The blood trail led through the forest like a crimson ribbon.
Michael knelt in the damp leaves, his fingers brushing the dark stain on the bark of an ancient oak. Still wet. Still warm. The wounded man had passed through here less than an hour ago, moving fast despite his injuries.
"Three of them," Alexei said, appearing silently at Michael's side. "They split up about a mile back. One went north. One went south. The third kept heading east—toward the ridge."
Michael stood, wiping the blood from his fingers. "The ridge leads to the old mining tunnels. If he makes it there, we'll lose him."
"Then we need to move faster."
They moved through the forest like wraiths, their footsteps silent on the dead leaves. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold. Beautiful.
