Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
There was a click, and he paused, his eyes going wide—and that’s when the thick branch Eddie had previously rigged swung out from the left. It whooshed through the air, a blur of wood and bark.
To his credit, the guy ducked. Too bad for him, ducking was precisely what he shouldn’t have done. The first branch was a feint, the real trap was above him.
The swinging branch triggered a second release: another log hidden behind him, suspended just high enough in the trees to be missed—until it came crashing down. It slammed into the back of his head with a meaty crack, and the guy dropped like a sack of potatoes, limbs twitching before going still.
Jesse, crouched beside me, gave a satisfied nod. “I call that one the Home Alone.”
Remy snorted. “Seriously?”
“Hey, if it worked for a kid in Chicago, it'll work in Mississippi,” Jesse shrugged. “Classic misdirection.”
Ira, just behind us, let out a low whistle. “You know, it’s rare that crazy wins the day—but I gotta say, I’m glad to be surrounded by it.”
I kept scanning the trees, my finger on the trigger, holding the AR15 in position. The brush rustled again, too controlled, too measured—Barris was still out there.
“We haven’t won yet,” I said grimly. “There’s still a few of them left, including Barris.”
That name sent a cold knot down my spine because if there was anyone among that group who wouldn’t step in a trap, wouldn’t flinch when a man screamed, and wouldn’t back down when things got messy—it was Clayton Barris.
And while he was still out there, this wasn’t over. Not even close.
A flicker of movement near the eastern edge of the tree line caught my eye—lower than the others had been, slower, and far more deliberate.
Clayton Barris was crouched low, slinking through the shadows like the predator he thought he was. He moved with purpose, avoiding the paths his men had taken. He wasn't shouting or panicking, his face was pure ice-cold calculation as he aimed straight for the cabin.
My jaw tightened. Barris wasn’t just guessing anymore—he’d been watching, learning, and now he was confident enough to move in himself, ready to get his hands dirty. I shifted lower behind the brush, adjusting my stance as my heart pounded in a steady rhythm, locked onto his every move. He was close now. Closer than he’d ever been, but so was I.
Gabby
Inside the cabin, I sat perfectly still, every muscle pulled taut with fear and anticipation.
Outside, the noise had built into a chaotic blur—shouts echoing through the trees, heavy thuds, something metallic crashing through the underbrush like a wrecking ball. At one point, I could’ve sworn someone yelled like they’d just been hit by a truck, followed by a solid, unmistakable thud that made the floor beneath me vibrate.
I gripped Tinkerbell with both hands, the cast on my arm making the hold awkward but still workable. The pepper spray was within easy reach, exactly where I needed it to be. I’d already shifted the cushions around, positioning myself for the clearest view of both the front door and the narrow kitchen window—every angle covered, just in case.
Webb’s kiss still burned on my cheek, and his words— “I love you”—echoed in my skull, competing with the thumping of my heart.
Suddenly, the world went quiet. Too quiet.
I leaned forward slightly, every nerve in my body alive and straining.
Something was coming, and this time, I knew it wasn’t a raccoon.
Webb had told me to stay down, to protect my head, and let them handle everything. It was the smart thing to do—the safe thing. But sitting here, curled up on these damn cushions while the chaos outside ramped up like a warzone, was eating me alive. I wasn’t helpless. I was bruised, stitched, sore, and maybe half-broken, but I wasn’t powerless.
I stared at the door, heart pounding. My hands tightened around Tinkerbell’s grip. I wasn’t sure if it was courage or stupidity fueling me, but I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. Not while they were out there risking everything.
I shifted forward and winced. Every movement tugged at healing muscles, and my ribs throbbed with sharp protest as my cast dragged heavily across the floor. Still, I pressed on—slowly, silently—until I reached the cabin door.
The wooden storage box sat just to the side. I paused, hesitating for a moment before lifting the lid. Inside were the dusty, dented cans of expired food I’d set aside earlier. I reached in and grabbed two tins of tuna, stuffing them into the front pocket of my hoodie. Maybe they’d be useful as bait, a distraction, or, if I was desperate, a projectile to the face.
I eased the door open just wide enough to slip through.
The night air hit my face like a slap—cool and damp, thick with the scent of wet leaves and tension. A distant shout echoed somewhere to the east, followed by the unmistakable metallic clink of something being dropped or triggered. I couldn’t tell which.