Page 39 of Kings of Sherwood

Sure enough, I hear him slip—a wet squelch and startled yelp—and that’s enough. The ground slopes down, and LJ cuts him off at the next ridge.

He skids, trying to turn and hang a right to the clearing, but no good. No traction on those leaves. Just a hard faceplant into the mud.

Will tackles him before he can scramble up, rain beating down through the gap in the trees. I slide to a stop just behind them, crossbow raised, as LJ strides over and angles his flashlight down onto the intruder.

The beam catches the kid full in the face.

And yeah—he’s a kid. Eighteen, maybe. Barely old enough to buy his own cigarettes. Mud streaks his cheeks and forehead, hair plastered to his skull like a drowned rat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, panicked breaths. He’s shaking.

“Please,” he says. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Don’t fucking tempt me, asshole,” Will growls, tensing his hand on the kid’s neck. I grab his arm.

“Hey, easy.”

“He’s armed.” LJ yanks the kid by the shoulder, rolling him just enough to slide off what appears to be a rifle slung across his back, which LJ picks up and smirks at. “Well, sort of.”

His flashlight beam reveals an old-ass .22 bolt-action, a Marlin or Savage, maybe, the kind they sell in bulk to ranchers and kids learning to shoot cans off fences. The scope’s cheap as hell—Walmart-special, plastic dial caps missing—and I’d bet money it’s not even zeroed in.

This kid’s not a hunter. Shit, he’s barely prepared for a hike.

“Who sent you?” Will barks, but I push him back. “Who are you working for?”

“Easy,” I repeat, a little firmer this time. “No need to make this worse than it already is, okay?”

I pull the hood back off my jacket—not like it was doing much in this rain anyway—so I can look the kid in the eye, and crouch to where Will has him pinned.

“What’s your name?”

LJ’s Maglite sweeps back over, and the kid blinks against the beam, eyes darting between the three of us.

“Um...” His lips move like he’s trying to come up with something plausible.

“Don’t bother lying,” I interrupt. “That’lldefinitelymake it worse than it is.”

He nods.

“Nick,” he says, voice hoarse. “Nick Miller.”

Will snorts. “Is he kidding?”

“It is,” the kid says quickly. “I swear. I’m not—” He swallows. “I didn’t come to hurt anyone. I just—”

“Didn’t wanna hurt anyone?” LJ says, tilting the rifle this way and that. “Don’t you know you can shoot your eye out with this?”

“I...” The kid stops, white as a sheet. It hits me that he didn’t think he’d get caught. Or didn’t think, period.

“Who are you working for?” Will asks again, and this time, I let him.

“No one,” Nick says, shaking his head frantically. “I mean...” He swallows. “The post...I saw there was a bounty out, and I didn’t think—I didn’t know it was real. Like, really real. I wasn’t sure. I just...I needed the money.”

His words tumble out like he’s hoping we’ll let him go if he talks fast enough.

I glance at LJ. He’s frowning, hard, still holding the flashlight on Nick’s face like it might burn a confession out of him. But I can already see: there just ain’t much to tell.

And honestly, that’s kind of a relief.

“You needed the money,” Will drawls. “So instead of pumping gas or flipping burgers, you figure you’ll roll the dice and take your little Red Ryder out in the forest just for the hell of it, even though you’re—what was it?—not sure it was really real?”

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