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Chase, Intense Book 3

By Glenn Haggerty

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Prologue
Erick Donaldson crept from tree to tree scanning the hushed forest for his prey. Three-foot ferns screened the ground on either side of the path, but on the dirt trail ahead, cloven-hoofed prints pressed deep into the soft black soil.
He stooped. Fresh. His quarry was close.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He’d ditched algebra that morning, but Mom’s grounding would be worth it—especially if he had a new antler rack mounted to his wall.
Through a break in the tall trees, wisps of vapor rose from the valley below, and the domed roof of an old barn poked above the early fall greenery. Erick narrowed his eyes. He’d never seen buildings out here in the state park, but he’d never roamed this far north either. The dim trail twisted downhill and disappeared toward the barn. He touched the hunting license in the cargo pocket of his fatigues and stole after his game.
At the valley floor, he pushed through the brush line and stepped into the clearing.
Mist swirled against the barn and decay ate away the corners. Broken and missing boards lined the structure like unraveling bandages on a gigantic mummy. Elm saplings crowded the ruin. Just an abandoned barn. And yet . . .
The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
A gravel driveway led to a sturdy looking door. Tire tracks cut into the dirt, and the weeds leading to the dilapidated structure were trampled. He leaned forward and scanned the area around the building. To his left, the rutted two-track tunneled into the saplings and disappeared. To the right, a vague trail snaked into the forest.
He took another step into the clearing.
A vagrant breeze wafted the mist his way, stinging his nose and pushing him back. Mom’s cleaner? Why here?
A spasm rippled through his gut.
Something was wrong. He knew the forest, its sounds and smells, and he trusted his sixth sense—the one that told him he was close to his prey. Or maybe—the chill racing through his veins—the one that warned him of danger. He backed into the trees.
A twig snapped to his left, breaking the heavy silence.
His head jerked. He raised his bow and drew back the arrow.
Two men stood on the path fifty feet away, staring at him. A clown mask hid the first figure’s face.
Erick’s chest tightened. Clowns creeped him out. Were they stalking him? Hunters should hail another hunter in the woods. He swallowed and kept the bowstring tight.
The second man, skinny and pinched-faced, sported a sparse beard along his jaw. Erick narrowed his eyes. He didn’t know the skinny man’s name, but he’d seen him around town in a battered old pickup.
“What you doin’ here?” Skinny’s tone was flat like a zombie.
“Hunting. What’s it look like?” He eased off on the bowstring but spoke loud into the forest stillness.
“This is private property. No hunters allowed.” Skinny wore a dirty sweatshirt, and festering sores framed his mouth—gross.
“I thought this was state parkland.” He lowered his bow, but that ammonia smell warned him to keep a firm hold on his bowstring.
“You’re off track, dude. Kennessey Reserve is the other side of that ridge.” Skinny jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
Erick glanced at the other man. The thin, sandy hair hanging over the clown mask seemed familiar. “Why the mask?” He gestured with the bow.
Skinny grinned, showing blackened and missing teeth. “Aw, he had a tumor on his nose. Bad stuff. Left a hole when they cut it out, so he lives alone out here.” He turned to his companion. “Right, Larry?”
“You used my name.”
Erick’s gaze jumped to the masked man. He recognized the voice but couldn’t place it.
“What now?” Skinny spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“Take ‘im, fool.”
Skinny reached behind his back. Black steel flashed.
Erick’s stomach heaved, even as he lifted his bow and drew back the arrow.
The handgun moved up, the muzzle almost level.
He loosed his arrow and threw himself sideways.
A hammer blow struck his flank with ripping pain, and the thunder of a gunshot exploded the silence. He hit the ground rolling. More gunshots roared, kicking dust up into his face and whining past his ear. With a half roll, half spring, he lunged behind a large tree, pulled himself to a crouch and braced his feet on the tree’s thick roots.
“I hit ‘im, Larry,” Skinny said.
“I don’t know.” Larry sounded doubtful. “He was moving pretty quick.”
“What now?”
“We finish him.”
Erick stood and nocked another arrow. A wave of weakness washed over him, and he leaned back against the tree. Something warm and sticky dampened his palm. He looked down. Blood—lots of it—soaked his shirt. Nausea rippled his innards.
He sucked in a deep breath and snaked his arrow around the side of the tree.
“Watch it, Chase,” the masked man shrilled.
He let the arrow fly toward Skinny then ducked back behind the tree.
A man screamed. Gunfire split the air again, and a bullet tore off a chunk of bark.
“You’re hit.” Larry’s voice seethed with anger.
Skinny cursed.
Erick compressed his lips. He would go down fighting.
“It’s high up, clean through,” Larry grunted. “You’ll be okay. Can you still use that gun hand of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“You keep him covered then. I’ll circle to the right and flank him.”
Erick swallowed. That would work for them. If he didn’t move, he would die. He studied the cover on his back trail and calculated. It would be close.
He slung his bow over his shoulder and ran.
His quiver of arrows rattled on his back, and blood roared in his ears as his clunky hunting boots thumped the spongy ground. He tensed his shoulders, expecting the burning pain of another slug.
Shots rang out; bullets zipped past.
He flinched but quickened his pace.
The strangers cursed.
Was he out of range? He tried to accelerate up the slight grade, but his feet weighed him down, heavy as lead. He nearly fell as the underbrush seemed to grab at his ankles, holding him back. His breath came in ragged gasps. There was a side trail through that patch of ferns. He needed a cave, a thicket, a hollowed out tree, anywhere to hide—and fast.
A thick dome of brushwood appeared ahead.
He pushed on, but stars sprinkled his vision, and he stumbled to a stop.
Blood soaked his pants down to his knee. Had he left blood on his trail? No matter. He had to hide, couldn’t go much farther. He squinted at a rabbit trail burrowing tunnel-like into the thickly laced limbs of the mountain laurel.
It would have to do.
Sweat dripped into his eyes as he dropped to his knees and wormed into the evergreen shrubs. The thicket opened into a small clearing. He turned around, unslung his bow, nocked another arrow and waited.
The world spun, grayed, and then went black.

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