Page 16 of Forest Reed (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #8)

Forest

The coordinates from the burned wristband dropped us at the edge of the high ridge trail. Not a tourist trail—the kind locals didn’t talk about, the kind hunters and smugglers knew too well. The GPS pinged once, then lost signal completely, leaving nothing but instinct and the weight in my gut.

Zoe slammed the truck door and slung her pack over her shoulder like she’d been doing this her whole life. “So let me guess,” she said. “No cell service, no Wi-Fi, no DoorDash. Just bears and your winning personality.”

I adjusted the strap on my rifle. “Good thing I brought snacks.”

She shot me a look. “If that’s code for jerky again, I’m leaving you here before we even get started.

I almost smiled. Almost. “Relax. I upgraded.” I pulled a foil packet out of my pack and tossed it over.

She caught it, peeled it open, and blinked. “Trail mix?”

“Luxury edition.”

“Wow,” she deadpanned. “Mountain Man pulls out nuts and M&Ms, and I’m supposed to swoon.”

“You’re swooning right now,” I said.

She popped an almond in her mouth and smirked. “Sure. Swooning.”

The humor was good. It kept us relaxed. But underneath, the tension was sharp. Lane and Jason were covering a nearby ridge, deputies patrolling the perimeter. Still, I understood this—North wasn’t giving us clues for free. He wanted us here. He was guiding us.

The trail narrowed, switchbacking along a cliffside overlooking the valley. Wind cut sharply, carrying snowmelt. Zoe kept her pace as if she’d grown up in boots, though every so often she muttered about how “city pavement didn’t try to kill you.”

“Rule three,” I said, offering a hand as she stepped across a loose rock slide.

“I thought rule three was don’t hydrate,” she said, still taking it.

“Rule three is don’t look down unless you’re ready for what’s waiting.”

She peeked. Saw the drop. Went pale. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” I said quietly.

She froze at that, eyes flicking up to mine. Something raw moved through her expression—caught between denial and the truth she wasn’t ready to say out loud. Then she shook her head, huffed, and kept moving.

Smart woman.

We crested the ridge, and that’s when I saw it—an old ranger station, half-collapsed, tin roof rusted through. It should’ve been abandoned years ago. But the smoke curling from the chimney told me otherwise.

Zoe crouched beside me, eyes narrowing. “That’s it.”

“Yeah.” I scanned the treeline. Too quiet. No birdsong. No squirrels. The forest itself was holding its breath.

“Trap?” she whispered.

“Definitely.”

Her lips curved. “Good. I’m in the mood.”

Before I could tell her to hold, she tugged my sleeve, leaned close, and whispered, “And if this goes bad, just know—your trail mix sucks.”

Then she kissed me, quick and fierce, and pulled away with her Glock already in hand.

I exhaled, muttering, “Trouble,” and followed her down the slope.

We were ten yards from the station when the door creaked open. A man stepped out—gray jacket, forgettable face, the one we’d trussed like a raccoon days ago. Only now he was free, calm, and carrying a walkie.

His voice carried across the clearing, almost casual. “Welcome back. Mr. North’s been expecting you.”

The walkie crackled, and North’s voice rolled through, silk and certain. “Detective. Mr. Reed. You followed the trail. Good. Let’s see how well you run it.”

Behind the station, engines roared to life—three more vehicles pulling out of the tree line, headlights slicing the dark.

Zoe cursed under her breath. “Please tell me you brought a bigger net.”

“No,” I said, chambering a round. “This time, we bring fire.”