Chapter 21
Wes pressed the accelerator harder as the truck tore along the mountain road.
His gaze jumped from the curves ahead to the mirrors and back again.
Another shot cracked through the darkness.
“Get down!” He reached for Rowan to make sure she listened.
Rowan ducked lower.
Glass exploded from the rear side window this time, scattering across the back seat. Remington instantly dropped flat.
Wes checked the mirror just long enough to see the dog still moving.
Good.
He tightened his grip on the wheel.
The shooter wasn’t on the road. Whoever it was had taken higher ground somewhere in the trees.
Another shot rang out.
Then a pop sounded.
The truck jerked hard.
A tire had blown.
The rear of the truck fishtailed toward the edge of the mountain road, and Rowan caught herself against the dash with a gasp.
Wes fought the wheel and forced the truck back under control. But the rim ground on the road, pulling the vehicle sideways.
He wouldn’t keep control much longer.
The road curved sharply right ahead. Thick trees crowded both sides of the shoulder.
He needed those trees for cover.
Wes pushed the truck through the curve and onto the narrow shoulder, then killed the headlights.
Darkness slammed into the cab.
For a second, the only sounds were the ticking engine and Rowan’s uneven breathing.
She reached for her ear again, touching it like she always did when she was nervous.
“The truck isn’t safe,” Wes said. “We need to move. Now.”
Fear filled her eyes, but she nodded.
Wes pulled out his phone and sent a fast text to the sheriff. They were going to need backup out here.
Ridge Road overlook spur. Shots fired. Tire out. On foot heading NE through trees with Rowan.
The reply came almost immediately.
I’m ten minutes out. Keep moving.
Wes shoved the phone back into his pocket and looked at Remington. The Doberman was already up, alert and waiting.
Good dog.
Wes reached for the handle. “Stay behind me.”
“Got it.”
Then he opened the door and stepped into the dark woods, knowing they needed to run before a bullet found them.
Rowan darted through the woods, branches clawing at her arms as darkness pressed in from every side.
Her body understood the danger before her mind caught up.
Someone was hunting them.
The thought hit hard and cold, but there was no time to process it. No time to process how different real-life danger was from the scripted danger while shooting a film.
Wes walked ahead of her, fast and certain through the trees. Every few seconds he reached back—a hand at her elbow, a sharp redirect around a fallen log, a warning she barely registered before obeying.
She stayed close.
Her lungs burned from the cold mountain air. Roots twisted beneath her feet, hidden beneath leaves and shadow. A rock shifted under her boot, and she nearly went down before catching herself against a tree trunk.
Keep moving.
That was all that mattered.
Remington ran beside Wes without a sound.
No crashing through brush. No panicked movement. No whining or barking.
A footstep echoed behind them. It was too close.
Rowan’s pulse pounded in her throat.
She risked a glance over her shoulder. She saw nothing but darkness between the trees.
Whoever was out there was hidden, like a ghost.
Then the woods went quiet again.
Too quiet.
The gunman had stopped moving, she realized.
Which meant he was listening.
Another shock of fear rushed through her.
They had to keep moving. Stopping would be a death sentence. She felt certain of it.
Drawing in a ragged breath, Rowan pushed herself forward.
Her life depended on it.