Page 108 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

Webb

We spotted them just past the tree line—eight figures moving in the moonlight with enough tactical gear to make a Navy SEAL feel underdressed. Head-to-toe black, vests cinched too tight, weapons that looked freshly polished, and that stiff, overcompensating kind of posture that screamed, “I watched too many action movies in my mom’s basement.”

Jesse leaned closer to me and murmured, “I hate LARPers.”

“God,” I muttered back, “they really think they’re starring in some low-budget military film, don’t they?”

We both snorted under our breath, crouched in the shadows, our eyes trained on the group as they spread out. Barris was front and center, swaggering like a bad decision made flesh.

Behind us, Ira’s gravelly whisper cut through the dark like a dry twig snapping. “What’s really pathetic is that people are still kidnapping in this day and age. Especially after how many timesit’s happened to your family. And don’t even get me started on the rattlesnake.”

Jesse rolled his eyes, whispering, “Oh my God, notagain.”

I clenched my jaw. “He didn’t see it in the car where it wasplanted. Who the hell does that? You're right, though, people have grudges, sure, but this whole kidnap-the-witness routine is tired.”

Jesse made a noise in the back of his throat. “There’s a whole world of crime out there. Maybe they could try credit card fraud or art theft. Something classy.”

Remy, crouched nearby with his rifle drawn, turned just enough to glare over his shoulder and made a sharp slashing motion with his hand. “Really? You wanna argue this right now while we’re eyeballing eight heavily armed assholes trying to commit the most uninspired crime imaginable?”

We shut up immediately.

The woods went quiet for a breath, then Barris raised his hand, and his men split off like chess pieces being moved across a board. One broke right, stepping too close to the path that circled the cabin.

I grinned to myself. Clayton Barris’s men had no idea what kind of welcome they were about to get.

The moment the guy’s boot hit a tripwire tucked behind the roots of a pine, there was a sharp click and a pressurized hiss like a snake about to strike.

The man had just enough time to yell, “What the—” before the bear spray bomb detonated.

A high-pitched whoosh of it burst into the air, catching him square in the face.

“Shit!” Jesse whispered as the guy immediately collapsed to his knees, clutching his face, gagging and coughing violently, his weapon clattering to the ground, forgotten.

Barris and two of the others scrambled back, keeping their distance as they covered their mouths with their arms as the orange mist curled through the trees like a furious cloud of mace.

Ira snorted softly, as we all pulled our t-shirts over our noses. “That one was mine. I call it ‘The Eye-Peeper.’”

Remy groaned quietly. “You named it?”

“Of course I did. It’s art, and art always has a name.”

The rest of the intruders had frozen, clearly rattled by one of their own dropping like a sack of potatoes. Barris cursed under his breath, looking around, trying to pinpoint the source. But we were already shifting position, closing in. They wanted a fight? Well, they were about to find out that we had all the imagination—and all the traps.

Let the real games begin.

The woods had stilled, the silence thick and uneasy, like the air knew it was seconds away from cracking apart. The man who’d caught the full blast of bear spray was still curled up on the forest floor, sobbing like a child who’d licked a jalapeño on a dare. Two of his buddies tried to drag him away, but they were moving slow, cautious now—good. Let them be careful. The second they forgot where they were, they'd meet another surprise.

And we had plenty.

To the left, another of the intruders stepped over a fallen log, moving fast, eyes scanning but not down. That was his mistake.

Snap. A thin tension wire pulled taut.

Then, there was a twanging noise as the next trap launched from under the brush, accompanied by a mechanical groan and a hiss of compressed air. A bundle of cans, nails, and sharpened sticks shot upward like the angriest wind chime ever assembled.

He screamed as the barrage caught him across the legs and side, the sound echoing through the trees like an alarm.

Remy winced next to me. “That was mine. I call it ‘The Noisy Divorce.’”

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