Page 12 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
Whatever’s there, it’s downwind, meaning Storm only growls after she senses Dalton’s tension. Her gaze swings in the same direction. She must see something, though, because the hair on her back rises as the growl vibrates through her flanks.
I squint. It’s still daylight, but we’re in the forest, where dusk comes early. I can’t see anything, and Dalton’s gaze is still moving, meaning he doesn’t either.
I tap his arm and motion at Storm.
He nods and follows her gaze. His squint says he doesn’t see anything either. Then a silent curse tells me he does. I catch it then. A tall shadow in the forest.
Dalton reaches for his bear spray as my hand lowers to my gun. Then Dalton hesitates, his head tilting. A moment’s more hesitation, and he’s striding forward.
“You think I can’t see you?” he says. “Get the fuck out here—”
The figure runs, crashing through the forest like a bull moose.
“You know what I hate doing?” Dalton mutters as he takes off.
“Chasing assholes through the forest?”
No answer, though I’m sure he gave one. He’s just too far away for me to hear it.
I slap my thigh for Storm, and we give chase. Between my bad leg and her bulky build, neither of us is a sprinter. Dalton takes that role. We’re just here for backup.
As Dalton runs, I catch a glimpse of his target. It’s definitely human. Did he know that for sure? Either way, the guy is on the run, and from what I can see, it is a guy—a man, tall and stocky, and no more of a sprinter than Storm.
That’s when I spot the second figure.
It’s off to my left. Dalton doesn’t notice. He’s running after his target, and the second figure is to his rear. The figure’s arm swings up, pointing something toward Dalton and the runner.
“Stop!” I shout as I spin, my own gun rising.
“Whoa!” a familiar voice says, hands shooting up. “It’s me. Gunnar.”
“Put down your weapon,” I say.
“What weapon?” He flaps his hands over his head.
“You were pointing something at Eric.”
“My finger. I was pointing my finger at Louie, the guy you’re chasing. I was telling you he went that way.”
I eye his hands, which are indeed empty. Then I lower my gun and say, “Get in front of me.”
“What?”
“Get in front of me. I’m Eric’s backup, and I’m not letting you out of my sight. Now run.”
“Shit? Really?” Gunnar says. “My hip still hurts from, you know, getting shot a few months ago.”
“If it’s bothering you, you should catch the next plane home. Now, run.”
“It’s just Louie.”
“Run.”
He does, still grumbling.
“Eric!” I shout. “It’s Louie.” Then I say, to Gunnar’s back, “How do you know that?”
“’Cause I followed him. I was up in my perch, and I saw him leave, so I came to warn you guys.”
