This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(98)

So when he taps my shoulder and nods to our next point of cover, I force myself to creep to that spot.

We reach it, and we make sure Kenny, Jacob, and Storm reach theirs.

Then we set out for the next point of cover. And the next. Each takes us deeper into the forest. Farther from the path. Farther from the sniper and the groans of the dying.

There is no sound except those moans. One turns to soft sobs. I hear a woman’s name choked in those sobs, and I think of the men we are trying so hard not to think about. The dying hostiles. Just hostiles. That’s what I want to think. Not people. Not men who may have been no different from Maryanne once upon a time, no less deserving of mercy and salvation.

The dying man keeps saying the name, over and over. A wife? Lover? Child? Sister? Someone he remembers in his final moments. Someone he calls for. And then there is a shot, and the crying stops.

The crying stops, and the other man lets out a string of unintelligible babble. The crunch of undergrowth. A thump, as if he’s rising, and that babble keeps coming. He’s begging for his life. Begging someone who is not in a distant tree but standing right over him and—

Another shot. Silence.

I hear a click beside me and turn to see Dalton topping up his gun. I do the same with mine after he’s finished, and I can see that makes him nervous—he doesn’t want my weapon unusable even for a second. When I finish, he nods, and I lean against him for a moment of comfort. Then I look out again.

I can see nothing. No one. Instead I listen, and I catch the telltale crinkle of dead foliage under a careful foot. It is off to our left, the sniper attempting to circle wide and surprise us that way.

Dalton taps my shoulder. He points as his brother does the same, both of them indicating rocks to our right. The foothills. Dalton nods. Then Jacob motions that we are to go, and he will stay. In explanation, he gestures at his side, where I know Storm lies.

He cannot run with her. We can’t tell her to be quiet or careful, and if she runs with him, they will be spotted.

Dalton swallows hard. I squeeze my eyes shut and make a choice. A choice I know I have to make even if every fiber in me screams against it. Even if this might be the one thing I do that I will never forgive myself for. If I am a good person, if I love Dalton, if I care for his brother, then I must make a monstrous suggestion.

“He should let her go,” I whisper in his ear.

Dalton’s gaze swings to mine.

I force the words out. “Tell him to drop the leash and run, and she’ll follow but . . .”

But she won’t be right at his side. She will be ahead or behind and that makes her a target, and I can hope to God the sniper decides not to bother with a dog, but this . . . This is what I must suggest, isn’t it? I cannot risk Jacob’s life to save my dog.

Dalton shakes his head. I shake mine harder, giving him a look that tells him I will not back down. His jaw sets. Then he motions for Jacob to drop the leash. Even from here, I see Jacob’s face screw up, like he must be misunderstanding.

Dalton motions more forcibly, and Jacob looks at me.

I nod, and mouth, Please.

He slowly and carefully lays down the lead, watching us for any sign that he has misunderstood. Once the leash is on the ground, Dalton gestures for Jacob to run into the rocky foothills. One final moment of hesitation, and a glance at Storm. Then Jacob runs.

Kenny takes off behind Jacob, and Dalton gives me a shove, making me go before I can even see what Storm does. When I also hesitate, he pushes harder, and I take a deep breath, and then I run.

I run as fast as I can, veering away from Jacob and Kenny so we separate, giving multiple targets, multiple sources of noise and movement. And I do not look at Storm. I do not try to see where she is and what she’s doing.

I have never prayed in my life, but at that moment, I send one up. Wherever the sniper is, let him realize what he sees is a fleeing dog, and there is no point in wasting precious ammo on it.

I run, and I know Dalton follows, but his footsteps fade fast as he heads in another direction. He must, same as I did with Jacob and Kenny.

Dalton has run to my left, which I don’t like. It takes him closer to the sniper’s likely location. But there’s nothing I can do except curse him—

A whistle. A bark.

No. Fuck, no. Eric. Tell me you are not . . .

Of course he is. Of course he will, and I’m a fool if I thought otherwise.

Another whistle. Calling Storm to him as he runs. I glance over to see him bend in midstride and grab her leash and then run with her at his side, with all the noise an eighty-pound Newfoundland makes running through the forest.

You fool. You goddamned fool.

That’s what we are, isn’t it? We are those vampires who cannot continue until we have picked up every grain of rice. The shepherds who cannot ignore a sheep in danger. The law keepers who cannot shoot to kill if there is room for mercy. The humans who cannot put their dog at risk, cannot let their lover suffer the loss of her pet.

No matter what the cost to ourselves, we keep making these damn mistakes, and we know they are errors in judgment, but we truly are no more able to stop ourselves than those vampires of lore. Compelled to help, to protect, to save.

It is weakness. I know it is weakness. I hate that weakness. But I know we won’t overcome it, no matter how many times we are shown that it’s a mistake.

We keep running, and I try not to think about Storm being with Dalton, Storm endangering Dalton. Try, try, try . . .