Tour Stop, Excerpt & Giveaway: The Dead of Jerusalem Ridge by Jean Rabe

“Only one target, Christmas?”

“Roger, Spaceman, just one. Eyes on him now.”

“Me and Renegade are following two, and that leaves one unaccounted for. Hemi is—”

“On the fourth,” came another voice. Hemi, Piper recognized his rasp. “I’m dogging him. I’m near the creek, too. All the mud. What an awesome day we picked for this.” A pause: “Where near the creek are you, Christmas?”

I don’t know, Piper thought. Somewhere along the damn creek.

“My target’s moving,” she whispered. “I’m following to get in range.”

She thumbed off the walkie-talkie, not needing the distraction of her teammates’ chatter, and shimmied out of the brush, sliding on her belly down the rise, and jumping to her feet at the edge of the creek. The silhouette had moved farther away, hopefully didn’t know where she was. The hint of success tugged at her thoughts.

Couldn’t tell how deep the water was, not clear enough to see the bottom. But she spotted what was left of his boot prints in the mud at the edge. If he’d crossed here, so could she. Piper stepped in, then slogged across carefully, the water above her knees at the deepest part, the bed slippery and threatening her balance. On the other side she let out the breath she’d been holding and searched for his tracks. The mud had been disturbed here by something. Maybe an animal, or … there, another heel imprint and a partial indent from the tread. A wide foot. And a dropped candy bar wrapper. She snapped it up and stuck it in her pocket, hated seeing garbage in the woods.

There were winterberry shrubs and milkweed on this rise, and she scrambled up the rocky ground and stayed low behind the bushes, turned on the walkie-talkie again and heard Spaceman arguing with Renegade, clicked it off once more and edged around the thickest clump.

Pat-a-pat-a-pat-a-pat.

No sign of the shape, just the dizzying blotches of greens and browns and more rain.

Shit and two is four.

“Christmas!” The shout came from behind her, Hemi. “Look out!”

Piper spied movement to her right, and she spun, nearly skidding back down the rise. Digging in her heels, she brought up the rifle and squeezed off four shots—three misses, but one nailed him dead center.

“Argh!” her target hollered, his own weapon falling as he dropped to his knees and slipped down the bank, landing splayed on his back at the edge of the creek, the blossom of dayglow yellow paint on his chest instantly diluted by rain.