But Archer isn’t here. Of course he isn’t. I hit Delilah’s number instead. It rings once.
Twice.
“Please pick up,” I plead breathlessly.
Delilah answers on the third ring, her voice tense. “Tessa? Tell me that wasn’t what I just heard over the patrol channel.”
“It was,” I say. “Where are you?”
“Main street. We’ve got tourists still wandering near the forest trailheads. Brooke and I are trying to turn them back, but people don’t listen when you say ‘possible danger’ in a place like this.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Then I’m coming to you.”
“You shouldn’t leave the bookstore?—”
“I’m already moving.”
I end the call before she can argue. The streets outside Redwood Crossing look deceptively calm, sunlight spilling between tall trees, shop windows glowing warm and inviting. It’s the kind of peaceful town that makes danger feel like something that happens somewhere else.
I know better now. I lock the bookstore door behind me and start jogging toward Main Street. When I reach Delilah, the situation has already shifted.
Three tourists stand at the edge of the road arguing with Brooke, who has her arms crossed and her stance planted like she could physically block stupidity itself. Delilah is trying to redirect a group of hikers toward the town center, her voice calm but strained.
“They’re just hikers,” one of the tourists is saying. “We’ve done trails like this all over the state.”
“This isn’t about your experience level,” Delilah replies tightly. “It’s about current conditions. You need to turn back.”
I step into the group just as something in the forest line moves. Not wind. Not animals.
Intent. My instincts flare before my mind catches up.
“Delilah,” I say quietly.
Her eyes flick to me immediately. “Yeah?”
“There are more than hikers out there.”
As if on cue, three additional figures emerge from the tree line behind the group of tourists. They look normal at first glance—backpacks, hiking boots, jackets dusted with forestdebris—but something about the way they move is wrong. Too synchronized. Too aware. Their eyes don’t scan the scenery the way tourists do.
They track exits. They’re measuring the town. Brooke notices at the same time I do. Her posture shifts instantly.
“Delilah,” Brooke says under her breath, “those aren’t ours.”
Delilah’s hand moves subtly toward her radio. Too late. One of the newcomers smiles.
“It’s a beautiful town,” he says casually. “We were told it was open to visitors.”
I feel the shift in the air—the moment a lie stops being a misunderstanding and becomes a threat.
“No,” I say firmly, stepping forward. “You were told wrong. Turn around and leave.”
The man tilts his head slightly, as if amused. Behind him, another shifts just a fraction closer to the tourists. Not random. Positioning.
“Delilah,” I say again, sharper now.
She has already keyed her radio.
“Conrad,” she says into it. “We’ve got potential infiltration at the north entry point. Repeat—non-local group blending with civilian hikers.”