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So her aunt, the woman who’d raised her, had been the expert.
And now, Rachel maneuvered with quick, meticulous precision.
By alerting him to her presence, she’d given him a fair shot. But that was all the dignity he’d get. He hadn’t trained a day in his life—she could feel it in his tense frame, his panicked breathing. His slick, damp clothing.
The fight wasn’t even that. Within seconds, she’d disarmed him, using his own shoulder to press the flat of the blade into the mud.
And then she transitioned from a triangle choke into an armbar.
With a swift move, she pinned him face-down in the mud, wrenching his arm behind his back. “You’re under arrest,” she growled. He was gasping. She wasn’t even breathing heavily. She hauled him to his feet.
He cursed at her, trying to scratch her or stamp at her foot.
She caught his ankle, hooking it with her heel and tripping him. He hit the mud again.
He tried to rise, but she shoved him down again, and his breath escaped in a puff.
“Stop,” she said simply.
He snarled, trying to go for his knife.
And so her six-shooter appeared in one hand. Another gift from her aunt. She pointed the weapon at his head. Only six bullets, compared to some pistols now used. She didn’t have twelve shots, or twenty. So the ones she did have had to matter more.
Her aim was as deadly as her tracking skills.
“I said stop,” she said in a firm voice.
He stared up at her, blinking, staring down the barrel of the gun.
She hauled him to his feet, cuffing his hands behind his back.
“How’d you find me?” he said, glaring at her.
She didn’t reply. He’d tried to trick them. Had cast his scent in different directions with an old shirt, a sweater. He’d gone through mud and soaked his shirt in doe urine. She could smell it on him.
But it hadn’t mattered. She wasn’t a bloodhound. Scent didn’t matter nearly as much as the whispers of the forest. Cracked branches, ruffled leaves, disheveled detritus.
And something more. A bone-deep connection to this land, to its whispers and warnings. A legacy from her Native American heritage, from the aunt who’d raised her and taught her to track and hunt.
The killer spat at her feet. “You think you’ve won?” he sneered.
Suddenly, there was a burst of motion from behind her.
She glanced back.
Feds. FBI.
Sometimes they played ball with the Rangers.
But they were clumsy in the dark. Still, she kept her expression polite. She’d learned long ago that not everyone could move in the woods like she and her aunt could.
Now, six feds emerged from the woods, cursing and slapping at bugs. One nearly tripped into a stream.
The man in the lead—a squat fellow shaped like a pit bull with jowls to match—reached her first. Nodded in greeting. He had a confident swagger about him. His muscles had muscles.
She nodded back. “Agent Santino.”
“Nice collar.”
