Chapter 8 Hazel
eight
Hazel
The ambush unfolds exactly the way Travis predicted.
I watch Eric and Patricia peel off with their ATVs, noise makers strapped to their cargo racks creating the illusion of a full convoy. The sound echoes through the trees—engine roar, metal clanging, enough racket to draw every raider in a two-mile radius.
"They're taking the bait," Travis says, his body tense beneath my arms as we veer onto the secondary route.
The logging road is barely visible. It's really more of a suggestion than actual path. Narrow trails wind through dense forest, low-hanging branches forcing us to duck repeatedly. Every bump sends fire through my healing shoulder, but I bite down on the pain and hold on tighter.
Travis navigates like he was born to this, reading the terrain ahead, adjusting for obstacles before I even see them coming. I trust him completely. That realization hits me somewhere around the third impossible turn, when he threads the ATV between two trees with inches to spare on either side.
I chose right. Joining this crew, choosing him, leaving the safety of Old Pines—all of it was right.
For ten glorious minutes, I think we're clear.
Then I hear the engines.
Different pitch than ATVs. Motorcycles. Two of them, emerging from the treeline like they've been waiting for exactly this moment.
"Fuck!" Travis swerves hard as the first shots crack through the air.
"Down!" he shouts, but I'm already flattening myself against his back.
Bullets whip past close enough that I feel the displacement of air. One catches the ATV's side panel with a metallic ping. Travis pushes the vehicle harder, the engine screaming in protest as we careen down a slope I would have sworn was too steep to navigate.
Behind us, Ken's ATV follows, Patricia driving with Jess clutching the back. I catch a glimpse of blood on Jess's arm before we round another curve.
"Jess!" I scream over the engine noise. "Jess, are you hit?"
"Just grazed!" Her voice carries back, tight with pain but steady. "Keep moving!"
The motorcycles are faster on open ground, but Travis takes us through terrain that should be impossible. Rock formations that force us into single file. Creek beds where the ATVs' wider wheelbase gives us traction the bikes can't match. Spaces between trees so narrow I hold my breath and pray.
I feel every decision Travis makes through his body—the way he tenses before a sharp turn, the shift of his weight to compensate for rough ground, the controlled aggression when he guns the engine to clear an obstacle. He's not just driving. He's fighting, using the terrain as a weapon.
One rider pulls alongside us, raising his weapon.
I don't think. Don't hesitate. I grab the pistol from Travis's hip—the same one I couldn't grip when he found me bleeding on the road—and my hand is steady now. Reggy's voice echoes in my head: Breathe. Aim. Squeeze, don't pull.
Two shots. The first goes wide, but the second catches the rider in the shoulder. He jerks sideways, loses control. His motorcycle hits a rock and goes airborne, the crash brutal enough that I know he's not getting back up.
"Nice shot!" Travis yells.
"Reggy taught me!" I yell back, and the grief that hits me is sharp but clean. Not the crushing weight it was before—just acknowledgment. Reggy's dead, but his lessons kept me alive. That matters. That means something.
The second rider adjusts his approach, hanging back now, more cautious. Smart. Professional. These aren't desperate survivors—they're trained fighters who've been doing this for months.
The rage surges hot and immediate, but I push it down. Travis was right—this isn't about revenge. It's about survival. About making sure no one else dies the way my crew did.
The forest starts thinning ahead. I see why Travis's jaw is set tight—there's a creek bed coming up, maybe twenty feet wide, rocky banks on either side.
"Hold on," he says, and something in his voice makes my stomach drop.
"Travis, that's too wide!"
"I know."
"We can't!"
"Hold on, Hazel."
He guns the engine.
We hit the lip of the creek bed at maximum velocity. For a second that stretches into eternity, we're airborne. Wind roars past. The ATV's engine screams. I bury my face against Travis's back and hold on with every ounce of strength I have.
We land hard. The suspension bottoms out with a groan that sounds like metal tearing, and the impact jars through my whole body. But we land on the opposite bank, wheels gripping dirt, engine still running.
Behind us, the motorcycle tries the same jump.
Doesn't make it.
I hear the crash, metal on rock, the brutal physics of momentum meeting immovable objects. Then silence.
Travis doesn't slow down. Doesn't look back. Just keeps driving until we've put another mile between us and the ambush site, until the trees are thick again and the only sounds are our engines and my heart hammering in my ears.
When he finally stops, I'm shaking so hard I can barely let go.
"Hazel." His hands are on my face immediately, turning me to look at him. "Are you hurt?"
"No." I grab his shirt, fisting the fabric like it's the only solid thing in the world. "You jumped twenty feet."
"Eighteen. Maybe nineteen." His eyes search my face, checking for injuries, for shock, for anything wrong.
"Don't you dare do that again."
"Can't promise that." But he's smiling slightly, and the relief in his expression mirrors what I'm feeling. "You okay? Really okay?"
Instead of answering, I kiss him. Hard and desperate and fierce, tasting fear and adrenaline and the sharp edge of being alive when we should be dead. He kisses me back with the same intensity, his hands gentle on my face even as his mouth is demanding.
We break apart when Ken and Patricia's ATV pulls up, Jess clutching her bleeding arm.
Right. Medic. I'm a medic.
I force myself to switch gears, examining Jess's injury with hands that are steadier than they should be. Bullet grazed her upper arm—painful, bleeding, but not serious. I clean it, bandage it, give her water and painkillers from our supply kit.
"You're getting good at this," Jess says, watching me work.
"Getting practice." I tie off the bandage. "Too much practice."
"Welcome to convoy life."
Eric and Patricia roll in about an hour later, their decoy mission successful. They drew off at least four raiders, led them on a chase through terrain that eventually broke the pursuit.
"We did it," Eric says, wonder and disbelief mixing in his voice. "We actually did it."
"We're not clear yet." Travis is already studying maps, plotting the final approach to Hope Tower. But when he looks up at me, something passes between us. Acknowledgment. Pride. The recognition that we work well together—not just in bed, but in crisis. When things matter.
Ken claps Travis on the shoulder. "Hell of a jump back there."
"Hazel's idea," Travis lies smoothly.
"Bullshit," I say. "That was all you."
"We make a good team." He says it casually, but his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Yeah," I manage. "We do."
We mount up for the final stretch to Hope Tower. This time I don't hesitate—I climb onto Travis's ATV and wrap my arms around his waist.
The guilt is still there. The grief over my crew, the weight of survival, all of it. But it's not crushing me anymore.
Reggy would approve. Susan would make a terrible pun about "moving on." Tommy would ask a thousand questions about the jump and the gunfight.
They're dead. I'm alive.
And I'm done apologizing for that.
As we ride toward Hope Tower, I let my head rest against Travis's back and just breathe.