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Then that shadow bolted. Casper barked and ran.
Hunter jerked his arm free and took off after them both.
Michael swore and followed.
This immediately felt wrong. He didn’t want to leave his brothers vulnerable—and that’s what sleep felt like now. Vulnerability.
Why the hell hadn’t he woken them up?
“Stop!” he yelled, hoping his brothers would somehow hear him. “Hunter, damn it, stop!”
Then he shut his mouth. He shouldn’t yell—not unless he wanted to wake the whole street. This war made everyone in the neighborhood a liability. A risk. A threat. The last thing he needed was some middle-aged dad stumbling into the line of fire in his boxer shorts.
Besides which, he was terrified Hunter was going to pull that trigger and shoot some moron hiding a few joints in his pocket.
But Hunter hadn’t fired, and Michael could see him slipping between the trees about twenty feet ahead. He hardly needed the visual: at this distance the earth could feed their path to him. They’d never lose him on foot. The underbrush helped, too. Rocks and branches shifted out of the way of his bare feet, letting him gain ground.
The earth couldn’t offer the nuances of emotion, but it knew enough to recognize a panicked run. Whoever they were chasing was terrified of getting caught.
Not a Guide, then.
Hunter’s breath echoed over the crunch of his feet through underbrush. Their quarry was quick—he’d gained ground—but this kind of desperate running would burn him out fast.
“Hunter! I said stop.” Michael was fast. He could almost grab the back of Hunter’s sweatshirt now, but he didn’t. “He didn’t attack us. We’re chasing him.”
That made Hunter draw up short, sliding to a stop in the dirt, breathing hard. “Casper! Hier!” The dog barked again, somewhere in the distance, but he returned to his master’s side.
Hunter pushed hair off his face and swore. The gun was still in his hand, pointed at the ground. “You don’t know this isn’t Calla.”
True, he didn’t know this wasn’t Calla. She was violent and unpredictable and refused to discuss anything that had to do with avoiding a war. Michael hadn’t heard from her since last week, since he’d told her his priority was to protect his family—not to start a war with the Guides.
Regardless, he wasn’t a big fan of shooting blindly into the woods. “What if this has nothing to do with us, and you shoot some unarmed kid?”
Hunter slid the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. He was scowling. “I’m not reckless.”
Branches snapped in the distance. Michael felt every step as the runner drew farther away.
“See?” he said, catching his breath. “A Guide would know we could follow him.”
Then they heard a splash, and Michael lost any sense of their target.
Hunter took off again. “Why would some unarmed kid jump into the creek in November?” he called.
Michael ran after him. “Maybe he fell.”
But he’d felt the instant the runner’s feet left the earth. Running to the water had been deliberate. Whoever this was had known Michael could follow him on land.
Maybe he didn’t know Hunter would be able to follow him in the water.
Stoney Creek wasn’t really a creek at all. It stretched half a mile across, the towns on either side connected by a drawbridge. Farther south, there was a stretch of beach, but here, at the edge of their neighborhood, the woods ended at a sheer drop into water. By the time they reached the bank, Hunter had lost his sweatshirt. He didn’t even pause: he leapt into the quickly moving current, jeans and all. Michael dove in beside him.
The sudden cold caught him in a vise grip. For an instant, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.
But then his body kicked into action, sending his heart pounding with adrenaline. Forget Nick. Michael should have woken Chris. His youngest brother wouldn’t need to chase this guy. Chris could probably convince the current to drag him back to shore.
Too late now. Icy water attacked with the sting of a thousand needles, protesting his presence. He fought to make his arms drive through the water, but the current churned thick with power, fighting his every stroke. Michael kicked and the water dragged him under. Those pinpricks of cold turned to full-size nails hammered into his skin.
Power.
