Temptation Trails (The Haven Brothers #3)

Plus, I had that date. I could still make it. And that was the right thing to do. Whether or not I wanted to go, I was a man of my word. I wasn’t going to stand her up.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end and I paused. Had I heard something? My instincts lit up. Something—or someone—was nearby.

There was plenty of wildlife in those woods. It could have been any number of things. But my gut was telling me it was our suspect, coming for what was in those bags.

I took a few slow steps in the direction of the noise, scanning the area for movement.

A man poked his head out from behind a tree and his eyes widened when he saw me.

I was right. Trent Jones. I would have known his face anywhere.

“Stop,” I called out. “Show me your hands.”

He was close enough, I could see the flash of anger cross his features. I knew him, and he clearly remembered me.

I had a feeling I was not on his list of favorite people.

His hands went up and he stepped out from behind the tree.

“What are you doing out here, Trent?”

“Haven,” he spat.

He was going to run. You didn’t have to do this job long to learn the signs. He shifted his body weight and his right shoulder drew back, as if he were about to spin around.

“Don’t do it, Trent.”

Too late. He spun and took off running.

I keyed my mic. “Suspect fleeing the scene. In pursuit on foot.” And I took off after him.

The terrain was fairly clear, without a lot of underbrush. We darted past the trees, kicking up dust and pine needles in our wake. He was a decade older than me, but he’d just done time—probably in prison shape—and I was carrying at least twenty pounds of gear.

But he was not getting away.

Sweat broke out on my forehead as I ran. Where the hell did he think he was going? There wasn’t anything out there. Nowhere to hide or take shelter. He was heading toward one of the hiking trails, but that wasn’t going to help.

Did he actually think he was going to outrun me?

“You’re making this worse, buddy,” I called out in between breaths.

He glanced over his shoulder and ran harder.

The ground rose in a small incline and I started to close the gap between us. His pace slowed; he was probably getting tired. I was sweating, and my legs burned with effort, but I knew I had him. I just had to keep pushing.

Finally, I got close enough to grab him. I took him to the ground, earning myself a face-full of dirt in the process. He thrashed around, trying to squirm away, and threw a punch at me. That missed but his second connected, glancing off my jaw.

I didn’t hit back, just got control of his arms. He kicked at me, grunting with rage, but I had him. I rolled him onto his front and pinned him down.

“Fuck you, Haven,” he growled as I cuffed him and hauled him to his feet.

I could have lectured him about the fact that he was the one who’d—allegedly—committed a string of crimes. And he was the one who’d run when I told him to stop. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“You’re a piece of shit,” he said.

“This isn’t personal. I’m just doing my job.”

He glared at me, hatred burning in his eyes.