Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(109)

“Is there more of that drug in there?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.” She reaches into the hollow tree, up to her shoulder. She removes a rucksack and ammo, a field knife, a rifle and scope. She points at the rifle. “Never used. I’m hoping Val confessed to being your sniper.”

“She did.”

But the council knew this was here. That Petra had access to a rifle. Yet they brushed off my concern. When I ask Petra if anyone contacted her to see if she might have done it, she says no. So they knew it could have been her, trying to take down Brady, and they didn’t care.

“That’s it,” she says when she’s finished emptying the cache. She starts going through the rucksack. “I’ve emptied this before, and I didn’t see a vial.”

As she checks the rucksack, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s fast, and that has me moving equally fast, spinning, gun coming from my holster.

Petra snaps up onto her feet, her gaze following mine. When she sees nothing, she doesn’t ask what I spotted, she just keeps looking.

The forest has gone still.

Petra looks at me. I’m still gazing about, seeing her only in the corner of my eye. She drops and reaches for the gun. I do look then. She’s on one knee, still scanning the trees, her hand reaching blindly to where she’d laid the weapon.

Another flash of movement. This one’s to my left, and I was sure the other came from my right. I lower my hand and extend out two fingers. Telling Petra I spotted two potential threats. Ammo rattles. Petra’s gun clicks as she opens it.

A figure runs at me from the right, on the other side of the fallen log. I spin, my gun pointed. The man keeps running. One look at mud-spiked hair and a mud-smeared face and a makeshift knife, and I know it’s a hostile.





FORTY-FOUR

“What the hell?” Petra whispers.

I fire a warning shot over the man’s head. He doesn’t even slow.

“Stop!” I say.

He doesn’t care. I know he won’t, but I have to say it. I have to hope it’ll make a difference. Thick bush slows his headlong charge. I leap onto the fallen log, and when he’s close enough, I kick. My foot connects with his gut. He staggers back. I manage to keep my balance as pain stabs through my bad leg.

A scream sounds behind me. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Petra’s handling that. She is. She has her gun loaded, and she’s braced, waiting.

My hostile charges again. I kick again, hard enough that I know my foot is doing some damage. He only howls and comes back for a third kick. That one puts him down.

I leap on him before he can bounce up, which I know he will, no matter how badly he’s hurt. I knock the knife from his hand, and as I pin him, a shot sounds behind me.

“Don’t shoot—” I begin, but obviously it’s too late.

One shot. That’s all it took. One shot from a professional. The other hostile is already down, and I can see it’s a woman and my heart goes cold. Then I notice her dark blond hair and exhale in relief. It’s not Maryanne.

The man beneath me bucks. I flip and pin him, but he doesn’t care. Just like . . .

Just like Roy.

I inhale sharply, and it’s not just because this man’s actions remind me of Roy. He reminds me of Roy. When he’d charged, I’d had a split-second flash of memory, too quick for me to pursue under the circumstances. The spiked hair, obviously, looks like Roy’s. But it was more than that. It was his face, his expression, blind rage. Now the man reacts as Roy did, writhing and howling, and twisting his arm has no effect. It’s like when I hit him in the stomach. He doesn’t care. There’s no handy sedative here. I don’t have my cuffs, either.

I can hit him on the head, but that’s as likely to do brain damage as it is to knock him out. I’m wrestling with him, and Petra’s there, shouting for him to stop, pressing her gun right to his head.

“Goddamn you, stop!” she says. “What the hell is he on? He . . .”

She trails off, and she meets my gaze, and I know she’s thinking exactly what I just did.

What is he on?

What indeed.

“Shoot him.”

At first, I think that’s Petra talking. It’s a woman’s voice. The words make no sense, though, considering she’s the one holding the gun. I think maybe it’s a question. Then I look up to see her gaze fixed to the side as a woman steps through the trees.

It’s Maryanne. She holds a knife and as she approaches, she bends to pick up our attacker’s blade. Petra makes a move to stop her.

“Don’t,” I say to Petra. “She’s okay.”

Maryanne pockets the second knife. She comes closer, and she’s shaking, her own blade trembling in her grip.

“Shoot him,” she whispers.

I shake my head. “We’re going to try to help him.”

Even as I say the words, I think “We are?” Is that even possible? Is it wise? But what is the alternative? He isn’t going to let us walk away. That’s what Maryanne means. We can’t scare him off. We can’t injure him and hope he slinks away to nurse his wounds. The guy beneath me is like a killing-machine movie cyborg. He’ll just keep coming. He isn’t a cyborg, though. He’s a person, and we cannot keep killing hostiles every time they attack us.