Chapter 21

TWENTY-ONE

As they reached the riverbank, Tuck killed the engine, and the team stepped out into the damp night air. The sound of the rushing river filled the silence, and the sky above them had faded into deep shades of purple and blue.

Rain drummed the canopy, relentless and uneven, like nature's own arrhythmic heartbeat. Hatch's boots sank into the mud with each step, the wet ground squelching beneath her. Rufus the bloodhound zig-zagged ahead, nose to the ground, his enthusiasm wavering with each fading trace of scent.

Beside her, Sheriff Tuck trudged along, water dripping steadily from the brim of his hat. "Don't sweat it," he said, tracing her gaze to the dog and noticing the furrow in her brow. "Rufus always delivers. Found an eight-year-old girl once, five miles out. She’d been missing for three days in weather just like this."

Hatch nodded and fixed her eyes on the forest ahead, her expression neutral. A dog’s only as good as its handler. And Deputy Jackson seems solid enough. The story about the missing girl stuck in her head, but she wasn’t one to put stock in anecdotes—not when lives were on the line. Still, I’ve seen stranger things work out in worse situations.

The incline steepened, trees thickened, and the ground turned slick with mud, each step more precarious than the last.

Rufus froze, tail stiff, nose twitching.

"He's got something." Jackson tightened his grip on the leash. "Fresh scent."

The team moved more quickly, each with their weapons drawn and held at the low ready. Wet leaves made the footing slick. The steady patter of rain against their jackets blended with their measured breathing, visible in the cool night air.

They crested the hill. Jackson held up a fist, halting the trail of lawmen in their tracks. All eyes silently scanned the surrounding area.

Nothing.

No tents. No gear. Just the remnants of a camp hastily abandoned.

But Rufus wasn’t finished. The dog’s nose twitched furiously as he tugged Jackson toward a patch of disturbed earth in the center of the clearing. Hatch followed close behind. The faint outline of boot prints scuffed the wet ground, barely visible in the mud.

She crouched down, brushing her gloved fingers over the dirt. The surface was cool and damp from the rain, but underneath it was warm.

“Smokeless pit,” she murmured, running her fingers through the ash. She brought them closer to her nose, inhaling. “The fire’s out, but not cold. He can’t have been gone long. Rain hasn’t fully soaked the ash yet.”

Her eyes swept the clearing, cataloging the details. A few broken branches lay scattered near the tree line, snapped low—probably from the height of a man pushing through in a hurry. Damp leaves clung to the edges of a shallow trench dug into the earth, likely used to channel water away from the camp.

“Recent,” Hatch said again, her tone firmer this time. She stood, glancing at the faint boot prints leading away from the clearing. “He packed light, moved fast. My guess is he left in a hurry. Just enough to stay ahead of us.”

Tuck moved alongside her. "How close do you think?"

Hatch stood, her eyes narrowing as she tracked the terrain. The tree line thinned, and just beyond, the land dropped off sharply. A sheer cliff loomed ahead, rain washing down its jagged face.

Rufus barked once, his nose leading straight to the cliff’s edge.

Hatch kept her voice low and measured as she said, "He went down."

Tuck frowned, looking from the drop-off back to the path they had climbed. "No way we’re all going to make it down that. Not in one piece.”

Hatch thought for a moment. Too risky, especially with the dog. “We’re going to need to double back. Work ourselves around and try to pick up the track again down there."

"Agreed.” Tuck turned to his deputies. “We’ll have to circle back, cut across the base of the high ground. Hopefully, we’ll pick up his trail again."

Jackson nodded. He gave Rufus an encouraging rub of the scruff of his chin.

Tuck wiped the rain streaming down his face in rivulets. "Let’s move. We can’t afford to lose him now.”

They turned to retrace their steps. The firepit was still warm. Bishop was on the run.

But for how long?

Darkness consumed the forest. Rain hammered down in sheets now, turning earth to sludge. Each droplet struck Bishop like a tiny bullet, soaking through his Gore-Tex jacket. He pushed on, jaw clenched against the fiery pain in his leg.

The branch had done its damage. Blood seeped through the hastily applied QuikClot gauze. But the rain ... the rain was both enemy and ally. It chilled him to the bone yet washed away his blood trail. Small mercies.

Bishop took each step carefully. Pain be damned. The dense foliage offered cover, but the sodden ground threatened to betray him with every step. His breath came in ragged bursts, visible in the cold air.

His leg buckled. White-hot agony shot up his spine. Bishop bit down, tasting copper. Weakness gets you killed. Move now, bleed later.

The weight of his pack dug into his shoulders. Inside: broken-down M40A6 sniper rifle. Spare magazines. MREs. Survival gear. A perfect kit, and it still didn’t save the op from falling apart. Each item was a reminder of how sideways everything had gone.

His hand tightened on the sturdy oak branch, his makeshift crutch. The Leupold Mark 5HD scope, nestled in his jacket pocket, pressed against his ribs. Precision and clarity, useless now, without time or distance. They’re not hunting a sniper anymore—they’re hunting a man.

Think, damn it. What’s the plan?

Bishop paused, lungs burning, and leaned against a tree. The forest stretched ahead, an inky void. His eyes adapted to the gloom, scanning constantly. Always a step behind—until they’re not.

Rain lashed his face, soaking his clothes, but it couldn’t drown out the thunder of his pulse. Regroup. Find shelter. Reassess. Don’t give them an angle.

His body screamed for rest, but his mind wouldn’t stop. You know what happens if you stop. They catch you. Game over.

Bishop froze, eyes locking onto the edge of the tree line. A flicker lit the misty distance. Town lights. So close, yet so far.

Too exposed. Too dangerous. But no choice. You either reach those lights or die out here.

He crept forward. Low. Silent. Rain-soaked leaves muffled his approach. No movement around him, nor sound except for the relentless downpour and his own labored breathing.

How long had it been? An hour? More? The forest had blurred into a monotonous march of shadows and slick terrain. His leg throbbed with every step, the makeshift crutch digging into his palm until it felt raw. He hadn’t seen or heard signs of pursuit, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close. They’re there. They’re always there.

The climb had been brutal, steep and unforgiving, but it gave him this. From his vantage point atop a wooded rise, the lights of the vet clinic came into view, cutting through the rain like a beacon.

The building materialized in the downpour—small, unassuming, tucked on the edge of the sleeping town. A neon sign buzzed faintly through the mist, promising medical supplies within. Antibiotics. Clean bandages. Painkillers. Everything I need to keep moving. Everything I need to survive.

He crouched, peering through the thick branches that partially shielded him. His eyes roamed over the clinic and its surroundings. Only one car in the lot, an older model station wagon. No movement inside. Quiet. Too quiet. But no cameras on the front door, no visible patrols. A risk, but less of one than staying out here.

The town below slept, blissfully unaware of the wolf lingering at its doorstep. Bishop's hand brushed the hilt of his KA-BAR knife. Cold steel met clammy skin—a visceral reminder of what he was capable of. In and out. Clean. No room for mistakes.

Rain masked his approach as he slipped from the tree line. Each step sent fresh waves of agony through his leg, the ground beneath him swaying slightly with each uneven stride. His vision blurred at the edges, a creeping fog he couldn’t afford to acknowledge. Blood loss. Infection. Time was not on his side.

But Bishop had a job to finish.

He paused, leaning against a tree for a brief moment, his head swimming as the pounding rain seemed to amplify the roar in his ears. His grip on the oak branch tightened, knuckles white. Focus. Breathe. He forced himself upright.

He’d be damned if a little pain, rain, and dizziness would stop him now.

Rain hammered against the pavement as Bishop moved in complete silence, each step calculated and deliberate. His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the vet clinic's windows, taking in every detail. Through the glass, he saw her. The woman inside, on the phone, had her back to him. Distracted.

Sticking to the shadows, he circled the building, careful to avoid the glow of the overhead street lights. The barking of dogs echoed faintly from the kennels at the back, muffled by the rain and thick walls of the clinic. He crouched by the rear entrance, his injured leg sending sharp spikes of pain through his body, but he pushed it down. Focus was everything.

He grabbed his lock pick from the side of the pack. Titanium. Lightweight. Familiar in his hand, an old friend. A few deft twists, and the door gave with a quiet click. He slipped inside, pulling it closed behind him without a sound.

The clinic air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and wet fur. Bishop darted his sharp gaze around the dimly lit space, taking in the exam rooms and kennels as he glided past them. The woman’s voice was faint now, coming from the front desk. He tuned it out, focusing instead on his surroundings, each movement bringing him closer to his objective.

The operating room.

He found it quickly, slipping inside and shutting the door softly behind him. The room was sterile, cold, and perfect for what he needed. Against the far wall, a glass-fronted medicine cabinet gleamed under the dim light. Inside were the supplies that could save him. He moved toward it, eyes focusing on the vials and bottles lined neatly inside.

Another lock. Child’s play.

His hands moved with the speed of experience. The lock clicked open, and Bishop immediately plucked out what he needed. A vial of lidocaine to numb the pain. Antibiotics to stave off infection. An adrenaline shot to keep him conscious long enough to get the job done. A syringe to make it all work.

But as he stepped back from the cabinet, his vision dimmed. Blood trickled through the gauze, down his thigh. The edges of the room blurred for a moment, darkening as dizziness gripped him. He steadied himself against the cabinet, feeling a cold sweat trickle down his spine.

Damn. Worse than I thought.

His breathing came in short, sharp bursts as he opened the drawer beneath the cabinet, his vision splitting and coming back together. Inside were surgical tools. Scalpel. Forceps. Sutures. He knew them well, had used them in field conditions far worse than this. His hands moved by instinct, laying them out carefully on the metal tray beside the operating table.

But his body wasn’t cooperating. The blood loss was catching up to him fast, sapping his strength, his focus, with each passing second. His leg throbbed, the hastily packed wound already soaked through with blood. His only chance was to get on the table and treat himself, but even that seemed like a monumental task now.

With a low growl of frustration, Bishop gritted his teeth and dragged himself toward the operating table. His arms shook with the effort, his muscles weakening under the strain. He reached for the edge of the table, his fingers slipping on the cold steel as the room spun around him.

Stay focused. Fix the leg. Keep moving.

His grip faltered. The tray wobbled. Metal instruments teetered on the edge. Bishop’s vision swam again, the edges of his world closing in. He fought to stay upright, but his body had reached its limit.

His knees buckled.

And then, darkness.