This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(108)

The sniper fires towards the birds.

I prod Brady forward with “Move!” and “Stay down.”

He does both. I steer him through the clearest patch of forest floor, where we don’t make enough noise to draw the sniper’s attention. The forest has gone silent again. Then there’s a shot, one too loud to be the sniper. A tremendous crash. Brady dives. I grab him by the collar and propel him forward.

“That’s Eric providing cover,” I say.

This time, he’s fired his gun at a dying sapling or dead branch, something that will break and fall, the noise again drawing the sniper’s attention.

I get Brady behind rocks. We’re back in the foothills. There’s no conveniently located cave this time, but we wind through the rocks and tree cover until I see Dalton ahead, flagging me. I arrive to see he’s found a sheltered spot where he’s moved the others.

I spot Storm first. Dalton whispers, “She’s fine. Bullet grazed a hind leg. She can’t run, but she’s fine.”

I crawl to her and rub her neck, and she whines but stays lying down, muzzle on her paws, her gaze on . . .

Her gaze on Kenny.

I see him, and I stifle a gasp. He’s lying on his stomach, his head to the side, eyes closed. Eyes closed, not moving.

As I scramble over, Jacob says, “He’s unconscious, but he’s . . .”

Jacob looks at Dalton.

“Where did he . . . ?” I trail off as I see the answer.

Kenny has been shot in the back. The lower back, the bullet passing through near his spine.

I forget that there’s a sniper out there and a possible killer beside us. That doesn’t matter. Kenny has been shot, and this is not a graze or a bullet passing through soft tissue. This is . . .

I drop beside him. I check his vital signs first. They’re strong enough to suggest he’s only fainted. He isn’t in shock, not from internal bleeding or neurogenic shock—the injury is too low on his back for that.

I peel up his jacket and shirt, as carefully as I can. It’s soaked with blood, front and back, but the bleeding is slow.

I tend to the injury as best I can while Dalton stands guard. It’s quiet out there. Our sniper seems to have a remarkably short attention span. He—or she—is not the trained professional we first thought. With the exception of Kenny, everyone has suffered only minor injuries. Given Kenny, though, the intent does seem lethal. The sniper just doesn’t have the skills to pull it off without a perfect target. The wild shots support that theory, as does the fact that it’s been easy to draw his fire.

This is still someone who knows distance shooting—knows how to find a good perch and hit a clear target. That’s more than I could manage with a rifle, but it’s no better than Dalton or Jacob could do, with their hunting experience.

As for the sniper’s intentions, I have no idea. Initially, Brady seemed to be the target. But he hasn’t actually hit Brady. Nor has he fired only at those standing nearby. By this point, I’m almost wondering if the sniper is a completely separate situation—that we have a settler with a rifle who’s decided to kill himself some Rockton residents. Because that’s just what we need.

We must get help for Kenny. The best plan seems to be to leave Jacob and Storm with the remainder of our supplies and a sidearm. Both Dalton and I must take Brady back to Rockton, to guard each other from the sniper. That’s not even considering the fact that we have settlers hunting for Wallace, who’d be quite happy to vent their outrage on us.

And then there’s Wallace himself. Could he be the real serial killer? At this point, I’m beyond guessing. If someone lined Brady and Wallace up and told me I had to pick which one to shoot, I might as well make them play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets the bullet.

With no knowledge of the crimes, no evidence to consider, no way of getting any evidence swiftly, it comes down to “Which man do I believe?” And the answer right now is neither.

Dalton and I scale the mountain partway to get a better look at our situation. We’ve climbed about a hundred meters up when a voice drifts over from the forest. A voice that has me thinking I’m clearly hallucinating, because it makes no sense in this context.

“Is that . . . ?” Dalton looks over at me. “Diana?”

She stops talking, and a man answers. I hear him speak, and I grin.

“Will,” I say. “They’re out searching—”

Oh, shit. Anders and Diana are out searching for us. In the forest. With a sniper and Wallace nearby. And some really pissed-off settlers. If we can hear Diana and Will, then others will, too.





58





“I’m going to go to them,” I say. “Can you cover me?”

Dalton nods.

I slide down the mountainside as Dalton positions himself, gun ready. I reach the bottom and scamper from one point of cover to the next. I hear Anders again, but his voice is muffled now that I’m on ground level, and I can tell he’s farther away than I thought.

I turn and see Dalton shielding his eyes, watching me. I pantomime that they’re at least a kilometer away, and he motions that he’ll stand guard for as long as he can see me. I’m zipping past the others, quietly calling to Jacob that I hear Anders . . . when Brady lurches out.

“I am not staying out here,” Brady says. “If you’re on the move, so am I.”