Page 17 of The Foreman
Macy leaned close. "Tell me this is the part where the cavalry shows up."
"I am the cavalry." Trace’s voice was low and lethal as he leveled the rifle and fired.
The shot cracked through the silence, clean and precise. One merc dropped like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the ground without a sound. The second spun and bolted into the brush.
Trace didn’t hesitate. He surged up from cover, yanked Macy's wrist with a commanding grip, and pulled her with him in a low sprint toward the barn, boots pounding the dirt, adrenaline screaming through every nerve. This was his ground, his rules, and nobody touched what was his and walked away.
"Safe house?" she asked.
"Too exposed. We hold here, push them back, then move."
They ducked into the barn, Trace slamming the heavy doors shut behind them and sliding the iron bolt with a sharp, metallic scrape. His eyes swept the shadowed corners of the barn, nostrils flaring, muscles tight as a coiled spring.
He jerked his chin toward the far wall, voice low and edged with steel. "There. Get there now. If they get through, don't flinch, don't ask questions. Raise your weapon and aim center mass. Take the shot. You hear me?"
Macy nodded, eyes wide but steady, her posture tense with readiness as she moved into position—a stance she had drilled a hundred times. Feet set. Front sight sharp. Slow press, not a slap. Breath in, breath out, hold. The shape of fear shifted into steps she knew by heart. Trace’s gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than necessary, his mind calculating angles, distances, cover, every variable that could mean the difference between walking out of here or bleeding out in the straw.
Macy nodded, jaw set. "Got it."
A thud hit the ground outside, heavy and deliberate. Another followed, closer this time. Footsteps circled the barn, soft but unmistakable—calculated, predatory. Then the sharp crack of suppressed fire shattered the tension, and splinters exploded from the wooden wall behind them, spraying shards into the air like shrapnel. The building groaned under the impact, the old boards quivering with the force of the shot.
"Shooter," Trace muttered.
He dropped flat to the ground, shoulder hitting hard-packed dirt as he rolled into the far stall. The butt of the rifle bit into his shoulder as he snapped off a return shot, the crack echoing through the barn like a whip. His pulse thundered, not just from the rush of incoming fire, but from the gut-twisting realization that Macy was in the middle of this war zone because he had failed to keep her out of the line of fire. That every bullet slicing through the air had her name on it, too. The weight of responsibility settled heavy across his chest, colder and sharper than fear, fueling the precision in his aim and the fury in his breath.
More footsteps shuffled in the dirt, urgent and staggered. Two bodies moving fast on the east side. One shadow peeled off, flanking to the rear. Trace shifted position, adjusting his aim with the smooth precision of a seasoned shooter. His pulse hammered as he aligned the crosshairs. He drew in a controlled breath, the pressure of the trigger familiar beneath his fingertip. Fired. The rifle kicked back hard into his shoulder. A strangled cry tore through the air as the target crumpled, lifeless in the underbrush.
Suddenly, a sharp glint caught Trace’s eye, a quick flare of light high in the treeline that didn’t belong. His instincts flared, muscles tightening, and he pivoted on pure reflex, rifle lifting. What he hadn’t realized was how exposed he stood beside the narrow gap in the barn wall.
Macy saw it—the sniper’s aim lining up through that sliver of daylight. In a blur of motion, she launched toward him.
"Trace!"
She slammed into him just as the rifle cracked. The force of her body drove them to the ground, the bullet slicing the air where his head had been and thudding into the beam above. They hit hard, limbs colliding, Macy’s body sprawled across his, her weight warm and trembling. Her breath tore out in ragged gasps, heart hammering against his chest. Her fingers dug into his shirt like anchors, and her eyes, wide and unblinking, locked with his as the world narrowed to just them, danger buzzing at the edges.
"You okay?" she panted.
He rolled them, shielding her with his body. "You just took on a sniper for me."
"I prefer not to date dead guys."
Trace kissed her.
The taste of adrenaline slid into a colder truth. He had promised himself no more women in his line of fire, no more names to write on his bones. Yet here she was, breath warm against his mouth, and he already knew that losing her would end him quicker than any bullet.
He didn’t think. The instant her body collided with his—hot, frantic, alive—something primal snapped the leash. Her breath was still ragged against his chest, her fingers curled in his shirt, and he could feel the tremble running through her frame, matching the thunder in his veins. He claimed her mouth with a hunger sharpened by fear, fury, and the flashfire of almost losing her.
His hand slid into her hair, fisting the strands, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss. Her lips parted on a gasp that he devoured, tongue sliding against hers in a raw, possessive sweep that left no room for doubt.Relief. Fury.Gratitude. Lust. She kissed him back with equal heat, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. Her hips shifted beneath him, instinctively seeking friction, and a low growl rumbled in his chest.
This wasn’t just a kiss. It was a stake. A brand. A promise made between pounding hearts in the middle of a war zone. He tasted adrenaline, desperation, and something darkly sweet that made him want to throw her over his shoulder and carry her somewhere the bullets couldn’t reach.
But they were still in it. Still hunted. Another shot cracked through the rafters, driving Trace to pull away with a growl caught between frustration and desperation. He dragged a hand down his face. He had to think, and fast.
The moment her body had hit his, shielding him with reckless courage, something inside him had cracked open. The heat of her, the fearless thrum of her heartbeat against his chest, her scent replaced by the grit and closeness of battle—it was too much. She'd saved his life. That truth lodged in his chest like shrapnel, sharp and undeniable. For a man like him, trust was rare.
"Time to go," he growled.
"Ya think?" she asked sarcastically.
