Page 2 of Hollow Trace

As if the entire forest was holding its breath.

A hint of blue caught his attention. He checked his surroundings, then ducked under a low-hanging branch — went to one knee beside a nearly empty CamelBak bladder half-buried beneath a layer of pine needles, the end spitting out water. It pooled in a massive tread molded into the muddy surface.

His chest tightened, the same hopelessness he’d felt when he’d gotten the call about Scout. Only this time, he knew exactly how fast forever could be ripped away.

Not again.

He crept forward, following the scuff marks in the undergrowth. Trampled ferns. Broken salal branches. A few drops of blood beneath a patch of bramble. Multiple boot prints mixed in with Brea’s unique runners. Proof she hadn’t gone quietly.

That eerie silence followed him, the scent of pine and damp earth saturating the air as he stopped at the base of a small creek. Spotting something black embedded in the mud between two rocks, he placed his rifle on the ground, pulled at the torn strap, wiping off the watch face covered in mud.

Shit.

Brea had been wearing a device just like that when she’d headed out. Something about a new product trial she’d been given a few weeks back at her last ultrarace. Some kind of biometric watch that came with endurance patches. A game changer, she’d said.

He turned the watch over, stared at the blue LED pulsing out a steady rhythm. What looked like more of a tracking device than a heart monitor.

Finding the remains of one of those patches stuck to a rock only added to the dread building in his gut. The reality that she hadn’t gotten lost or hurt.

She’d been taken.

He shifted, shoving the watch and patch into his pocket when a hushed thut cut through the air, the branch next to his ear shattering in a spray of bark and pine needles. No bang, just a whistle of displaced air, the wood cracking into a thousand pieces.

Quinn dropped, grabbed his weapon, and rolled behind a trunk, taking cover as the forest lit up. Rounds chewed through the undergrowth, shredding ferns and branches, blasting him with pulverized wood and leaves. Muzzle flashes brightened the encroaching darkness, twigs snapping in every direction as the men fanned out, trying to flank him.

He cocked his rifle, peered through the scope, catching a glimpse of black tactical gear dodging between two massive cedars. The figure vanished, reappeared at the next narrow opening, and turned toward him with what looked like a damn AR-15 notched at his shoulder.

Quinn squeezed the trigger, hitting that guy high on the right side, just outside his vest. The man twisted as he fell, kicking up a spray of mud before he rolled, shook off the hit, and returned fire.

The bullets punched into the bark, each strike reverberating through the ground and into Quinn’s chest. Another shot, dead center of the vest, dropped the bastard, but he stumbled to his feet a few seconds later, rifle barking.

Eight more rounds.

Quinn muttered under his breath. Maybe he’d misjudged that first shot — caught the edge of the vest. Something to explain how the guy was drawing closer, going through brass at an alarming rate.

Movement.

Closing in on both sides, quickly boxing in Quinn. He fired off a shot in each direction, sent the men scrambling for cover, then rolled down the short embankment into the creek. He got his feet beneath him, hauled ass through the bramble and onto a suggestion of a trail that followed the ridge line.

Boots pounded the dirt behind him, bullets whizzing past his head, clipping branches and leaves. He stayed low, using the shadows to mask his movement, praying the path hadn’t washed away in the recent thunderstorms.

The trail branched off, a couple of forks winding back in the other direction. He stayed right, gaining a bit of ground as the track opened up onto a narrow bench, the mountain rising beyond the sharp decline. He sprinted toward the path disappearing into the timber at the far end, when the guy he’d hit in the shoulder charged out of the forest, mouth twisted into a snarl. He must have blown through all his rounds, his AR-15 looped across his back.

Quinn planted his left foot, avoided the head-on attack as he dodged right, shoving the guy as he tried to skid to a halt. The move bought Quinn a few moments to snag the bear spray off his pack — aim it at the asshole’s face — why waste bullets on a guy who was obviously tripped out on something. Especially when Quinn had a bad feeling he’d run out long before he got back to his truck.

The wind whipped past, carrying the pepper spray directly across the man’s face. He shouted, clawing at his eyes, as Quinn darted in, caught the guy with a few strong strikes.

Blood splattered across the ground, the man’s nose bleeding like a faucet, the lower half bent at an unnatural angle.

He stumbled back, skin already burning into red, when two more assholes barreled into the clearing, weapons at the ready. Quinn evaded the first line of fire, positioning their teammate between him and their sightline as he raised his rifle, catching the closest guy in the neck, quickly cycling the next round, taking the other target out with a round to the head. A red mist fanned out behind the guy before he dropped, looking as if he might stay down.

The jerk with the broken nose rallied, one arm hanging at an odd angle, his other hand brandishing a knife. “I’m gonna gut you, pig.”

The guy lunged, swinging the blade in clean, long arcs, nearly catching Quinn in the arm before he reeled back, kept a bit of distance between them. Too close to use his rifle, but far enough he wouldn’t get sliced.

They danced around each other, the blade glancing off the barrel when Quinn used it to shield his face, knock the bastard’s arm away. He parried a strike with the butt, moving with the guy when he managed to grab ahold of the stock, lunge in close.

Dropping his weight, Quinn hit the ground as he rolled, tossing the guy over his shoulders. The creep landed on the edge, most of his body hanging off the side. He had a moment of uncertainty, boots kicking at air, his fingers trying to bore into the ground before he slipped over, vanishing.