Page 109 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I raised an eyebrow. “Because it rips things apart?”

“No,” he said flatly. “Because it’s loud, painful, and you lose your footing.”

I might’ve laughed if another snap hadn’t pulled my attention forward—this time followed by a grunt and a very distinct, very satisfying sound.

A solid thud. Then a high, reedy scream cut through the woods. It was the sound of a man who hadn’t expected the earth to literally swallow him whole.

“Ohhh…” Jesse breathed, eyes wide with delight. “That sounded deep.”

“That,” I whispered with a grin, “would be the pit trap.”

Remy blinked. “You actually dug a pit?”

“Of course I did. First time I brought Gabby here. We spent two hours arguing about how to camouflage the lid. She wanted to use moss, I said leaves, and we compromised and used both.”

Jesse shook his head, almost impressed. “What are the odds?”

“Gabby’s the one who suggested I make it deep enough to break spirits but not bones.”

Another scream echoed from the pit, followed by a desperate string of curses in a voice that was quickly growing hoarse.

Jesse muttered, “That guy sounds like he’s rethinking his entire life.”

Behind us, Ira let out a satisfied huff. “That one’s what I like to call ‘natural selection.’”

Another crash came from somewhere to our left—someone had stepped into one of the noisy traps strung with tin cans and crinkled foil, setting off a cacophony that sounded like a metal band falling down a staircase.

They were losing momentum and control, which meant we were winning.

I adjusted my grip on my rifle, eyes narrowing on the direction of movement. Barris hadn’t gone down yet—and he wouldn’t be the type to run. No, he’d continue hunting for Gabby regardless.

And if he was headed for her, he had one hell of a gauntlet to get through first.

The screams from the pit were dying down into moans now, the guy probably trying to figure out if his pride or his spine had taken more damage. A gust of wind stirred the trees above us, but underneath, everything was chaos—crashing brush, shoutedorders, and the beautiful, unrelenting symphony of traps triggering everywhere.

Just ahead, one of Barris’s men crept through the underbrush like he thought he was smarter than the last guy. He was crouched low, moving carefully.

I watched, tracking him, just as his boot nudged a wire strung low to the ground.

There was a click, and he paused, his eyes going wide—and that’s when the thick branch Eddie had previously rigged swung out from the left. It whooshed through the air, a blur of wood and bark.

To his credit, the guy ducked. Too bad for him, ducking was precisely what he shouldn’t have done. The first branch was a feint, the real trap was above him.

The swinging branch triggered a second release: another log hidden behind him, suspended just high enough in the trees to be missed—until it came crashing down. It slammed into the back of his head with a meaty crack, and the guy dropped like a sack of potatoes, limbs twitching before going still.

Jesse, crouched beside me, gave a satisfied nod. “I call that one theHome Alone.”

Remy snorted. “Seriously?”

“Hey, if it worked for a kid in Chicago, it'll work in Mississippi,” Jesse shrugged. “Classic misdirection.”

Ira, just behind us, let out a low whistle. “You know, it’s rare that crazy wins the day—but I gotta say, I’m glad to be surrounded by it.”

I kept scanning the trees, my finger on the trigger, holding the AR15 in position. The brush rustled again, too controlled, too measured—Barris was still out there.

“We haven’t won yet,” I said grimly. “There’s still a few of them left, including Barris.”

That name sent a cold knot down my spine because if there was anyone among that group who wouldn’t step in a trap, wouldn’t flinch when a man screamed, and wouldn’t back down when things got messy—it was Clayton Barris.

---