This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(41)

Before we go, Dalton changes his mind about bringing Anders. That would leave Rockton exposed. The fire was a distraction, and Dalton failed to see that, so now he’s madly spinning out all the possibilities we might be missing. One is that Brady expects we’ll do exactly this—gather our law enforcement and troop into the forest, leaving the town with a guard or two on fire cleanup. He could take more hostages, steal an ATV, even try to steal the plane.

I explain the situation to Anders, Sam, and Nicole as we walk. Then Anders runs back to town, where he’ll have the remains of the militia guard the vehicles and patrol the town while citizens handle the fire fallout.

We move at a brisk walk. Val will be alone in the forest, which she has not set foot in since she was attacked here shortly after she arrived. Now she’s about to be abandoned in these woods after being marched in at gunpoint. I cannot imagine what that will be like. Nicole can. She’s moving faster than any of us, and Dalton has to call her back, saying, “If Brady thinks we didn’t give him an hour, that gives him an excuse.”

An excuse to kill Val.

We’re approaching the final curve when Dalton’s gait catches. A split-second hesitation as his chin lifts and his nostrils flare, finding some scent in the breeze.

“Eric?” I say as I come up beside him.

His nostrils flare again. His gaze fixes on the path, and when Sam whispers, “What’s the plan?,” Dalton doesn’t seem to hear him.

“You two stay here,” I whisper to Sam and Nicole.

I slant a look at Dalton, giving him the chance to contradict the order. He just keeps moving, his gaze fixed on that corner.

“Guns out,” I whisper to the other two. “Watch the forest. Do not fire.”

I jog to catch up with Dalton. He’s rounding that final curve to the place where we should find Val—

The breeze hits, bringing with it the unmistakable coppery smell of blood.

I cover Dalton. He doesn’t have his gun out. His arm isn’t good enough for that. Instead, he reaches his right hand into his pocket for his knife.

I have my gun ready as we continue around the curve . . .

There’s something on the path. Dalton stops short, but he doesn’t look at the object. He’s scanning the forest. I give the object one quick glance, and then pull my gaze away after I’m sure it’s not a person.

As I survey the forest, though, I recall the image. A bloodied heap. Something brown.

What was Val wearing?

It’s too small to be her body. Too small to be her entire body.

I don’t pursue that thought.

I know why Dalton is ignoring the heap—he can’t be distracted from a potential trap. But the unknown pounds at my head, my mouth going dry, and all I can think about is Val agreeing to be our spy with Brady.

And me letting her, despite Dalton’s reservations.

So I look. I suck in breath. Dalton tenses, shoulder blades snapping together under his T-shirt.

“It’s not Val,” I say quickly.

His gaze drops then. And he lets out a quiet oath.

It is a dog.

No, it’s a puppy.

On the path lies what looks like a shepherd puppy, with brown speckles on its muzzle. As soon as I see those, I remember the wolf-dog, the nursing mother.

The cub is dead.

Slaughtered and left on the path.

I pull my gaze from the cub and wrap both hands around my gun. Dalton steps over the tiny corpse.

I lift my foot to follow. Then I stop. Eyes on my surroundings, I crouch and lay my fingertips against the side of the cub’s neck.

Still warm.

I hurry to catch up with Dalton, continuing around the curve and—

He stops and lets out a string of curses under his breath.

There is another heap on the path.

We don’t stop for a better look. I see bloods and entrails, and my stomach churns. I’ve seen plenty of dead animals up here, often in worse shape, half devoured and rotting, but this is not a predator’s kill. These cubs have been planted—a trap that Dalton and I are expected to fall for because we have a dog of our own. So we will see these poor dead cubs and stop, and then—

A whimper sounds in the bushes, and Dalton lets out another curse, this one softer, almost an exhalation.

Fuck, no . . .

What will be worse than seeing dead wolf-dog cubs in the path?

Seeing one that is not yet dead.





24





We take a step. Then the sound comes again, that deep-throated whine, from the brush beside the path.

Dalton glances back at me. It’s the briefest of glances, no more than a flicker of eye contact.

We should keep going. We’re suckers if we don’t, playing right into the trap Brady has set. A third cub has been left alive, horribly injured, as the cruelest of taunts. Punishment for the fact that we are not monsters.

Can you walk by this dying dog? You know you should. It’s a wild thing, a feral beast. But I saw how you left the wolf-dog alone. I heard you say that she must have pups nearby. Heard the relief in your voices when she didn’t attack, an excuse to let her live.

Suckers.

I’ll leave Val by that spot where the sheriff got shot. You know the one. Just go there, and you’ll find her.

The cub whines again.

“Fuck.”