Page 38 of Outlaw Ridge: Griff
The firing stopped.
Just like that.
“Coward,” he muttered, scanning the tree line. “Chickenshit knows backup’s coming.”
Lily was already moving beside him, levering herself up with one hand, eyes narrowed. “He’s running,” she said, her voice tight with fury.
Griff rose alongside her, keeping low, and he caught it. A flicker of movement between the trees. A shadow slipping fast through the underbrush. The figure moved with purpose, practiced.
Not panicked.
But definitely escaping.
Lily saw it too. She tossed the metal box onto a heap of debris without hesitation. “Let’s go after the bastard.”
Griff was already moving even though he was well aware of the big-assed risk they were taking. Charging after an armed shooter into a stretch of cover with no guarantee of backup in position yet. It was reckless. The kind of thing that could get them both killed.
But letting that bastard disappear into the trees? Letting him regroup and come back stronger, smarter, maybe with a clean shot next time?
That wasn’t an option.
“We move fast,” Griff said, already picking up speed. “Eyes sharp, weapons up.”
Lily was right beside him, gun drawn, feet pounding over the gravel and ash as they sprinted across the road. No hesitation. No fear. Just the drive to end it.
The trees loomed ahead, shadows thickening with every step. Griff’s breath stayed steady, his muscles coiled and ready. Any second now, the shooter could stop running and turn. Fire again. And this time, it might hit flesh.
But he kept going, boots hitting the edge of the woods, gun up, heart pounding.
If this was going to end—then it was going to endnow.
They reached the trees fast, ducking low as they entered the cover of branches and brush, every sense on high alert. The ground was soft here, coated with pine needles and leaves, the air colder, still holding the faint echo of gunfire.
But the shooter was gone.
Griff scanned the area. Nothing but trees, a few scattered footprints already smudged by motion and speed. No movement. No sound.
He cursed under his breath, sweeping his weapon in a slow arc, eyes sharp.
Then he saw it.
Griff moved closer, eyes narrowing as something caught the light near the base of a tree. Tucked beneath a curl of bark, pinned there by a jagged splinter of wood, was a scrap of paper. No, not paper.
A photograph.
He reached for it carefully, keeping low, and pulled it free. Lily stepped beside him just as he turned it over.
The photo was grainy, the edges curled and worn. It had been taken from a distance, maybe through a long lens, maybe with shaky hands. But it was clear enough.
Hannah Cole.
And in this shot, the man she was kissing wasn’t Everett Langston.
It was Bobby Ray Moore.
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Chapter Nine
