“Man down! Man down!” Michael shouted into the comm. He dropped to his knees beside him. “Are you shot? Where are you hit?”
“My foot,” Cole growled, jaw clenched.
Michael looked and nearly recoiled from the sight. A steeltrap had snapped around Cole’s ankle just above the top of his boots, blood darkening the fabric of his khakis.
“Don’t move,” Michael ordered. Into the comm he said, “Man down, I need a medic at my location. Roughly fifty yards southeast of the house. Watch your step, there are ground traps. I repeat: watch the ground.”
“Medic en route,” came the reply.
“Go,” Cole gasped. “Go get her.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“She’s escaping. Go! My men are on their way.”
Michael hesitated, then ran. Cole was right—the traps were cover for her escape.
“Boathouse clear,” team C reported. “Boat was started by remote.”
“She’s using it as a distraction,” Michael replied. “Maintain distance. It could be rigged, or she could attempt to circle back to access it.”
He slowed, wary now. Another animal trap nearly caught him—he sprang it with a stick so no one else would get hurt.Too close.
Ahead, the path curved toward the river. Multiple boats lined the water—not just Dolan’s. He hadn’t regained visual after Cole had been hurt, and he wondered if she’d changed direction.
He felt helpless, chasing echoes.
A whisper of movement caught his attention.
Instinct kicked in—he dropped just as a thick tree branch whipped through the air where his head had been. A cut rope swung beside it.
It had been meant to knock me out.
Then he heard running, fast, through the bushes. She was close.
“Suspect heading toward the waterway behind address 11250,” a deputy called out. “Two boats docked. Multiple escape routes.”
Michael had studied the maps and knew that property. Big lot, access to the channel that led to the ocean, just like this one.
“I’m in pursuit,” he said. Team C confirmed backup was on the way.
“Extreme caution,” he warned them.
Through the trees, he saw Clara sprinting toward the dock.
“Clara Dolan!” he shouted. “FBI! Freeze! Hands where I can see them!”
She didn’t stop.
Michael sprinted after her. Two deputies were cutting across from the east. Clara veered left, raced down the dock, and dove cleanly into the river.
“Shit,” Michael muttered. “Suspect in the water,” he told the team. “Visibility low.”
He dropped his gear with a quick release of his tactical belt. One deputy shouted, “Harris, wait!”
No time. Clara was almost gone. He saw her surface—then slip back under.
Big mistake, Clara.Michael was a former Navy SEAL. The water was his domain.
