Page 65 of Raven's Curse
They wouldn’t have enough time to reappropriate their resources, assuming their calls eventually got through. That his team would have his back like they always had.
He rolled his shoulders, looking Buck in the eyes. “Okay, Buck. You take point, just… be careful. And don’t out us before we even have a chance to assess the situation.”
Buck scoffed. “I told you. I know how to track. I just don’t like…”
He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid, then headed off, angling toward a narrow opening on the far side of the clearing, seemingly indifferent to the soaking rain. Chase waved Greer ahead, taking up the rear. Constantly checking their six as they crossed the gravel lot, then ventured into the trees.
Chase glanced up the path, though, path was stretching it. More of a slight depression in the undergrowth. Fewer ferns and bramble. The odd bent branch. Nothing the average hiker would look twice at.
He saw the trail. How the needles and mud had been flattened ever so slightly. The hint of a boot tread on the fringes. Likely when Buck had tried to scale the hill this morning. But any variances could be easily missed, which made Buck’s presence a key Chase wished they didn’t have to rely on. Not when the man looked as if he’d spent too much time shouting at the wind. Seeing shadows even when there wasn’t any light. Though, his remarks about tracking — disarming bombs — definitely sparked some questions.
Mist threaded low through the trees, veiling the distance, shifting shapes at the edges as they moved in a stacked line, weapons still holstered in case they slipped — needed both their hands to prevent a looming catastrophe. They angled right, one side of the trail sloughing off into a steep ravine, blowdown and dead wood crisscrossing the hillside.
Buck stopped, made a few hand signals, before taking another questionable track on their left. Even more remote than the last, only the occasional bent fern as any indication the line was passable. The guy continued up, pausing every so often to stare at the trees — sniff the air.
Chase studied him, trying to decide if Buck was crazy or gifted as Chase trailed after them, boots sinking into the mud, each step leaving a print behind. Chase avoided any twigs, every footstep measured. Controlled. Heel to toe. Maintaining his balance in case the whole damn side of the hill gave out. Greer followed suit, not an ounce of energy wasted as she surveyed the landscape, gaze searching the shadows, pausing at locations he’d questioned, too.
She had great instincts, moving like a wraith through the fog. Keeping Buck from slipping whenever his shoes lost traction — sent him sliding off toward the ravine. They traveled in silence, any noise muffled amidst the patter of rain — the constant dripping that sounded in the background.
They crested a small, rocky ledge and pivoted onto a larger track. Not quite a main trail, but it opened up a bit. Stopped the endless ferns from soaking through their pants.
Greer slipped on a root, stumbled back until Chase caught her arm — steadied her. She reached for his hand, used it to regain her balance before she smiled her thanks, the brush of her skin over his — a flash of warmth in the cold rain.
He lingered, her breath ghosting next to his shoulder until she’d synced her breathing to his. Calmed the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck. A small nod, and she struck off, head on a swivel, muscles tensed and ready to react to a dynamic situation.
Buck led them through a long, narrow clearing, the air heavy with freshly cut cedar. Patches of sawdust dotted the scrubby ground, a discarded jerrycan resting against a stump. They hit the next thicket, sticking to the non-existent trail as it wove higher, a hint of lighter sky showing through the canopy.
The underbrush thinned as they reached the top, the lush ferns giving way to heaps of pine needles beneath thick trunks.
A snap.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
Somewhere off to their right. Too heavy for a deer. Bear, maybe, though Chase doubted it. They stopped, listened for movement, scanning the mist for a glimpse of a shadow, but the rain distorted the sound — made every drop a false echo.
A crow cawed overhead.
Sudden. Jarring. Then nothing.
Buck veered left, walked another hundred yards, then stopped. He crouched behind a fallen log dotted with moss, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then his hand toward the tree line.
A faint glow flickered between the tree trunks, the amber hue moving from right to left. Muffled grunts sounded above the rain, a low thud rumbling through the air. Chase took lead, picking his way through the deadfall to the edge of a clearing. The surf thundered faintly beyond the cliffside, another storm cell crawling across the horizon, rain hampering the visibility.
The abandoned lookout loomed high above a rocky knoll, separated from the access road by that narrow ravine. An old footbridge spanned the gaping chasm, the fast-moving water churning beneath heading toward the ocean.
Greer pointed to a lone truck parked across the crest of the gravel road, the gray sky spilling through the windows, showcasing the empty interior.
Chase panned left, searching for the source of that light, when a hint of movement caught his attention. He squinted, water trickling down his neck, the scent of dead leaves saturating the air, when a figure moved onto the bridge. Tall. Muscular.
The guy looked up when thunder echoed in the distance, his gaze searching the heavens before he picked up his pace — trotted off the other end. His right leg lagged a bit, a slight limp throwing off his gait as he headed along the gravel road, gaze searching the forest. A bolt of lightning forked across the sky several seconds later, the brief flash highlighting the guy’s face.
Chase froze. Stomach knotted. Chest squeezed tight. He glanced at Greer, noted her wide eyes and ashen skin. She’d recognized the man, too.
Marcus Hodges.
Older. Wilder, with a darkness radiating off him that dimmed the growing dawn. Prickled the hairs on Chase’s neck. He closed his eyes, tried to shove down the pain and guilt, but it was useless. Knowing he’d been the catalyst. That if he’d remained conscious long enough to drag his ass back, maybe he could have prevented this.
