This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(97)

There’s no sign that she understands what he’s saying, but when he says, “You’ll come with me?,” she tilts her head, listening. I put out my hand, and she stares at it.

“Come with us?” I say.

She looks at Dalton. He moves my way, a sidestep, motioning for her.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s your choice. You can come with us or . . .”

He doesn’t say “or not.” He glances at me, and we exchange a look that says that isn’t an option. We want her to come willingly, but what is the alternative? To leave her out here, with her people dead?

There is opportunity here. So many opportunities. For her, to return to what she had been. For Dalton, to exorcise this particular ghost from his past. And yes, for me, to answer my questions about the hostiles. Both Mathias and Cypher have said we need live subjects, and while the very concept has horrified me, Maryanne is the perfect subject—not a lab rat but a woman we can help.

We walk a few steps. Then we motion for her to come with us. She looks about. She sees the men on the ground. Sees the two bodies. Sees the two wounded. Then she nods, and I can’t tell whether it’s acceptance or satisfaction. Whether she sees her comrades fallen through their own mistakes . . . or her captors finally getting their comeuppance. Either way, she nods. And then she follows. One step. Another.

There’s a noise behind us. Kenny or Storm must step in undergrowth, and it crackles beneath their feet. Maryanne wheels. Dalton says “It’s okay. We’re—” and I don’t hear the rest. I see her face. I see her reaction, as pure and unthinking as my own.

There is a noise in the forest. There is a threat.

She catches sight of Jacob and Storm on the path and lets out a howl, barely human. She charges. I’m right behind her as she runs, knife raised. Jacob only yanks the dog back behind him, no panic, knowing he’s fine. He realizes she’s just startled, and he can stop her, or I will, or his brother will, and she is no threat.

Dalton shouts, “Maryanne! It’s okay!”

That’s when she sees Jacob. Sees his face. Sees the resemblance to Dalton and begins skidding to a stop, a few feet from him and—

A shot fires.

For exactly one second, I think it’s Dalton. Then I know it is not. Maryanne may have been running toward his brother with a knife, but Dalton has both a brain and a conscience. He will not shoot until he is absolutely sure his brother is at risk.

“Case—” Dalton begins, and then stops, having the exact same reaction as me. One moment of thinking I am shooting at Maryanne before realizing I am not.

Another shot. A half shout. Then Maryanne spins sideways. I run, and Jacob runs, and I hear Dalton’s strangled cry and the thud of his footsteps.

Another shot. This one whips right past me, and I stop. I see Maryanne. There’s blood. She’s standing against a tree, and there’s blood.

“Mary—” I begin.

She runs. She races into the forest, and I go after her, and there’s a third shot. I feel pain. Then I’m falling.

“Casey!” Jacob yells.

Dalton hits me, and I drop as he’s shouting his brother’s name and I have no idea what the hell is going on, and the next thing I know I am on the ground under Dalton and Jacob is on top of Storm.

I twist, ready to leap up. That’s when Dalton’s eyes round, his mouth forming my name as he grabs my chin. I feel a hot burn, and my fingers rise to my cheek. There’s a bullet graze across my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “It just . . .”

Just grazed me.

Just about killed me.

“Who—?” I begin.

Another shot. This one hits the tree near our heads.

“Kenny?” I say, as I try to twist.

That’s all I can think. It isn’t me shooting. It’s not Dalton. Jacob doesn’t have a gun. So it must be Kenny.

Dalton’s gaze flies to Jacob and Storm. His brother is crouched and pulling Storm along with him, his free hand motioning to us. Behind them is Kenny, hunkered down, gun lowered at his side.

I look up and scan the treetops and . . .

There’s a figure in a tree. A dark figure.

Sniper.

“Off the path!” Dalton shouts. “Get off the path. Into the forest.”

We creep into the undergrowth. Dalton has one hand wrapped in my jacket, not unlike Jacob with Storm. I only need to see Dalton’s face to know not to argue. He tugs me to a clump of bushes, and we crouch behind it, both of us breathing too hard for the minor exertion, both of us fighting panic.

The forest has gone quiet except for the moans of the dying hostiles. The sniper has his—or her—position and is holding it.

I look up into the trees. It’s dense enough over here that I won’t spot someone on a limb. It’s not dense enough, though, that we can just run, certain of cover.

I glance to my right. Jacob has Storm behind a cluster of tall undergrowth. He’s gesturing. Dalton is looking that way now, and they both motion, pantomiming a retreat plan.

I know what I want to do. Tell them to stay where they are while I make my way toward the shooter. Attack the problem.

Stay here, Eric. Stay there, Kenny. Jacob, hold Storm. Be safe. Please, I need you to be safe. Let me handle this.

Let me finish this.

If I even mention that to Dalton, he won’t hold me here by force—he’ll realize this is indeed the correct plan . . . and go to take down the sniper himself.