Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
And honestly, thank God he did. Because in this kind of fight, “dirty” just might be our best shot at survival.
Chapter 34
Gabby
The air was too still. Even the insects had gone quiet like the bayou itself was holding its breath. I crouched low beneath the thick foliage, shoulder pressed against the damp ground, with my heart thudding so loudly I was sure it would give me away. Malcolm was a few feet away, hidden deeper in the undergrowth, but I could feel his attention shift when the crunch of footsteps got too close.
“Move now,” he whispered, barely audible.
I turned my head slightly, catching the glint of his eyes. “I can’t,” I hissed. “I'm not capable of moving fast. At least, not without making noise.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, Malcolm did precisely what I should have stopped him from doing—he moved. Fast and deliberate, breaking a branch or two and dragging his foot through the leaves just enough to pull whoever was coming away from me.
I watched him go, my gut twisting with guilt. He was risking himself for me, just like all of them were. Because I’d stepped into a storm and brought it to their front door. And yet here I was—hidden, broken, and doing nothing to help.
My hand tightened around Tinkerbell, the cool grip grounding me. I stayed motionless, forcing my lungs to slow down even as my head pounded and my ribs throbbed from even the smallest breath. I listened hard, focusing on the movement ahead, the brush shifting, and the leaves crackling. There were more footsteps treading lighter this time.
I assumed it was Malcolm settling into a new position, so I started crawling.
The movement was slow and agonizing. Every shift of my body sent pain radiating through my side, and my cast dragged clumsily over the uneven terrain. My head spun, vision tilting at the edges, but I didn’t stop. I needed to move. I needed to feel like I was doing something.
After what felt like forever, I slipped beneath a new patch of brush—thicker and lower to the ground, with a good view of the clearing beyond. I exhaled slowly once I'd settled, trying not to groan.
Then I heard it—a soft rustle, followed by a high-pitched whine that cut through the quiet. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. The sound came again, and through the shifting leaves, I caught a glimpse of movement.
A thin, scruffy dog emerged from the trees, its ribs clearly visible beneath patches of matted fur. One ear flopped sideways in a way that was almost comically sad. Its nose twitched as it sniffed the air, clearly drawn by the scent of whatever survival food was smeared on my clothes or hidden in my pocket.
The tension in me melted almost instantly.
“Hey, baby,” I cooed quietly, barely louder than the breeze. “Come here, it’s okay.”
I clicked my tongue, fingers curling to reach for one of the tuna tins I’d grabbed earlier. The dog stepped forward warily, its eyes flicking from side to side.
Then it happened—a sudden, jarring stomp as heavy boots crashed through the underbrush.
A hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed the dog by the scruff, yanking it violently into the air. The animal let out a sharp, panicked yelp, a sound so raw and terrified it cut straight through me. I froze, the noise still echoing in my ears, my body locked in place as fear rooted me to the spot.
A man stepped into view, dressed in black and taller than I expected, with a rifle slung over his back and a sidearm strapped to his thigh. His face was half-covered, but his voice was unmistakable—cold, sharp, and dripping with threat.
“I know you’re out here, Gabby,” he called, holding the trembling dog up like a shield. “Come out now, or this mutt gets it.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All I could do was stare at the dog—limp in his grip, legs swinging, mouth open in a silent, desperate cry—and feel the weight of it all slam into me like a freight train.
Then, the underbrush shifted. Leaves rustled. Figures rose from the shadows, silent and steady, like wraiths with orders. A dozen at least—maybe more—of my protection detail emerged with weapons raised and eyes locked on the target.
The man holding the dog froze mid-step, bravado draining in an instant. His confidence cracked, and just like that, the odds shifted.
“Don’t move,” someone barked.
“Drop the dog.”
The man’s eyes darted, wild with panic. Instead of letting go, he wrapped his arm tighter around the dog’s belly and stepped back. “I’ll shoot,” he warned. “Don’t think I won’t!”
I didn’t think—I just moved. My hand found the brush beside me as I pushed to rise, heart pounding in my chest.
And then I heard it, a sharp, unmistakable snap.
Barris didn’t just stumble—he launched skyward like some cursed marionette yanked by fate itself. One moment, he was stepping back, the poor dog gripped in his arms. The next, he was airborne, hoisted by a snare trap Webb and Malcolm must have set.