Page 14 of Forest Reed
We circle behind the switchback, flanking the drop zone. The big drone hangs for a beat, uncertain, trying to find us. That’s its mistake. Forest lifts a weighted line, swings it once, and snags a rotor. The drone wobbles, overcorrects, and kisses a fir with enough enthusiasm to fall in love and then to the ground. Sparks. Silence.
We move fast before whoever’s on overwatch decides to stop playing with toys and try bullets. At the stump where the voice told me to leave the map, Forest lifts the lid on a shallow cache. Inside: a manifest sheet laminated against the weather, three burner SIMs in a rubber band, and a bright-blue wristband like the kind you get at a festival.
I slide the manifest out. The column headers are lies—“Syrup,” “Kegs,” “Dry Goods”—but the route codes hum like the truth. P9 → TL → SB2 → DS → ML. Pier 9 to Timberline to Switchback 2 to Devil’s Stair to… “Mirror Lake,” I breathe.
Forest points to the time column: blocks of midnight run every other night for the next ten days. Besides tomorrow’s:DROP: 0200 / HAND: N.
“North,” I say softly. “He’s coming himself.”
“Or he wants us to think he is,” Forest says. He slides the SIMs into a pouch, tucks the wristband away. “Either way, we’re not letting this go.”
A twig snaps behind us. Not loud. Not close. Enough to remind me we’re not in a vacuum.
“Showtime’s over,” Forest murmurs. “Hug the trees. We peel low and loop to the truck.”
I nod. “And the raccoons?”
“Sheriff can pick them up off the hook. I texted the coordinates on a Blink app before we came in.”
“You and your mountain apps.”
“Don’t knock what keeps you from explaining nets to Internal Affairs.”
We move. The gas has thinned. The stars feel closer. My eyes stop burning enough to see the cut of Forest’s jaw when he smiles without meaning to, adrenaline and relief tripping over each other.
“You realize,” I whisper as we slide into the trees, “you owe me dinner times seven for tonight.”
“Seven?” he murmurs.
“Net. Drone. Net again. Gas. Taser. Raccoon handling fee. And more I’ll remember later.”
He squeezes my hand once, quick and hidden. “Deal.”
The burner buzzes one more time in my pocket. I don’t look. Forest does. The screen glows with a new message—short, sharp.
SEE YOU AT THE WATER.
—N
I tuck the phone away and square my shoulders against the cold. “Good,” I say, voice steady. “Because I’ve got questions.”
“And I,” Forest says, low and certain, “have answers he’s not going to like.”
10
Forest
We made it back to the cabin at 3 a.m., both of us smelling like smoke, pine, and bad decisions. Zoe collapsed onto the couch with a groan, boots thudding onto the floor. She looked like hell—eyes red from gas, hair full of burrs, flannel streaked with dirt—and I couldn’t stop looking at her like she was the best damn sight on the mountain.
“I amnevereating sauerkraut again,” she muttered, tossing her hood aside. “It’s cursed.”
I leaned against the counter, pouring water into two mugs because coffee would have been an insult at that hour. “You held your own.”
“Please,” she said, holding the mug like it was holy. “Iownedthat ravine. If there was an Olympic sport for fighting crime while covered in dirt and screaming at men in masks, I’d medal.”
“Gold,” I said without hesitation.
Her eyes flicked up, catching mine. “You’re biased.”
