I barely breathe. I will my heart to beat quietly.

More silent than a whisper, I hear him passing by on my right-hand side.

Slowly, so very slowly, I creep around the trunk of the tree, to keep the bulk of the tree between me and him. And then I peer around the edge of the bark.

He looks monstrous. He’s pulled up his hood so he’s covered head-to-toe in that brown, shaggy suit, like a bear that’s learned to walk on its hind legs. He moves in a slow, creeping way, head sweeping left to right, looking for me. I see the glint of his rifle, barrel up at the ready.

I’m behind him now. I’m waiting for him to keep going, so I can run in the opposite direction. But instead, he stops exactly where he is. He takes cover behind a fallen tree, thick with green moss and white toadstools. I follow his gaze upward to the top of the ridge.

There’s a figure up there. He’s lying prone on the ridge, rifle set up in front of him. I can only see the top of his shoulder, or maybe it’s his head. It’s difficult to tell at this distance. All I know for sure is that he’s dressed in dark clothes, and he’s big. It’s got to be Dante.

I watch Du Pont raise his rifle up, aiming at the figure. His finger curls around the trigger.

“DANTE LOOK OUT!” I scream.

Too late. Du Pont fires. The figure tumbles back off the top of the ridge, hit dead on.

Du Pont is already wheeling around in my direction. I’m running away as fast as I can, through the thickest stands of trees, hoping they’ll provide some cover.

I hear another shot, and then a popping sound, followed by hissing. I throw a look back over my shoulder. A sheet of smoke rises up in the air, thick and pale gray. The smoke is between me and Du Pont. Or at least, I think it is—I don’t have a good sense of direction. I have no idea where I am relative to the meadow, or to the cabin or van. I’m completely lost.

I keep running, tears streaming down my cheeks, hoping against hope that Du Pont’s shot only caught Dante on the shoulder, that Dante is still alive.

I reach a small stretch of ground that’s open and leafy, and I sprint across it, trying to get back under the cover of trees. As I’m running, the ground gives way beneath my feet. I’m plunging down.

My arms pinwheel, reaching for something, anything. I grab a tree root and hang on to it with both hands, two of my fingernails tearing off at the quick.

I’m dangling over empty space, barely clinging to the root. Trying not to scream, I look down into a deep pit.

Oh my god. It’s some kind of trap. I can’t see the bottom. I don’t know how deep it is, or what’s down there. But I know it’s far enough that I’ll probably break my leg if I lose my grip on this root. Plus I’ll be stuck down there. No getting out. Du Pont will be able to track me down at his leisure.

I have to pull myself back up.

I’m clinging to the root, which is thin and slippery with mud. I try to haul myself back up, but my hands slide down, and I almost lose my grip entirely.

My hands are freezing cold and numb. My whole body is aching—scratched, bruised, shivering.

I want to cry. I want to give up. But I can’t.

Tightening my grip, I pull myself up a few inches, then a few more. I dig my bare toes into the side of the pit to give myself purchase. As I get closer to the top, I try to grab the muddy edge of the pit. A chunk of crumbling dirt comes off in my hand, grit raining down in my face, blinding me. I spit the dirt out of my mouth, and try again.

44

Dante

I run north toward the spot the starlings avoided. I know there’s a human there.

As I approach, I bring my scope up to my shoulder and scan the area. I see what looks like a figure, laying prone on top of the ridge, and I grin. I recognize my old rifle. Raylan found us.

The figure isn’t Raylan—it’s my clothes, stuffed with branches and leaves, positioned to look like a person. It’s a decoy. Raylan is trying to draw Du Pont in. Which means that he’s got to be close by, waiting for Du Pont to show himself.

I take my own position, forming the third side of a triangle. The decoy is the point—Raylan and I are the other two corners. Hopefully Du Pont will walk right into the middle.

The woods are silent. No birdsong or chirping frogs. There’s too many people around. The animals know where we’re here.

I slow my breathing, scanning the woods through my scope.

Then I hear a sound that makes my blood freeze. Simone’s scream: “DANTE LOOK OUT!”

A rifle fires. The dummy tumbles off the top of the ridge.

I swing my barrel around, searching for the shooter, or for Simone.

Raylan spots her first—he’s closer to her. She’s running away through the woods, naked and covered in mud.

Raylan grabs his smoke grenade, pulls the pin, and flings it down behind her. It detonates, throwing up a screen of smoke, shielding her from Du Pont.

Unfortunately, it also shields Du Pont from me. And it leaves Raylan wide open.

I hear the sound of Du Pont’s rifle, echoing through the trees. Then a grunt that has to be Raylan. A body falls down the ridge, rolling over as it goes. Raylan was wearing a vest, same as me, but a vest won’t stop a high-caliber bullet. It only slows it down a little.

I’m torn between the need to check on Raylan, and the need to follow after Simone.

Really, there’s no choice—my feet are already turning in Simone’s direction, and I’m running after her, determined to get to her before Du Pont can.

I hear a shriek and the sound of splintering branches. FUCK. Another trap. I’m running full out, my shoulder throbbing like a drum, my heart thudding so loud that I can hear it in my ears.

I’m crashing through the trees, branches whipping at my face, running toward the sound of that scream.

I reach a clearing and I see Du Pont standing at the edge of a pit, rifle raised, pointed down at Simone. Simone is clinging to the soft, crumbling ground, looking up into Du Pont’s face with an expression of pure terror.

He’s already got his gun pointed right at her. If I shoot him in the head or the back, he may jerk the trigger and kill her.

No time to think. No time to aim.

I raise my rifle, without even using the scope. I point and shoot.

Du Pont’s trigger finger explodes in a mist of blood.

Snarling with rage, he wheels toward me.

I shoot him three more times in the chest.

He’s frozen in place, teeth bared, eyes bulging.

Then he topples over, tumbling down into the pit.

I run to Simone, grabbing her by the wrists. I pull her up out of the hole, wrapping her in my arms and pressing her against my chest.

“Dante!” she sobs. “You’re alive!”

I kiss her everywhere. Her hands, her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. She’s covered in mud, and I don’t give a shit. I strip off my shirt and put it on her naked body—it’s so big on her that it hangs down almost to her knees. I take off my boots and put my thick wool socks over her bloody, battered feet. Then I scoop her up in my arms and carry her.

She lays her head against my chest, shivering so hard I can barely hold her at first, then slowly relaxing, and sinking into the warmth of my body.

I carry her back the way we came, back to where Raylan fell.