Chapter 9: The Forest Pursuit

The rain in the Catskills didn’t fall so much as it conspired. It was a cold, miserable drizzle that turned the forest floor into a treacherous soup of dead leaves and slick mud. Dap stepped out of the Ford V8, his coat already heavy with the damp chill of the mountains. He motioned for Maya and Dana to stay put in the vehicle, their faces pale against the gray light of the afternoon. The woods were too quiet. There were no birds, no rustle of small animals, just the rhythmic drip of water off the hemlock boughs.

Dap adjusted his hat, the brim pulled low to shield his eyes. He scanned the tree line. Something was off. It wasn’t just the silence; it was the way the shadows seemed to stretch a little too long, a little too deliberately, toward the cabin’s porch. He kept his hand near the holster tucked under his arm. He had spent enough time in the city’s concrete canyons to know when a predator was watching from the periphery.

He moved toward the treeline with the measured grace of a man who had walked through hell and expected to find the devil waiting for a drink. The forest floor crunched softly under his brogues. He stopped behind a thick oak, his senses straining against the ambient noise of the storm. A snap of a twig, distinct and sharp, echoed from his left. It wasn’t the wind. It was the calculated weight of a boot heel.

Dap didn’t look. He dropped into a crouch, his eyes darting across the moss-covered boulders. A glint of steel caught a stray beam of weak, filtered light. It was the barrel of a rifle, held steady by someone who didn’t mind waiting for the perfect shot. The professional had tracked them from the city, a shadow draped in wool and malice.

Dap shifted his weight, preparing to move. He knew the terrain was his only ally. In the city, he had buildings to hide behind; here, he had the chaos of nature. He picked up a jagged stone and tossed it hard toward a patch of dense ferns to his right. The effect was immediate. The rifle tracked the sound, the metal barrel swinging through the air with lethal precision.

Dap surged forward. He didn’t run; he glided, using the cover of the brush to close the distance. The shooter realized the ruse a second too late. A shot rang out, a thunderous crack that sent a flock of crows screaming into the sky, but the bullet only chewed through the bark of the oak tree where Dap had stood moments before.

The man in the trees scrambled, his movements clumsy on the slick incline. He was a tall, wiry individual with eyes that darted like a trapped rat’s. He tried to reload, his fingers fumbling with a clip, but Dap was already on him. The collision was a blur of limbs and desperate, muffled grunts. Dap slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving the wind out of him. They tumbled down the slope, a tangle of trench coats and grit, coming to a halt near the edge of a shallow, swollen creek.

The shooter tried to reach for a knife at his belt, but Dap was faster. He pinned the man’s arm against the mud with a knee, his grip iron-tight on the guy’s collar. The man gasped, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the bruises already forming on his cheek.

“Who sent you?” Dap hissed, his voice low and steady. “Was it the Commissioner? Or are you just another errand boy for the brass at the docks?”

The man spat, a glob of red-tinged saliva landing near Dap’s shoe. “You’re a dead man, Slade. You don’t know who you’re messing with. This isn’t just about some missing dame. This is the foundation of the whole damn city.”

Dap tightened his grip, feeling the tension in the man’s neck. He wasn’t interested in the philosophy of crime. He was interested in the location of Maya’s mother. He looked around the woods, checking for accomplices. The forest remained unnervingly still. It seemed the shooter had been confident enough to work solo, or perhaps he was just arrogant.