Anders’s hand hits me square between the shoulder blades. Even as I fall, I look up to see Dalton spinning toward me. That’s his first reaction. Not to drop, damn him, but to make sure Jacob and I are. Both of us are dropping, and I’m shouting “Eric, get down!” but he’s already doing that. Then he sees that one person hasn’t moved.

Brady.

Our sudden movement threw him into defensive mode, his hands rising as if to ward us off.

“Oliver, get—!” I shout.

Dalton lunges at Brady just as I see the distant muzzle flare. I shout “No!” and I’m scrambling up, as Dalton knocks Brady out of the way. Then blood. I see blood.

Anders grabs my leg, but I yank away and lurch, bent over, toward Dalton, as I shout, “In the woods! Roll into the woods!” Anders echoes it with his trained-soldier bark, and Brady, Nicole, and Jacob crawl off the path.

Dalton doesn’t move.

He’s on the ground. And there’s blood. That’s all I register. Dalton is on the ground, and there is blood.

Even when I see him rising, I think I’m imagining it. My brain has already seized on the worst possible scenario and refuses to let go.

“Down!” Anders says. “Both of you! Now!”

I’m close enough to grab Dalton, and then Anders is there, and we both get him off the path as Dalton says, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

There are no more shots. When Jacob tries to rise, though, Anders says, “Stay down! It’s a sniper.”

Jacob stares at him, uncomprehending.

“There’s a shooter in the trees,” I say. “Get off the path. We have Eric.”

“I’m fine, Jacob,” Dalton calls. “He winged me. That’s all.”

Which is a slight exaggeration. Dalton has been shot in the upper arm. A small-caliber bullet passed through what I hope is just muscle. It should be, but blood streams from the entry and exit holes, and I’m still fighting the panic that insists that it’s more serious.

When I prod Dalton into thicker brush, he doesn’t argue. I get my belt and shirt off and fashion a padded tourniquet around his arm.

“It’s fine,” he says. “We need to—”

“I know.”

Anders motions. I peek around a bush and see what he’s trying to show me—that the sniper’s perch is empty.

“Go on,” Dalton says. “You and Will.”

I hesitate. I’d rather have Anders stay to properly assess him, but Dalton’s stable and our shooter is on the move. He squeezes my fingers with his good hand and says, “Be careful.”

“I’m not the one leaping in to save serial killers.”

“Yeah, didn’t think that one through. He’d better appreciate it.”

I shake my head. Oliver Brady will consider rescue no less than his due. While Dalton can say he didn’t think it through, I’m not sure that would have mattered. Brady is under his protection. Dalton isn’t going to stand by and watch him die.

Anders and I slip from bush to tree to whatever will hide our approach. Every few moments, we stop to listen. There’s nothing to hear, just the usual noise of the forest.

When we’re about halfway to the tree, I pop up enough to scan our surroundings. Anders does the same. A shake of his head says he sees nothing either. When I frown, he jerks his chin, asking what’s bugging me. The calm suggests our shooter has retreated, but I’d have expected to hear that—in the thump of a foot on hard ground, the crackle of undergrowth, the cry of a startled bird.

Our sniper hasn’t beat a hasty retreat, crashing through the forest. Has he retreated at all? I whisper that possibility to Anders, and he nods, his gaze shifting to where we left the others. As much as we want to go back and warn them, Dalton will keep them safely hidden until we say the coast is clear.

We continue on, step by careful step. Listen. Step. Look. Step. Feel. Yes, that last one seems strange, especially if I admit I’m trying to catch a sense of someone nearby. Out here, I’ve learned not to be too quick to dismiss the raised hairs on my neck, the sense that I am not alone.

Dalton is the most pragmatic person I know, but he’d also be the first to tell me to pay attention to my sixth sense. He puts it into a context his brain understands—humans are both predator and prey out here, and so logically we might have something that is not quite premonition, but rather an awareness of another presence. Maybe it’s vibrations underfoot or a scent in the air or a sound too soft to be identified.

I detect none of that.

We reach the tree and circle it, guarding each other while scanning the forest.

“Gone,” Anders whispers.

I process the scene, but there’s nothing to find. Not even a fiber trapped in the bark where he climbed. I shimmy onto that limb and find nothing. Then, as I’m climbing down, I catch the glint of metal in the undergrowth.

“Will . . .” I say carefully.

He’s been circling the tree, searching. Now he halts, one foot still raised.

“Stay right where you are,” I say.

“Can I put my foot down?”

“Very carefully.”

He does that as I say, “There’s something metallic on the ground to your left.”

“Bear trap?”

“Not unless they come in long, barrel-shaped form.”

“Shit. There’s a gun pointed right at me, isn’t there?”

“Yep.”

“Of course there is.” He curses some more. “Okay, if it’s a trap, you’re looking for a trigger. Presumably it would be tripped from the direction the gun is aimed. It could be a pressure plate under the soil.”

“I don’t see any soil disturbance around you.”

“Good start.”

I crawl out on the tree branch over him to conduct a full visual sweep. I don’t see a trip wire, and I tell him that, adding, “But don’t take my word for it.”

“Oh, I’m not. Sorry. Can you climb out over the gun?”

“Yes, but I can already tell that won’t help. It’s nestled in the vegetation. I’m going to check it out. Just hold on.”

I retreat down the tree. Then I circle wide. When I’m on the far side of the gun, I walk toward it, checking before putting each foot down. Finally, I reach the spot. I crouch. Then I swear.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Anders says.

“No, it’s—Just hold on.”

I swore because I know this gun. I’m temporarily putting that on the “not important” shelf, along with the ramifications of having a sniper in our forest.

I hunker down. Then I lie on my belly, getting a straight-on view of the gun.

“And . . .” Anders says.

“I don’t see any sign of a trigger device. It looks as if the shooter just left it behind.”

“That’s actually kinda disappointing.”

“At the count of three, I’ll knock the barrel aside, and you’ll dive for cover. We’ll tell everyone else it was rigged, and you narrowly escaped death. Plus, of course, I saved your life, and you owe me forever.”

“Yeah, no. But you can move the barrel aside. Carefully please.”

I lean over the gun and take another good look, running my fingers along the perimeter for a trip wire. The trigger is clear, and the gun seems fine. I ease the barrel away from Anders.

“Thank you.”

I start to rise, and he says, in a low voice, “Stop.”

A low growl sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder to see a muzzle and eyes peering from a clump of weeds.