Page 23 of Guarded from Havoc

The further we travel, the more Tatum impresses me. Not just by her bravery, which is pretty damn incredible considering the situation, but by how naturally she moves through the forest. I’ve been trained to walk without making any noise, and intuitively, Tatum does the same—with careful steps and an alertawareness of anything that might give us away, like the cluster of dried branches that she neatly sidesteps and a scattering of loose stones she avoids with a quick hop across them.

If things were different, I could almost imagine hiking with her. Tackling one of the High Peaks together, helping her up some of the more challenging rock faces, silently admiring the beauty of the mountains and lakes in the distance…

Though I’ve viewed hiking as a solitary activity ever since my dad died, I think I’d like going into the mountains with Tatum. I don’t think I’d mind the company, if it was her.

“Erik.”Tatum yanks on my hand, pulling me to an abrupt stop. Urgency laces her voice.

I freeze. “What?”

“I think I see something.” She tilts her chin to the left. “Just behind that tree. Do you see it? Something… orange?”

Following her gaze, I see it. Just a spot of color that doesn’t belong. Bright, almost fluorescent orange, nearly hidden behind a large pine.

Immediately, I scan the trees, searching for another camera.

And there.

I must be getting better at spotting them, because this one I notice after only a few seconds. Twenty feet from the spot of orange, its glaring red light ominously watching.

Waiting for us? Or has it already captured its victim?

Indecision tugs at me, pulling me in two directions. In one, I investigate the orange spot. Get closer to find out if it’s part of a trap or human remains, as I fear. In the other, I keep Tatum as far away from it as possible.

“We need to see,” she whispers. “Just… if we get a little closer…”

From the death-grip on my hand, I know she doesn’t want to. And honestly, neither do I.

But knowing means being better prepared. And better prepared means a better chance of survival.

So I push Tatum behind me again, waiting to feel the tension on the back of my waistband. Then I slowly approach the bit of orange, bracing myself for whatever bad news it brings.

Because no, I’m not foolish enough to think it could be anything but bad. Not out here.

Less than thirty seconds later, my fears are confirmed.

The orange is from a man’s sneaker. A sneaker still attached to his foot. And the man…

Tatum peers around me, stiffening as she sees it.

Not it. Him.

A moment later, she buries her face in my back. Her muffled breaths come hot and fast against my shirt.

Fuck.

I wish I’d told her to keep her eyes shut. But stupid me; I wasn’t thinking.

I didn’t think far enough ahead to consider the condition of the man in front of us.

The man who’s laying in a pool of blood, a large spear sticking out of his chest.

The man—maybe thirty or so—with his face forever frozen in a mask of agony, his eyes blank and unseeing as he stares up at the small patches of sky overhead.

Fuck.

Fuck.

An itchy feeling comes over me; similar to how I’d feel when we were on an op and I justknewsomething was wrong.

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