Page 13 of Forest Reed
I step right. It’s an inch, a whisper of motion, nothing. It’s also enough.
“Now,” I whisper.
The forest answers with gravity.
The net drops like a hungry mouth, rope and lead swallowing Gray Jacket and his net-gun friend in one greedy gulp. They flail, cursing. The third ghost jumps sideways, stumbles into the rattle can, trips, and kicks it—metal screams, birds explode out of a tree like confetti.
I dive low as the net-gun misfires and tangles its owner’s legs. I may have chuckled. Forest hits the slope in three silent bounds, a shadow with teeth. He hits the drone out of the air with one clean snap of his wrist—it pinwheels, sparks, and dies in the pine needles.
Gray Jacket grabs for his knife. I’m faster. I slam my palm into his wrist, twist, and feel the knife go where knives go whenthey meet the ground at speed. He snarls and drives his shoulder into me. The world flips; bark kisses the side of my face with sandpaper affection, before I drop him.
“Forest,” I hiss into my radio.
“Copy,” Forest says, and there’s something like a smile in it.
The third guy lunges with a taser that crackles blue. I pop the pepper gel and paint his face at arm’s length. He screams, blind, and I kick the taser into the dark with the satisfaction of a woman who has definitely had dirt in her bra today.
Forest hauls the net’s cinch rope, flips the mess, and suddenly Gray Jacket and Friend are upside down, trussed against a pine like misbehaving raccoons. He ties a knot I’ve only ever seen in boats and nightmares. It looks permanent.
I step in close and pat Gray Jacket down one-handed, very professional, very calm. His breath saws, pepper-hot and furious. I pull a phone, a key fob, and a little rubber stamp from his pocket—a pine tree. Of course.
“Cute,” I say, showing him the stamp. “You guys going to do matching tattoos next?”
He spits at my feet. I lean out of the way and smile like I’m the most patient person alive. “Tell your boss his ‘professional courtesy’ needs work.”
There’s a crackle in my ear. Not Forest. The burner in my pocket vibrates again. I put it on speaker and hold it up, because if this man wants an audience, he can have one.
“Detective Brewer,” the voice says, still smooth, a small thread of irritation now woven through it. “You’re not following instructions.”
“Neither are your employees,” I say, and angle the speaker so the trussed raccoons can glare at it. “They forgot to bring flowers.”
A pause. Then: “Mr. North will be displeased.”
There it is. A name. I file it away, underlined, starred, and circled. “K. North?” I ask, casual. “Briar Logistics? Pier Nine? Your coordination game is rusty.”
Gray Jacket’s eyes snap to mine. Fear, quick and bright. He hadn’t expected me to have the ledger. Good.
The voice goes silk again. “You’ve wandered off your trail, Detective. You belong in the city.”
“I disagree,” I say lightly. “The coffee’s better up here.”
Another buzz overhead. Forest’s hand clamps on my arm, firm. “New drone,” he murmurs. “Bigger. Back.”
We melt under the switchback berm as a larger quad hovers in, this one carrying a canister like a soda bottle. It releases from twenty feet, arcs, and lands where I’d been standing with a soft thud and a hiss.
“Gas!” Forest snaps.
We’re already on the move. Mountain rules: don’t run downhill on loose pine needles unless you know where you’ll stop. We run sideways, then up, zigzagging, breath timed, eyes watering as the sweet-sting of CS gas drifts across the trail. The two tied-up men cough and curse like a Greek chorus.
“Detective,” the voice says, calm as a lullaby through the burner. “Last chance. Leave the map on the stump. Walk away.”
“Hard pass,” I say, gagging, and cut left where Forest had shown me the escape line earlier, a deer track you had to know to see. He takes the rear, body between me and the drone, one arm banded around my waist, when the ground goes treacherous and tries to ice-skate me into a ravine.
We burst into a small, protected pocket of trees below the gas line. Wind takes the cloud the other way. I cough until my lungs stop complaining and lean hard into Forest because it’s either that or keel over.
“You good?” he asks, thumb quick at my cheekbone, checking pupils like a medic and a man who cares with the same hand.
“Fine,” I rasp, water falling from my eyes.
