Page 19 of Forest Reed
“Tempting,” I called back. “But I’m really more of a donut-and-coffee girl.”
His eyes chilled. He flicked two fingers.
The masked men lifted rifles.
“Down!” Forest yanked me back behind the log as rounds snapped the air where my head had been. Lane’s rifle cracked from the ridge, Jason’s shout in the background—“Two down, left flank!”
Forest shoved me low, rolling to cover. “You good?”
“Fine,” I panted.
I popped up, fired two clean shots, dropping one mask. Forest swept the other, precise as always. But North didn’t flinch. He just lifted his phone, calm as if he were ordering room service.
Behind us, the woods erupted—two more vans pulling up the access road, doors sliding open. More men, more guns.
“Forest,” Lane’s voice snapped, “we’re getting boxed.”
“Copy,” he growled. His eyes met mine, steady, fierce. “Time to spring the trap.”
I grinned, adrenaline hot in my veins. “Let’s make raccoons out of them.”
He smiled back, sharp and dangerous. “That’s my girl.”
We broke cover together, side by side, running straight toward the lake as bullets lit the night.
14
Forest
The air around Mirror Lake went from still to chaos in half a second. Gunfire shredded bark, splinters snapping into my cheek. Zoe stayed tight at my side, firing steady, no panic—city cop precision. God, she was fearless.
“Left flank!” Lane’s voice cut sharp over comms. Her rifle cracked again from the ridge. Jason’s voice followed, calm as if he were calling chess moves: “Two more vans inbound—east road. You’ve got thirty seconds before you’re trapped.”
“Copy,” I growled.
Zoe ducked as rounds sparked against the rock. “You got a thirty-second miracle in that vest, Mountain Man?”
“Better,” I said, grabbing the net rope we’d hauled from the ravine. We’ll use it again. “Teamwork.”
I sprinted low along the shore, Zoe covering me, bullets stitching the dirt behind my boots. I anchored one end of the net to a half-buried boulder, looped the rope around, and gave the signal.
Zoe popped up, yelled something extremely inappropriate at the nearest masked shooter, and when they surged forward, I yanked.
The net whipped up from the ground like a trapdoor, flipping two men into each other and tangling a third mid-stride. He went down swearing, rifle skittering.
“Raccoon season,” Zoe shouted, grinning like a lunatic.
Lane’s rifle barked approval from the ridge.
But North—North didn’t blink. He stood calm at the far shore, phone still in hand, eyes calculating like this was all part of the show.
“Jason,” Lane snapped, “I don’t have a shot on North. He’s hugging the cover.”
Jason’s voice came back dry. “Then let’s make him move.”
The east-road vans burst into view, headlights cutting beams across the water. Men poured out—too many, too fast.
I shoved Zoe behind the upturned log. “Hold here.”
