Page 112 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

A man stepped into view, dressed in black and taller than I expected, with a rifle slung over his back and a sidearm strapped to his thigh. His face was half-covered, but his voice was unmistakable—cold, sharp, and dripping with threat.

“I know you’re out here, Gabby,” he called, holding the trembling dog up like a shield. “Come out now, or this mutt gets it.”

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All I could do was stare at the dog—limp in his grip, legs swinging, mouth open in a silent, desperate cry—and feel the weight of it all slam into me like a freight train.

Then, the underbrush shifted. Leaves rustled. Figures rose from the shadows, silent and steady, like wraiths with orders. A dozenat least—maybe more—of my protection detail emerged with weapons raised and eyes locked on the target.

The man holding the dog froze mid-step, bravado draining in an instant. His confidence cracked, and just like that, the odds shifted.

“Don’t move,” someone barked.

“Drop the dog.”

The man’s eyes darted, wild with panic. Instead of letting go, he wrapped his arm tighter around the dog’s belly and stepped back. “I’ll shoot,” he warned. “Don’t think I won’t!”

I didn’t think—I just moved. My hand found the brush beside me as I pushed to rise, heart pounding in my chest.

And then I heard it, a sharp, unmistakablesnap.

Barris didn’t just stumble—he launched skyward like some cursed marionette yanked by fate itself. One moment, he was stepping back, the poor dog gripped in his arms. The next, he was airborne, hoisted by a snare trap Webb and Malcolm must have set.

His scream split the silence as the rope whipped tight around his ankle, flipping him upside down and jerking his weapon hand up in the process. The force of it knocked the dog from his grip, and the poor thing fell with a sickening thud.

The yelp that followed was sharp, broken, and far too human in its pain. The dog scrambled for a second before collapsing onto its side, one leg tucked under its body at a bad angle. My gut twisted as I watched it, bile rising into my throat. All I could think was, not another life caught up in this mess because of me. That dog was just trying to survive, just like me.

Without thinking, I started to crawl forward. Every inch hurt, but I didn’t care. I had to get to that dog. I had to?—

A blur of motion cut through the clearing, and Jesse darted forward before anyone else moved, sliding in beside the dog with more grace than I thought possible for someone his size, and scooped the little creature into his arms like it weighed nothing. He didn’t pause, didn’t look around, just scooped up the little creature like it weighed nothing, then turned and vanished back into the darkness, probably heading for safety—or for Webb.

A shaky breath escaped as relief surged through me, colliding hard with guilt—but it didn’t last. A faint shimmer caught my eye, the barest glint of metal in the moonlight, subtle enough to miss unless you were looking. I recognized the shape immediately, Barris still had a weapon.

He was swinging from the tree, legs flailing, arms flopping—but his hand was locked around a handgun, his finger edging toward the trigger as he tried to steady it. And I was lying still like an idiot while the men who’d risked everything to protect me were standing just yards away, unaware of the danger.

Panic surged like fire through my veins. My elbow jabbed into the ground, my foot caught on a root, and my ribs screamed in protest as I tried to rise. The bush I’d ducked under was too dense, snagging against my hoodie and cast like it was trying to trap me there.

I flailed, trying to crawl out, my heart pounding in my ears and my vision going hazy at the edges.

He was going to shoot. I could see it in the tension in his arm, the wild glint in his eyes, the way his body twisted just enough to try and line up the shot.

And I was stuck. Completely and helplessly stuck.

Chapter 35

Webb

The wind shifted just enough to carry the sharp crack of a branch off to my right, making me freeze mid-step.

I’d been tracking Barris and what was left of his crew since the first trap caught one of his men square in the face with bear spray. They were floundering and scattered, but that made them even more dangerous. Desperate men didn’t think clearly, they reacted.

The radio crackled in my ear. “Situation near the east line,” someone said, voice low and tight. “Could be Gabby’s position.”

I sprinted, not waiting for a follow-up. Branches whipped at my arms as I tore through the brush, my boots pounding against the damp ground. The burn in my lungs wasn’t from exertion, it was from panic and from the knowledge that Gabby was near the east line. If anything happened near her, she’d try to act. That’s just who she was. And she might get herself killed because of it.

I burst into the clearing just in time to see the silhouette of a man standing with one hand wrapped around a dog and the other holding a gun. The dog whimpered and twisted in his grip, but the man didn’t react. His eyes were scanning the trees, sharp and methodical—focused. Gabby had to be close. I couldn’t see her, but I felt it in my bones. She was watching this, probably trying to move, probably thinking about stepping in, and that thought made my heart stutter.

Then he shifted. Just one step back, enough to catch his boot on a low tension line strung between two roots.

Snap.

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