Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

Hatch moved through the underbrush, eyes constantly roving, cataloging every detail. The forest pressed in around her, the muted light filtering through the canopy casting the world in shades of green and gray. Damp earth clung to her boots, the scent of pine and rain thick in the air. She blocked it all out, her mind zeroed in on the task at hand.

A snapped twig caught her eye, its sharp angle betraying a hurried passage. She crouched, fingers brushing the soil, feeling the faint impression of a boot print. Barely there, but enough.

Gotcha.

The sniper was fast, experienced. But even the best made mistakes when the clock was ticking. The depth of the print, the angle—it all told a story. Hatch read it like a book. This wasn’t just a run. This was a controlled retreat.

She stood and continued, every step deliberate. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what came next. Her senses sharpened, attuned to the subtle rhythms of the land. A low-hanging branch had been snapped. The first sign, a careless mistake, forced by the pressure of the hunt. Her lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.

Every mistake is another’s opportunity. Something her dad drilled into her head. Something that had driven her to perfection, or at the very least, her relentless pursuit of it.

The murmur of water drew her attention, the rushing sound growing louder as she reached the edge of a swollen stream. The current was fast, angry, carving through the earth like a knife. The trail vanished at the bank, the footprints dissolving into nothing.

Hatch paused, eyes scanning the far side of the stream. If she were him, she’d use the water to wash away the tracks, make herself invisible. A fallen log slick with rain and moss half-submerged in the current would be a natural crossing point.

Smart.

Her fingers drummed against her thigh as she weighed her options. She could cross, take the risk, but the stream was treacherous. And if she was wrong, she’d lose time. Her eyes flicked up and down the banks. There were no signs the sniper had made it across, but then again, someone that skilled wouldn’t leave signs easily.

Her phone buzzed, the sudden sound breaking the silence. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

"Where are you?" Reeves' voice crackled through the line, sharp, clipped.

"Tracking the shooter," Hatch said, eyes still on the water. "I’ve got a potential lead."

"I need you back here.” A pause, then Reeves’ tone hardened. “We need to regroup. The senator is the principal. Let law enforcement handle the investigation."

Hatch’s jaw clenched. The trail was getting cold, and the sniper was slipping away. She could feel it, like sand running through her fingers. She hated leaving things unfinished, especially something like this. She reminded herself of what Tracy had said, about this being the opportunity to clear the stink off them from Arizona. Stirring the pot would only serve to complicate things. And whether or not she wholly agreed, Reeves was right. The senator is the assignment.

Hatch exhaled slowly. She gave the stream one last look, committing to memory the area around the crossing. She pulled a folding knife from her pocket and carved an X into a nearby tree. If she had the opportunity to resume her search, at least she’d have a starting point.

"On my way."

She collapsed the knife and clipped it back inside her pocket before turning her back to the rushing water. Her boots sank into the mud as she started down the trail. The sniper had been good. The shot, the escape—it all spoke of someone with serious training. Someone like her.

But no one was perfect. He’d left a trace, regardless of how small. And mistakes could be capitalized on. If given the chance, she planned to do just that.

Hatch's boots squelched on the plush carpet as she entered the senator's quarters, the mud and dried blood caking her pants stark against the room’s polished luxury. The air was thick, too warm after the damp chill of the forest. The scent of whiskey mixed with rich wood polish, and the faint sound of classical music hummed from a turntable in the corner.

Hatch had experienced this juxtaposition before, upon returning to base after some of her more harrowing missions. Entering the mess hall to the jocularity of those at the FOB always served as a jolt into a different reality. She felt it here now.

Reeves glanced at her, eyes narrowing at the sight of her disheveled state. "While you were skipping through the forest," he said, voice tight, "we’ve been trying to figure out what the hell went wrong."

Hatch clenched her jaw tight. Skipping through the forest? Right. She hadn’t been wading through mud and chasing down a sniper for her own amusement. She opened her mouth to fire back, but Senator Masterson’s voice cut through, smooth as the whiskey in his hand.

"Drink?" Masterson offered. He held up his empty tumbler, the ice rattling in the glass.

She declined with a simple shake of her head. Masterson ambled over to the counter, pouring himself three fingers worth of the amber liquid from a crystal decanter. Something about his movements seemed off to Hatch. He was steady, too controlled for a man who’d just had a sniper's crosshairs on him hours ago.

Velvet drapes, mahogany furniture, thick carpet underfoot. It felt suffocating, like all the life had been drained out of the air, leaving only polished surfaces and false comfort.

“Sir, I think we need to take a hard look at this threat. I don’t think we’re dealing with some deranged lunatic here.”

“Maybe we should be discussing your tactics.” Reeves leaned against the back wall with crossed arms.

“Come again?” Hatch nearly launched across the room. She fought the urge. Her face reddened under the strain.

"If you’d been paying more attention out there, maybe you’d have spotted the shooter before?—”

"Now, now," Masterson said, swirling the whiskey in his hand. "We’re all on the same side here. Everything happened so fast. I don’t think pointing the finger is going to do us any good."

Hatch said nothing. Her eyes remained locked on Reeves.

“Senator’s right.” He shot her a conciliatory look. “Just still trying to wrap my head around it all.”

“Then maybe you should’ve let me continue tracking our shooter.” Hatch's voice was clipped. “I warned you about the guy I saw in the hotel last night. My guess would be that he’s got something to do with this.”

“Maybe. I already forwarded the information to the sheriff. Best we leave the work of it to him and his men. Our focus is protection.” Reeves pushed off the wall and stepped into the center of the room. “For starters, we need to determine the existing threat and how to best protect the senator going forward.”

“Change the itinerary, for one. If he is the intended target, might be a good idea to take a detour from the campaign trail.”

“No way I’m going to let some nut job take me off the path to re-election.” Masterson plunked himself into the soft leather seat. “Too much riding on this. I back down now, there’ll be no coming back.”

“And what do you mean by if ?” Reeves asked. “You think that the shooter wasn’t taking aim at the senator?”

Hatch shrugged. “Got to look at it from all possible angles.”

“You’re trying to tell me that a sniper was looking to pick off the senator’s underling?” Reeves tossed his hands up. “Why in the world would Sawyer be a target? He’s a nobody.”

“Let’s not speak ill of the dead. Sawyer was a good man. A loyal campaign manager. Someone I trusted.” Masterson raised his glass as if punctuating his remark with a toast.

Hatch took notice of the senator's hand. Not a tremor. His calm could be the result of the libation sedation he was using to self-medicate, but it was still out of place. In her world, when something didn’t fit, you peeled back the layers until it did.

Most people—even the trained ones—would have shown some kind of crack. A tremor. A nervous glance. Not Masterson. He looked like he was enjoying this, like it was all just some game to him. Her instincts flared. Something dangerous simmered beneath his easy demeanor.

She kept her tone casual as she asked, "You ever serve, Senator?"

“In the military?” Masterson raised an eyebrow, his eyes taking on a glossy sheen. "Me? No, never had the pleasure. Politics was my battlefield. Business too." He sipped the whiskey. "Different kind of war, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"You’ve got the nerves of a combat vet," Hatch mused, gesturing with a nod of her head. “Steady hands.”

Something flickered behind Masterson's eyes. "Politics can be ... cutthroat. And the bourbon helps.”

Hatch nodded but didn’t buy it. She’d seen men under fire lose their composure faster than this. His calm felt rehearsed, like a mask that didn’t quite fit. She filed it away, the picture of the senator growing more complicated by the second.

Hatch debated her next move. Deciding that reading the room’s reaction would give her insight, she decided to lay her cards on the table. "One more question, Senator. The name 'Maggie' mean anything to you?"

Masterson frowned, the first real sign of confusion crossing his face. "Maggie? No, can't say it does. Why?"

Maybe it was genuine confusion—or maybe it was just good practice.

"Just something Sawyer said before he died."

Masterson looked to Reeves. “ Does the name ring a bell?”

“Never heard mention of her before. Maybe it was a girlfriend or something. I can look into it.”

“You do that.” Masterson sipped slowly.

A knock interrupted them. Masterson's aide—barely old enough to have a driver's license—poked his head in, looking nervous. "Senator, Sheriff Tuck called. He would like to set a time to get statements about today’s shooting. Apparently, he needs to debrief everyone. Including you, sir."

“Reeves will take care of the arrangements.” Masterson sighed, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink. He adjusted his tie, standing up with the grace of a man who hadn’t just been hunted by a sniper. His face morphed, setting aside the tension, the practiced ease returning. "Duty calls. I’ve got to get ready for a press conference."

“Why don’t you head over to meet with the sheriff?” Reeves tossed Hatch a set of keys. “Take the Tahoe. Might as well have a set of wheels while you’re here.”

Hatch caught the keys midair. “Sure thing. Just going to wash up first.”

“And Hatch, let’s not go sharing theories with the locals until we’ve got a better understanding of what’s going on here.”

“That an order?”

“Consider it a friendly suggestion.”

Hatch saw nothing friendly in Reeves’ eyes as she turned to leave.