibly, her throat working frantically like she was building up the courage to go inside.
His heart squeezed at the little movement. She was so strong. So damn determined to be there, every step of the way.
I owe Cass, she had said, that first day, when she was trying to convince him of all of this. God, had that just been five days ago? It felt like an eternity. Part of him, when he was with Abby, felt like he’d never left home. And another part of him was only aware of how long it’d been. How much they’d both changed.
But deep down, their cores, their hearts, they were still the same. Which is why it was so hard to shake the want, the need to comfort her, to protect her, to keep her with him, close to him, safe with him.
“You don’t want to go in there,” he said.
She glared at him, her eyes growing heated. “Why do you always try to protect me from everything?” she demanded.
Because you’re reckless, he thought. Because you make me want to be reckless. Because the idea of someone hurting you anymore makes me want to use whatever power I have to crush them to dust.
“Because someone needs to,” he said, and her chin tilted up stubbornly.
“I’m a big girl, Harrison,” she said. “I’ve seen plenty of crime scene photos.”