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Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Hatch sliced through the crowd as the sheriff's deputies shouted at the protesters to disperse. She barely noticed the scattered glances thrown her way, the blood staining her clothes an afterthought compared to the mission at hand. Her focus remained locked on the rocky outcropping looming ahead, its dark silhouette cutting a jagged line into the overcast sky.

The earth squelched beneath her boots, still slick from the morning’s rain. Ominous clouds choked the light, casting the world in shades of gray. The damp scent of pine and wet soil mingled with the metallic tang of blood.

Hatch moved with purpose, her eyes constantly scanning. The rugged terrain of the White Mountains stretched before her, a labyrinth of jagged hills and thick underbrush. She knew this kind of terrain well. It could either hide you or expose you. The sniper could have chosen any number of vantage points, but she had a hunch where to look.

A barely visible path appeared ahead, half-buried by wet leaves and debris. Without hesitation, Hatch began her ascent. Each step was a fight against gravity and the treacherous incline. The ground slid underfoot, slick with mud and loose stones. She’d slipped twice already, her body lurching as her boots skidded out from under her. Her palms scraped against the rough rocks, but she pushed on, the urgency of her mission overriding any discomfort.

Her breathing was controlled, steady, despite her pulse hammering in her ears. The wind picked up, whistling through the trees, carrying with it the distant rumble of an approaching storm. The higher she climbed, the more exposed she felt. Up here, the sniper could still be watching. Waiting.

At last, she reached the top, muscles aching from the effort. Instinctively, her hand slid to her Glock, drawing it from its holster and keeping it low. The landscape was sparse—scattered boulders and scraggly bushes, offering little in the way of cover. Hatch moved slowly, her senses on high alert. Every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind, could be the prelude to an attack.

She approached the sniper’s roost, scanning the area with the practiced eye of someone who had seen too many scenes like this. The ground was disturbed—patches of trampled grass, a few overturned stones. But the shooter had taken care, erasing most signs of their presence. Whoever had been here was skilled, disciplined. No rookie would leave a site this clean.

Hatch crouched, running her fingers over the damp earth, searching for anything that might have been missed in the sniper’s haste. Then, beneath a pile of wet leaves, something caught her eye. A faint glint of silver. She leaned closer, peeling back the foliage to reveal a crumpled candy wrapper. An ordinary piece of trash, out of place here. Left behind by mistake.

She straightened, her thumb running over the wrapper’s edge as her mind worked through the implications. The sniper had been careful, meticulous. Yet this wrapper hinted at a human flaw.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp crack—the unmistakable sound of a stick snapping underfoot.

Hatch went still, her muscles tensing, eyes narrowing. The soft thud of deliberate footsteps followed, muffled by the wet ground. Someone was coming.

Her grip tightened on the Glock, her pulse quickening even as her breathing remained steady. She slowly turned toward the sound, her mind racing through possibilities. Was it one of the sheriff's men? Or was the sniper returning to cover their tracks?

Her senses sharpened, picking up every nuance—the faint scent of gun oil, the shift in the breeze as it carried the scent toward her. The stranger was approaching cautiously, likely aware that something was out of place.

With practiced calm, Hatch slipped behind a nearby boulder, using its bulk for cover. She moved smoothly, navigating the landscape, barely disturbing the air around her. From here, she had a clear view of the path but remained concealed, her Glock steady in her hand.

The footsteps slowed, a pause that told Hatch they were hesitating. They were alert, sensing danger.

She crouched lower, her breath quiet, her body poised for action. The cautious, deliberate footsteps resumed, closing in. A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision.

Any second now, the threat would round the boulder.

The crunch of a footstep had Hatch raising her Glock in an instant, her body coiled, ready for whatever emerged. But as the figure stepped from behind the rock, she recognized the sheriff’s broad frame. She lowered her weapon, but her eyes continued their sweep, every nerve still on high alert.

The sheriff stumbled to a stop beside a gnarled pine, his breath ragged as he leaned on the tree, sweat glistening on his brow. “Used to run these mountains as a kid,” he wheezed, a rueful grin pulling at his lips. “Now I get winded just walking up 'em.” He chuckled, trying to catch his breath as his eyes appraised her, sharper than before.

“Shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that. Not after what just happened.”

“Didn’t seem like I caught you off guard.” He jutted his chin toward the gun bootlegged along her pantleg. “You find anything?”

Hatch pointed toward the disturbed ground. " He was set up over there."

The sheriff squinted, moving with slow, deliberate steps. He crouched, inspecting the site, doubt furrowing his brow. "You sure? I don't see much."

Hatch knelt beside him, her hands brushing the earth with practiced ease. "He used the local brush to cover his tracks," she explained, her voice calm. "Swept the dirt clean. Pro move. But no matter how good you are, you always leave something if you know where to look."

The sheriff gave her a sidelong glance, a mix of curiosity and grudging admiration in his tone. "Military?"

"Used to be," Hatch replied.

"What branch?”

“Army.”

“I did a stint in the Army too. Years back." He slowly stood with a grimace, rubbing his knee. "Wanted to be a lifer, but a torn ligament on a jump changed my mind.”

“Overseas?”

“No. Training at Benning. Never got my wings. But like my drill sergeant used to say, grunts don’t need wings. We’re earth pigs.”

“You do any time in the sandbox?”

“One tour. Iraq.” He eyed Hatch and then took a second look at the ground. “Never learned this kinda stuff, though."

Hatch shrugged, continuing her scan of their surroundings. "I guess it depends on the unit."

“Guess so.” His arms akimbo. “Didn’t catch your name back there.”

"Hatch," she told him. “Just Hatch.

“Okay, Just Hatch.” He arched his back, stretching and twisting to work out the kinks. "How do we go about tracking someone who doesn’t leave tracks?"

Hatch stood and dusted off her hands. Sawyer’s dried blood mixed with the dirt, leaving her skin in a smear of rust tones. "No one vanishes without a trace. Not even this guy. We just have to look at it from the right angle."

Something caught her eye. She crouched again, pushing aside damp leaves to reveal the crumpled fireball candy wrapper. "Like this."

The sheriff leaned closer, squinting his eyes. "You’re telling me this is our big break?"

"Something’s better than nothing," Hatch said. "Maybe he left some DNA, a partial print. If you’re lucky, a bloodhound might pick up the scent.”

The sheriff eyed her for a moment. “What exactly did you say you did in the Army?”

“I didn’t.” Less was more when it came to exposure. But if she planned to gain trust from the local lawman, she needed to open up a little. “Spent some time with the MPs. Worked in investigations before moving on.”

“You’re sure a jack of all trades.”

“Not really.” She squinted at the plastic square, careful not to touch it and contaminate any potential evidence.

He tugged his radio from his belt. "Dispatch, get me the state police. I’m gonna need their crime scene unit, ASAP.”

“Will do,” was the response. “Where would you like them to meet you?”

“Best to have them come to the resort. I’ll guide them from there.”

The sheriff looked to Hatch. "I’m gonna need you at the station later. After I get this shitshow under control, I’d like a full statement about the shooting. Maybe pick your brain some more on this shooter we’re looking for.”

“Sure thing,” Hatch replied, already shifting her focus back. Her eyes scanned the rugged terrain ahead.

The sheriff stood beside her, following her gaze with his own. "What’re you thinking?"

She pointed toward the dense expanse of the forest, its thick cover leading away from the hotel. "Your sniper’s likely heading that way."

His brow furrowed. “Why that way?”

She shrugged. "That’s where I’d go."

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