Page 41 of A Mile of Ocean

“Well, no. But if she says she can ride, I believe her. We had a long talk one day last spring about riding. I could tell she knew a lot about horses. She wasn’t faking it. Why do you think I asked her to help with the lessons this summer?”

“But do you feel comfortable having her ride along with us on patrol? Is she a liability or an asset?”

“I can’t answer that. With everything going on, the question should be, can she handle a rifle?”

“Can she?”

Lincoln’s voice crackled over the radio, interrupting the discussion. “This is North Unit. Over. Be advised that we’ve discovered what looks like a campsite around an old well. Cecil confirmed that it looked like someone had been camping at this location for at least several days. But they’ve moved on. Over.”

Trish responded by cautioning them, “This is Base Camp. Don’t touch anything. Maybe we can get DNA from anything he left behind. Over. Wait a second. Something is happening near you. Our suspect is on the move, heading south of your grid and toward the southwestern quadrant where Blake and Brock are. Be on the lookout for our suspect entering your section. Over.”

“This is East Unit. Over. He’s heading toward the main house. We need all eyes on that. Over,” Trent declared, exchanging a tense look with Tate before giving Phoenix free rein to run. “Hiya! Let’s move out,” he said quietly, removing his rifle from its scabbard.

Tate cut her eyes to the rifle and followed Trent’s lead. She flicked the reins, kicking Mermaid into action before sliding out her .22 rifle.

Using the radio, Trent alerted Hawk and Drum. “Get to the main house before us. He’s making a play for the main house.”

“This is Painted Heart. Over. We’re already on it. Over and out,” Hawk replied.

The siblings rode quickly in a westward direction toward home. A three-quarter moon lighted their pathway as they passed through Painted Heart, Hawk and Drum’s grid. The only sounds were the muffled thuds of hooves on the soft earth and the wind whistling through the trees.

Tate’s mind raced with thoughts of their prey. “We should expect him to shoot without warning.”

“Oh yeah. He’s crazy enough to try anything,” Trent retorted, his voice low and steady. “We can’t take any chances.”

Tate tightened her grip on Mermaid’s reins, her pulse quickening. “Stay sharp,” she whispered, her eyes scanning the shadows ahead. The landscape was eerily still, save for the wind flitting through the trees.

Trent’s gaze flicked between the pathway and the surrounding brush as they neared the barn. “He’s got to be close,” he murmured, his knuckles white around the rifle’s stock.

A distant rustling caught Tate’s ear. “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Trent responded, his voice barely audible. He slowed his pace, every sense on high alert. The moon cast long, ghostly shadows, playing tricks on his vision.

Suddenly, a twig snapped to their right, followed by hurried footsteps. Trent slid off Phoenix and signaled for Tate to flank left as he veered right, both moving with the stealth of seasoned trackers.

“Where is he? Over,” Trent hissed through the radio. “Does anyone have eyes on him yet? Over.”

Blake’s voice called out, “Negative. But Brock spotted a pickup turning around at the main gate. Over.”

“Black pickup, no license plate, distinctive front grill,” Trish announced. “Estimated to be a 2000 Dodge Ram seen leaving the property. Theo is in pursuit now. Over.”

“Don’t lose him,” Trent shouted as he rounded a corner of the barn.

A figure darted from the cover of the trees, heading straight toward him, carrying an assault rifle. Trent raised his gun, but before he could fire, the figure let loose with a spray of bullets.

Trent dove for the ground while rounds spit out in rapid fire around him. He heard a blast of gunfire coming from another angle, then footsteps racing back into the woods.

“I think I hit him,” Hawk yelled. “Drum and I are going after him.”

Trent picked himself up off the dirt and looked around for his sister. “Tate, where are you?”

“I’m here,” she called out from the shadows, her blue eyes scanning the area. “Are you hit?”

“No, what about you?”

“I’m fine.” But she heard a groan across the yard and noticed Brock lying on the ground. “Oh, no. Trent, I think one of the bullets must’ve ricocheted off the barn and hit Brock in the arm.”

But Trent was already seeing the trickle of blood running down Brock’s shirt as he rushed to the man’s side to inspect the wound. He picked up the skinny kid and lugged him all the way to the back porch where, a week earlier, they’d been celebrating with Dolly’s special punch. “It’s not bad. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

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