Page 27 of Hot Lovin'

Quinn

The underbrush snaps beneath my boots as we move like shadows through the dense woods. My deputies flank me, their breaths fogging in the chill air, eyes alert and weapons drawn. The old Hartless cabin should be up ahead. The place is a relic from a bygone era, swallowed by nature’s relentless claim.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I mutter, though it’s more for my focus than theirs. They know what’s at stake. Aiden’s life hangs in the balance.

We inch closer, and the decrepit structure of the cabin emerges through the trees like a specter. It’s the kind of place that would make a perfect hideout, out of sight, out of mind, and all sorts of forgotten.

“Looks about as welcoming as a tax audit,” Deputy Tate whispers beside me, his attempt at humor a stark contrast to the grim set of his jaw.

I nod curtly, appreciating that he understands the gravity of the situation.

“Let’s hope our welcome is warmer,” I say, but no sooner do the words leave my lips than chaos erupts.

The first bullet whizzes past my ear so close I can feel the displaced air in its wake. Instinct kicks in, and my training takes over. I pulling Tate down just as he spots the muzzle flash from an upstairs window.

“Contact!” I shout, unnecessary as it may be, because the forest explodes with gunfire. Bullets tear through leaves and bark, finding homes in the ancient trunks that shield us. Better the trees than my deputies.

“Covering fire!” another deputy yells.

The night suddenly sings with the sounds of our return assault. These aren’t just any deputies; they’re my deputies, and I trained them well. We may not be used to these situations, but with the way things have been going lately, I’ve ensured they were trained for the day that might come. Today.

“Hartless! We’ve got you surrounded!” I try diplomacy one last time, shouting over the cacophony. “Come out with your hands up, and nobody else has to get hurt!”

But Alicia and Mike Hartless don’t seem to care much for negotiation. Their response is another volley of bullets, desperate and wild. Dammit, don’t they realize they’re putting poor Aiden in danger? I shake my head. They don’t care about Aiden. Never have.

“Quinn, left flank!” someone calls.

I spin on my heel, catching movement in my peripheral vision. Shit, who else is here besides Mike and Alicia? I have a split-second decision to make: take the shot or risk everything. My finger tightens on the trigger, and then it’s over. The figure drops, and I know without looking that it’s one less threat to worry about.

“Move up!” I command, signaling with my hand.

We advance, a unit honed by practice, closing the distance between us and the cabin. Each step feels like wading through cold molasses, every second stretched taut with danger.

“Stay sharp, everyone,” I rasp, adrenaline turning my veins into live wires. The cabin is ten yards away. Aiden is almost free. If his parents haven’t put him in harm’s way, that is. The thought makes my pulse race with fear. “We’re bringing Aiden home.”

The scent of gunpowder and pine resin fills my nostrils, a peculiar perfume to the dance of death we’re leading. I can almost taste the victory, so close now that I could reach out and grab it by the throat. But I would prefer it to be Mike and Alicia’s throats.

“Ready?” I ask the deputies beside me.

Not waiting for an answer, I move. Together, we surge forward, determined to end this standoff once and for all.

“Go, go, go!” We crash through the undergrowth, breaking free of the tree line and sprinting across the clearing to the cabin, bullets nipping at our heels like hellhounds. The world narrows to the pounding of my heart and the objective before me.

“Take ‘em down!” My voice is a growl lost amid the roar of gunfire.

We reach the backdoor, the rotten wood a mockery of protection. I meet the eyes of my deputies, and a silent agreement passes between us.

“Let’s finish this.” My boot connects with the door, splintering the aged timber like dry kindling, and we burst inside.

And that’s when the real fight begins.

A searing heat tears through my left bicep, and I know I’ve been hit. There’s no time to stop. Aiden’s screams are a siren call that drowns out the pain. Blood trickles down my arm and over my fingers, warm and slick against my skin, but it’s just background noise. I push forward.

“Quinn, your arm!” Deputy Tate shouts from behind me.

I grunt in response, my jaw set. “Later.”

We’re in the kitchen of the house now, and through the thin walls, Aiden’s cries pierce the musty air of the old cabin. My heart hammers against my ribcage; each beat echoing the urgency of those screams.

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