Chapter 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

Covington's manicured fingers pressed against the crease in his pantlegs, his irritation simmering just beneath the surface. His driver pushed the Cadillac Escalade's powerful engine along the winding roads. In the rearview mirror, the Hartwell property faded, shrinking into the misty horizon along with the veneer of charm he’d used moments earlier.

His eyes darted to the digital clock on the dashboard. 10:47 AM. Ambrose would be expecting an update.

As the tires met the smooth asphalt, Covington reached for his phone. He tapped the contact list and called the number at the top of it, the CEO of Crystal Springs, Jason Ambrose.

“I’ve been waiting for an update.” The voice on the other end was cold, clinical. No room for pleasantries. “And you know how much I hate to wait.”

“Sir, things have been complicated here,” he said, tone carefully measured. “I just left the Hartwell property. She’s still … uncooperative.”

A sharp pause followed. Covington imagined Ambrose, sitting behind a desk of polished oak, surrounded by his yes men and the myriad lucrative projects in the works. His frustration with the stubborn landowner’s defiance was a mark on an otherwise unblemished record. Ambrose didn’t tolerate failure. And Convington could tell his boss’s patience was wearing thin.

“She hasn’t signed?” Ambrose’s voice was pure ice. “This should’ve been settled already, Beauregard. I assumed this call, delayed as it was, would be to notify me that things in that town had fallen in line.”

Covington forced the frustration down. “There were … unforeseen complications.”

“Unforeseen?” Ambrose's tone dripped with disdain. “Explain.”

“The sheriff showed up.” He bent the truth and avoided going into the details. Vague was better. It afforded some wiggle room. And right now, he needed as much as he could get. “I wasn’t able to reach an understanding.”

“And this sheriff, is he going to be a problem?”

“No. I don’t think he’s aware.”

“Good. Things in that town are complicated enough with the Masterson situation. I don’t need your incompetence with this matter, adding fuel to the fire.” A heavy silence followed.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I expect nothing less. Do whatever it takes to make sure she gets the message. This deal is non-negotiable.”

“The Hartwell woman will sign.” Covington mustered his confidence. “And if they continue to resist … accidents happen. House fires. Brake failures. You know how it goes.”

“Talk is cheap. See that it does. This project’s momentum can’t be halted, not for anyone—especially not for a woman in some backwoods town. Our investors are paying close attention. I lose, you lose.”

Covington released the pressure in his chest in a long, slow exhale. “And the other matter—has the leak been taken care of?”

“Being handled as we speak,” Ambrose replied. “Focus on your end, Beauregard. You’re already behind schedule, and my patience with you is at its end.”

The call ended abruptly, the disconnect like the slamming of a coffin lid.

Covington exhaled and tossed the phone aside. His eyes returned to the road as the Escalade devoured the mountain highway. Hartwell was a minor obstacle, a speed bump on his path to power. But Ambrose was right—this deal was too important, and failure wasn’t an option.

Small towns had their share of tragedies, and the Hartwell woman was testing fate. Tomorrow would be her last day to reconsider. Or it would be her last day, period.

The forest held its breath, post-storm stillness wrapping everything in a thick, suffocating silence. Bishop moved through the underbrush, each step a battle against the searing pain in his leg. His M65 field jacket, torn and slick with blood, snagged on a branch. He froze, every instinct on high alert. Listening. Waiting.

Nothing but the whisper of his own ragged breathing.

Warm blood trickled down his calf, a stark reminder of his misstep. The torn stitches were a problem. Again. "Just another day in paradise," Bishop muttered, his dry humor a flimsy shield against the pain. Stopping wasn't an option. He gritted his teeth and soldiered on.

The ridge materialized through the mist, and Bishop swept the landscape. Below, the Hartwell house emerged like a grainy image in a developing photograph. Thin smoke still curled from the ground, remnants of the fire barely visible. The county cruiser sat at the porch, its flashing blue lights painting the damp earth in an eerie, pulsing glow.

Two figures stood out clearly.

One—the sheriff—was still battling the fire's aftermath, mud-soaked and wielding a shovel with a desperation that bordered on madness. His movements were sharp and aggressive, as if he could beat back not just the flames but everything threatening his world.

Then the other. Her.

Bishop instinctively brushed his sidearm. The polymer grip was a cold comfort against his palm. She was good. If she planned to catch him, she’d need to do better.

The tables had turned. The predator was now the prey. He had seen operators like her before. Methodical, calculating, unstoppable once they locked on. And she had locked onto him.

His leg throbbed, a dull, insistent pulse that matched the flow of blood seeping through the makeshift bandage. He leaned heavily against a nearby tree, his vision swimming for a moment. The blood loss was worse than he'd thought, and the weight of fatigue pressed down hard. Time was running out.

She disappeared into the house. Tick tock. She'd find his trail soon—the blood, the signs of his escape. The clock was ticking before the chase would start up again.

Time to move.

Bishop pushed off the tree, nearly collapsing as a wave of vertigo hit. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he forced himself forward. Just a light jog through paradise, he thought. Nothing like a morning constitutional with a side of imminent death. The high ground was his best shot, but each step felt like trudging through quicksand. He needed an advantage, any advantage, to keep her off his trail long enough to regroup.

One last glance down the ridge. The fire was little more than a smoldering memory now, wisps of smoke swirling into the morning mist. She was gone from view. Inside, clearing the house. The chase was about to begin.

Bishop's leg buckled as he reached the steeper incline. Agony shot through his body, but he pushed through, his mind snapping into survival mode. When every muscle screamed for relief, you learned to ignore the pain. You learned to keep moving, because stopping wasn't an option.

The forest thickened around him, the mist growing denser. He welcomed the cover, but it slowed him down further. His vision blurred again, black creeping at the edges. He was on borrowed time.

Up ahead, a rocky outcrop jutted from the ridge, offering just enough shelter to give him a moment's reprieve. He collapsed against the cold granite, breath ragged. His hands worked quickly, peeling back the blood-soaked dressing. The wound was angry, deep, and the torn stitches didn’t help. Blood still oozed from the gash, but he worked through the pain, packing it with whatever materials he had left.

The pain was blinding, white-hot, but Bishop had endured worse. He tied off the bandage with trembling hands, each movement deliberate. It wasn't enough to fix the problem, but it would buy him some time.

His sat phone buzzed. Bishop wiped a blood-stained hand on his pants and mashed in the pin code. The scratched screen flickered to life. A single message blinked.

Status on second target?

He typed a quick reply, the words blurring before his eyes.

In progress.

He shoved it back into his pack. Bishop closed his eyes for a moment, the exhaustion threatening to pull him under. No. Not now. The second target could wait. Right now, survival was the only mission that mattered.

He hauled himself upright, his muscles screaming in protest. Each step was a battle—lift, plant, drag, repeat. His combat boots squelched in the mud, each sound a potential beacon to his pursuer. He couldn't afford to leave a blood trail for her to follow. He needed to find better cover, a place where he could regroup without leading her right to him.

The air hung thick and damp around him, the mist coiling its gray fingers between the trees. The rich scent of wet earth and decaying leaves filled his nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of his own blood. Bishop scanned the terrain, mapping the forest in his mind. These woods were familiar enough, but she knew them too—well enough to track him. She had the skillset, the training. And she was close.

Too close.

That thought spurred him forward, his pace quickening despite the searing pain. He couldn't stop. Not yet. Not while she was still hunting.

Because the moment he stopped, she'd be there.

And then? Game over.