Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(88)

Dalton says something I don’t catch, his voice muffled, as if he’s under the vehicle.

The woman laughs. “All right. I won’t give you a hard time. But at least let me drive you into cell range, and you can call someone yourself.”

There’s silence as I creep closer. I pass the SUV, and I glance at it, but I can’t see through the tinted glass. I do have a sightline to Dalton’s truck. The flat is on this side, and the woman stands by the passenger door. Dalton is indeed bent on one knee. He’s rising slowly, gaze on the woman, and I’m close enough to see his expression. It looks calm, blank even, but there’s a slight squint that I know well. He’s realized this woman is pushing the good samaritan routine too hard, and he’s wondering what the hell she’s up to.

I’ve given Dalton shit for being overly protective, but I can do the same. Yes, he lacks experience when it comes to the real world, but that’s no reason to presume he’s going to blithely stumble into this trap. He’s cautious by nature. Very, very cautious, and also very aware of his lack of experience out here.

It’s true that he’ll be struggling to fix a truck tire, but he’ll figure it out, being our main mechanic for the plane and ATV. If he can’t, he’d rather walk an hour to get cell service than hop into a stranger’s SUV in the middle of nowhere. Now that’s he’s suspicious, his guard rises as he gets to his feet.

“I appreciate the offer,” he says. “But I’m fine, and I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“Not really,” she says with a chuckle. “And I do hate leaving anyone stranded on this road. Stop being stubborn. We all need a helping hand now and then. If you feel guilty, you can buy me a coffee.”

Dalton answers, but I don’t catch it. Instead, I’ve caught something else—a flicker of movement behind the truck. I don’t even have time to wonder what I’m seeing before the woman’s partner swings around the rear bumper. Dalton wheels, but too late. A fist slams into Dalton’s jaw.

Dalton reels, and I’m running, crashing through the trees. No one even hears me. The guy has grabbed Dalton by the collar and yanked him upright. Dalton stiffens, and I know something’s being pressed into his back. I skid to a halt. I don’t think I breathe until I see the knife in the man’s hand, and I exhale.

Yes, a knife is dangerous, but it’s not a gun.

I still stay where I am, breathing hard, watching and resisting the urge to break through the last few meters of forest between us. Startle them, and that blade will slam into Dalton’s back.

“My wallet is in the truck,” Dalton says, his voice calm. “It’s in the console. There’s five hundred bucks in it.”

“We’re looking for a bigger payoff than that,” the man says. “We want the money we were promised.”

From my angle, I see the woman’s mouth set. She doesn’t appreciate her partner jumping in. Before she can speak, Dalton’s face screws up and he says, “Promised? From me? You’ve got the wrong guy if you think—”

“You’re the pilot of that Super Cub that comes in from the bush every couple of months,” the man says. “Don’t pretend you’re not. We—”

The woman cuts him off. “Last Thursday, you flew in. My partner here flew our client out. That client hasn’t been seen since.”

“And he owes us money,” the man adds.

The woman’s jaw flexes, and she shoots her partner a look, telling him to shut up.

“What the hell does that have to do with me?” Dalton says.

“You tell us,” the man says.

“You do realize I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, right?” Dalton says.

Dalton keeps talking, but all I see is the man’s arm draw back, knife clenched. Then it slams toward Dalton’s shoulder.

“Eric!” I shout.

The knife hits, but Dalton is already in motion, spinning away from the blade. Blood drops fly as I run.

Dalton’s fist hits the man’s arm. The knife goes flying. Dalton hits him again, this time in the jaw. The man sails off his feet. Then the woman is on Dalton. She grabs the back of his shirt, battering at him. He turns, and she falls back, and he hits her. She comes at him again, and he punches. She’s a good six inches shorter than him, and the blow strikes the side of her head. She flies into the back of the truck, her head cracking against it. Then she slides to the ground.

The man has recovered. He runs for the knife, but I’m already there. I put my foot on it. He looks like he’s ready to tackle me, but Dalton is barreling toward him, and the man changes his mind. He veers to the side and runs. Dalton starts after him, but he turns too fast and slips on the dirt. By the time he finds his footing, the guy has too much of a head start.

I grab the knife and run to the unconscious woman to get her keys. “He’s got a pickup around the corner. That’s where he’s going. I need her keys . . .” Her pockets are empty. “Damn it. Where—?”

Dalton slaps keys into my hand. I don’t take time to wonder how he got them. I’m on my feet and running for her SUV. Then he calls, “They aren’t for that. They’re for this.”

He points to the truck’s tailgate. Inside, I see a dirt bike.

“Where did that—?” I begin.