Four
Helena’s pulse slammed in her chest as the sharp retort of gunfire split the air, freezing her in place.
The sound was so sudden, so jarring, that it took her a moment to even process what was happening.
Trevor’s arm shot out, pulling her toward the nearest tree for cover, his grip strong and urgent.
Her mind screamed to move, but her body was slow to obey.
Her instincts had never been honed for this kind of danger—this kind of hunting.
She wasn’t a cop. She wasn’t trained for combat or evasion.
She was a forensic mechanic, used to the calm precision of analysis, of peeling back layers of evidence to find truth. Not this. Not running from a killer.
Trevor yanked her low, pulling her behind the tree with him, his movements fluid, practiced.
His breath was steady, but Helena’s was too fast, too sharp.
She could feel the adrenaline spiking, her heart racing against her ribs as she struggled to focus.
Every rustle in the bushes felt like a threat, every snap of a twig like a death sentence.
“Down,” Trevor growled, his voice low, urgent. He didn’t wait for her to respond, just pressed her down further, behind the tree, where they were shielded, but only slightly.
Helena’s hands shook—nothing like the precision she was used to.
Nothing like the controlled, steady work that gave her comfort.
The air carried the faintest tang of burnt wood mixed with something metallic.
But it wasn’t just the stench of smoke—it was fear, the kind that tightened her chest and made her limbs feel heavy.
This wasn’t a fire she could analyze, a wreck she could sift through for answers. This was raw, unrelenting violence.
The silence stretched after the shot, palpable, suffocating. She heard Trevor’s whispered prayers and silently joined in. Lark, too, still in the woods somewhere, still tracking.
“Stay low,” Trevor muttered as he shifted beside her. His presence was solid, a reminder of what they had to do. She didn’t know how long they could stay hidden like this.
Lark barked from deeper in the trees, like a hammer to glass. Helena flinched, her chest constricting. The sound of it was urgent, a signal that they were being hunted. The dog was still on the trail, but now there was no telling how close the killer was.
“We need to move,” Trevor said. His voice was strained, the undercurrent of fear clear in the way he spoke. Helena swallowed hard, her mouth dry.
Another shot rang out, louder this time. The sound split the air again, followed by the sickening fracture of bark splintering. A bullet had hit the tree just beside them, its impact sending a shower of wood and bark flying.
Helena’s breath stopped in her chest. Without thinking, she clutched Trevor’s sleeve as if it could anchor her in the chaos.
Trevor was already pulling her up, his movements swift and purposeful, but for the first time, Helena felt unmoored.
Out of place. The intensity of it all—the crack of gunfire, the pulse of danger—pressed in on her, unlike anything she had ever felt.
“Keep moving,” Trevor urged, dragging her into a crouch as they ran for cover, darting between trees and rocks. She didn’t ask where they were going. She couldn’t think past the need to stay alive, to stay hidden.
Another bullet whizzed by, close enough for her to feel the breeze of it, and panic slammed into her chest like a wrecking ball. She gasped, her legs moving faster now, pumping through the underbrush, following Trevor’s lead. She couldn’t look back. She couldn’t—
“Don’t stop. Keep moving,” Trevor’s voice was steady, cutting through the chaos. “It’s going to be okay. Trust me.”
They kept running. But Helena could feel every shadow now, the haunting sense that they were being stalked. And for the first time, she understood what it meant to be hunted.
Helena’s legs burned as she pushed forward, her body moving on autopilot, each step a desperate attempt to outpace the looming danger.
The brush scratched at her arms and face, but she barely felt it.
Trevor was a few paces ahead, cutting through the dense undergrowth, his focus razor-sharp.
He didn’t glance back, didn’t hesitate, just moved with a grim determination that kept her going.
Another shot rang out, closer this time, and she stumbled, the sound too loud, too sharp in her ears.
But Trevor buoyed her, and stayed beside her, kept them moving, his hands always guiding her, urging her forward.
They darted between the trees, her breath coming in ragged bursts, until finally, the underbrush thinned and they broke out into a clearing.
The wind hit them like a wall, dry and biting, and ahead of them, an old access road wound through the trees, leading toward a distant hill. It looked like a path long forgotten, worn down by time and weather. But it was their only way out.
Trevor didn’t hesitate. He pulled her to the road, his eyes scanning the area for movement. Lark was still ahead, her tail low and tense, but she was still on the trail, her nose working furiously. The dog hadn’t slowed, hadn’t lost the scent.
“Roads lead to people and, hopefully, safety. Hang with me,” Trevor said, pushing her forward.
They reached the road, the dry-packed earth jarring under their boots. The air was thick with tension, the hairs on the back of Helena’s neck standing up. She still sensed danger, but at least they were out in the open now, the trees behind them offering no more cover for the shooter.
Just then, the low rumble of an engine cut through the stillness.
Helena froze, her eyes darting in the direction of the sound.
From the other end of the access road, an old pickup truck appeared, its tires kicking up a trail of dust as it barreled forward.
The truck was an older model, dark, and its engine sputtered in a low, menacing growl.
“Get down!” Trevor hissed, yanking Helena to the side just as the truck sped toward them.
They ducked behind a large boulder at the edge of the road, hearts hammering in their chests. The pickup came to a screeching halt in front of them, the tires spinning on pavement. Helena’s pulse raced. The man inside hadn’t seen them.
Yet.
Trevor’s eyes flicked to the truck’s tailgate, but it was already too late.
The driver was looking the other way, his head turned briefly as he checked the mirrors.
Helena’s stomach dropped as the truck shifted into gear and started to roll away, kicking up more dust, but not at the speed they needed.
“Wait,” Trevor whispered, his eyes narrowing.
His gaze shot to the back of the pickup. He could see only a partial license plate. Some of the letters and numbers were obscured by dust and dirt, but there was no time to get closer.
“We need that plate,” Trevor grumbled under his breath, frustration seeping into his voice.
The truck was already speeding away, disappearing down the road, a cloud of dust rising in its wake. He couldn’t make out the full number, not in time.
Helena wanted to cry but they still had the tie clip. A piece of a clue that might lead them to the killer.
Trevor slammed his fist against the boulder in frustration. “We have a partial, but that’s not enough. We’re going to have to track this down the hard way.”
Helena nodded, trying to steady her breath. “We’ll get him.” She peered into his steely eyes and touched his forearm. “Thank you. You promised to keep me safe, and I admit I didn’t think you could promise such a feat, but…” She swallowed hard, the gratitude filling her chest and expanding.
Trevor ran a thumb across her cheek and a soft smirk formed, creasing a dimple. “You weren’t so bad yourself. Cool under pressure.”
She let out a laugh. “I was and am terrified. What’s that ‘fake it until you make it’ saying?”
They held each other’s gaze one beat…two…
three, until the atmosphere shifted and the sound of the truck’s engine faded into the distance.
They were left alone again, no more shots, no more immediate danger, but with the knowledge that the person who had been hunting them was still out there—and still a step ahead.
“We’re not stopping. Come on, we have to traipse back to my truck, and I’ll call this in on the way.” He framed her face. “We’re getting this guy.”
And Helena couldn’t help but agree.
They had no choice.
* * *
The sun filtered through the blinds in Trevor’s small kitchen, casting thin, slatted shadows across the worn tile floor.
He sat at the table, laptop open, the sharp, tinny sound of a conference call crackling through the speakers.
His coffee sat untouched beside him, the steam long gone, forgotten in the tension of the call.
The screen flickered as the Colorado K-9 Unit Task Force members joined in, their faces filling the digital grid—tired eyes, furrowed brows, jaws set with determination.
Emmett Dane’s face appeared in one corner, his broad features tense but focused, the faint lines of worry etched deep around his normally bright blue eyes.
Melody Rust’s video popped up last. She was a detective from Boulder. Her fiery red hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, her expression was as sharp and unyielding as the blade of a combat knife. Each of his colleagues was a dedicated officer with a K-9 partner who was equally impressive.
“All right, folks.” Emmett’s deep voice cut through the low murmur of greetings. “Thanks for getting on this morning. I know it’s early, but Eva’s got something for us.”
Eva Gomez, the team’s tech analyst, leaned into her camera, her intense dark eyes piercing.
“After digging through private adoption agency records in Boulder, I managed to home in on a couple of possibilities. Melody and another agent visited a few of these agencies yesterday. It felt like a long shot, but something came through.”