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He shakes his head but only mutters, “Fine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Being the one who wants a closer look, I should be the one to take the risk and sneak up. Dalton tries to veto that by pulling rank, until I counter that the person staying here is actually in greater danger, being the person hiding with the giant dog.
“How’s your aim?” I ask.
“Not as good as yours.”
“I don’t mean with your gun.”
I hand him a stone. His eyes narrow. He knows what I’m saying. If that rifle swings in my direction, he can pitch a rock to divert it the other way, and while I might be the better shot, my throwing arm isn’t as good as his.
Dalton hesitates, and I can tell he wants to keep arguing. Then he points back the way he came.
“Circle wider. I saw a better spot to get up there if you stay on the west side of the fallen pine.”
I kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”
I take the route he suggested, and I send up a mental thanks because it’s damn near perfect, which is probably why he didn’t insist on going in my place. The path is heavily wooded andleads up the ridge and then down the other side, allowing me to approach behind the shooter while staying in the forest until I am less than ten feet away, looking up at their back.
The shooter still has their rifle raised. They continue scanning the forest. When that barrel lifts, just a little, I know they’re about to fire, and I tense, my gut screaming at me to run up there and stop them. My brain intervenes, pointing out that the barrel isn’t directed at Dalton. It’s aimed off to the left and high, and when it fires, the bullet sings through the trees, well above head level.
A warning shot. The forest below has gone silent, but they know someone is still down there. Someone who did not flee in terror, crashing through the bush.
They don’t know what they’re doing. That thought hits as I watch the shooter scan the forest. Do they not realize how exposed they are, poised on that ridge? They don’t—to them, they occupy the high ground. The safe ground. They can see anyone coming at them… unless that person has circled around to the rear.
I creep up the ridge, placing each foot with extreme care. The shooter might not have considered how open they’ve left their back, but the crunch of a single stone will have them spinning and firing.
Place a foot. Rock forward to test my grip. Lift the back foot. Repeat.
From this angle—the other side of the tree they’re “hiding” against—I can see the person’s arm and the rifle barrel. That’s it. When that arm stiffens, I freeze. Below, dead foliage crunches underfoot. The rifle fires, and it’s definitely aimed well overhead.
The shot hits a tree below and something crashes through the forest, running for its furry life. It’s very obviously an animal,but the person fires again, and I take advantage of that to cover the last few quick steps. Then I am poised on the other side of that tree.
I pause there to catch my breath in slow, silent inhales. I see now why they feel safe. It’s the tree at their back. Clearly no one can get the jump on them. Which is laughable, but I understand the impulse. The tree is tall and solid. It is protection.
It is also protection for me, and as the person with a short-barreled gun, I have the advantage, standing a mere foot away from my target.
I slow my breathing. Then I look around my feet. There are no convenient loose stones here, so I reach into my pocket and take out half of an energy bar. I draw back my arm and pitch it to my right. It’s a half-assed underhand toss, but it does what I need it to do, landing with a crackle of the wrapper that has my target spinning that way… and I swing around the other side of the tree and put my gun to their back.
The shooter goes still. From this vantage point, I can only make out the dark jacket, hood pulled up, the person four or five inches taller than me and wider. Definitely not Lilith. Possibly Penny.
The figure starts to pivot, rifle rising.
“Uh-uh,” I say. “That’s a gun you feel. Not a rifle either.”
Their shoulders twitch at the sound of my female voice. It’s not what they expected. Another advantage to having me here instead of Dalton.
“This isn’t the way I like to say hello,” I say. “But you started it, shooting at my dog.”
“Dog?”
Now I’m the one tensing at the voice. It’s male. Damn it. As much as I didn’t want it to be Penny shooting at us, at least it would have meant we’d found her… and solved our case.
“You shot at my dog,” I say. “I kind of take that personally, so you’re going to lower your rifle to the ground and then we’re going to have a more civil conversation.”
“I wasn’t trying to shoot anyone. I was aiming well over your heads.”
