Being hunted is probably my least favorite part of this job.

Bark scrapes against the back of my exposed arms as I nestle myself against the tree as tightly as possible. I quietly damn the cold Oregon air for exposing my shallow breaths. Twigs snap in every direction.

Crap.

“Come on out now.” His voice is just as disgusting as the mouth it’s attached to, and I don’t even need to see his face to shudder. “We both know you’ve got nowhere left to run.”

Asshole. He probably thinks...