Page 3 of Hollow Trace

Quinn scrambled to his feet, checked the clearing, then peered over the cliff. Twenty feet of open sky, then a smooth, granite shelf that descended into a dense thicket. What likely would have killed Quinn if he’d gone over.

But that guy twitched, looked as if he could simply claw his way back up as he pushed to his feet, staring up the face.

What the hell was this guy on?

Not that he had any time to mull it over. More twigs broke behind him, as boots pounded the gravel and mud. He fired off a couple cover rounds, hauling ass to the far trail and booking it along the winding path. He vaulted downed logs, scrambling up a recent scree slide, half-falling, half-sliding down the other side before picking up more speed.

Two rounds left.

The rifle felt too light as he took the next left, the old mining spur half a klick away. Deep shadows lined the path, only a hint of daylight still brightening the sky beyond the hills. A few crows cawed overhead and what sounded like coyotes yipping in the distance.

The hairs on his neck prickled, that eerie sensation of being watched slithering down his spine. He dodged left, ducked in behind a massive cedar as rounds pelted the trunk, a couple carving a groove through the bark before landing in another tree behind him.

Quinn worked out the trajectory in his head, readied his rifle, then popped out, zeroing in on the creep sniping his location before firing a shot. It missed by an inch when the guy shifted, returning his own trigger pull. The bullets ate through the bramble beside the tree, kicking up more mud and needles before Quinn slid out again, caught the guy high in the leg, then raced down the path as the man dropped, scrambling to his feet a few seconds later, his gunfire following Quinn’s footsteps.

Quinn picked up speed, praying there wasn’t a full squad waiting by his Chevy as he punched onto the gravel road, arms pumping, tiny stones spraying out behind him. He reached his truck, slid across the hood Bo Duke style, falling into a crouch behind the front wheel just as someone unleashed a full-frontal attack.

Bullets pelted the other side of his truck, air hissing out the tires as they popped, the entire vehicle lowering a few inches. Steam pissed out the front grill, only the sheer thickness of the chassis keeping him from getting shredded.

A quick pull on the handle, and he had the door unlocked and open, a box of ammo dumped onto the floorboards.

Two more mags.

He cursed, silently promising that next time, he’d pack enough rounds for a small invasion. If he lived that long. He shoved the extra mag in his pocket then took a couple seconds to discard the empty one and reload. He was ready to go down fighting.

He shuffled toward the back. No vest. No endless firepower, just his SAR backpack and a bad attitude.

Brea’s Jeep sat twenty feet away, no obvious damage. Though, once he made a play for it…

He glanced down the ravine behind him. Nothing but tangled deadfall and endless bramble. The kind of sheer slope that would likely chew him up before he landed at the bottom a good fifty feet below.

But broken beat dead.

He waited for a lull, firing off several rounds, the casings clicking against the stones before he turned, and made peace with battling gravity. An engine revved nearby, a massive black truck skidding around the far corner as it crested the rise, mud and stones spraying out behind it. It roared toward him before fishtailing across the road, the front door opening while the machine still slid through a quarter spin.

Some chick in similar tactical gear jumped out, rolling across the gravel before surging to her feet, a steady line of suppressive fire stitching through the trees. She went through a full mag, grabbed a canister off her vest and tossed it toward the trail. It bounced across the gravel, spinning to a halt before erupting in a blast of blinding white light and an ear-piercing wail.

Quinn crouched behind the wheel, covering his ears in the hopes of lessening the effects, but the damn flash bang still rattled through his skull, sliding the scenery left and right. He palmed his head, trying to shake it off as the woman dove in beside him, dark hair swishing across her shoulders from the pony at the back.

She swept her gaze the length of him, finally lifting her goggles as she lowered her neck gaiter.

Dead.

He had to be dead. No other explanation for the set of stunning blue eyes staring down at him. The ones he’d thought he’d buried three months ago.

She sighed, extending a gloved hand through the smoke. “I know, I’m dead. Now, get in the damn truck before they blow us both off this mountain.”

CHAPTER TWO

An endless whine sounded in Quinn’s head as he stared up at Scout’s outstretched hand, smoke swirling around them from the grenade. The scent of burnt magnesium and cordite thickening the already heavy air. He opened his mouth, closed it, finally pressing his palm against hers.

Firm.

Unyielding.

She tugged, her bruising, undeniable grip hauling him to his feet. She was definitely flesh and bone, not the ghostlike apparition he’d half-convinced himself he’d manifested.

Scout pressed her side against his flatbed, peering around the corner. “Looks like they’re rallying.” She motioned to his rifle. “How many shots have you got left?”