Page 95 of Shared By the Mountain Men Triplets

I’m already moving. With my rifle tight against my chest, I slide down the back side of the ridge. I keep my breathing slow as the world narrows to slope, timber, road, and the expected line of a fleeing man. “Prime moving to intercept,” I say.

Novak answers immediately. “Prime, hold position. Federal units can?—”

“Negative. I’m closest to the spur. If Turner hits the road, we lose him.”

“Do not engage beyond containment unless fired upon,” Novak barks back.

“Copy.” I don’t tell him Turner won’t get past me because some things don’t need to go over comms.

CHAPTER 42

RHETT

I cut over on an angle, using a line Cade and I walked in the dark three days ago. There’s fallen pine, a granite shelf, a steep drop into a wash, then up the other side, where the logging spur curves around a stand of aspen.

My rifle tracks ahead of my focus as every sound separates itself into a category: distant gunfire, engine noises, branch scrape, boot impact.

The firefight continues behind me. Cade fires twice. Boone’s voice snaps over the radio, “Mouth hit. Left shoulder. Still mobile.”

For a split second, everything goes white.

Then Boone continues, sounding more irritated than afraid. “I’m mobile. Keep pushing.”

I hear Wren at the command center, my brother’s name sounding like it’s ripping from her chest.

“Mouth, status?” Novak demands.

“Bleeding under control. I’m functional.”

“You’re not the judge of that,” Novak says.

Boone laughs, but it’s breathless and filled with pain. “Tell that to my brother.”

I want to put my hands on him and assess the wound myself, because if the mission needs him, Boone will carry on with blood pouring down his arm.

But Turner’s running, and Boone is walking, so I keep moving.

“Smoke, do you have eyes on Mouth?” I ask.

“Affirm,” Cade says. “Upright. Moving like he’s pissed.”

I’m relieved until an explosion cracks across the valley less than a minute later. It’s close, and it’s followed by shouts over the DEA channel and renewed gunfire.

“Smoke?”

There’s no answer, only static. I keep moving, but terror slices into my chest.

“Smoke, status.”

Two seconds pass, then three, then Cade’s voice finally comes through, sounding rougher than before. “Smoke up. Frag threw rock. Minor shrapnel. No deep penetration.”

A fragmentation device. Fuck. My teeth lock so hard, my jaw aches.

“Location?”

“Still inposition.”

It’s not the comfort it should be, because Cade could be half-dead and still insist holding position matters more than blood loss.