Sara
Sara eased onto Maple Street, headlights low, trailing far enough back not to raise suspicion. The silver Tacoma rolled ahead, steady and deliberate. She kept her breathing even, hands loose on the wheel, every nerve alive. Easy, Parker. You spook him, you lose him.
At the edge of town, the truck pulled into the lot of Hotel Sylva. Sara stayed casual, drove past without hesitation, but her eyes flicked quick enough to note the stall: third from the corner, tucked under a broken lamp. The driver didn’t get out.
She passed the office slowly. Flyers curled in the display rack—Trout Fest, a church barbecue up Cullowhee way, fall-color drives. The clerk inside—radio murmuring—barely looked up. She didn’t stop, just rolled on through, circled back onto the main road, and pulled over two blocks down.
Sara made a mental punch list for morning: swing by the office, ask nicely for the exterior-cam footage, get a consent form signed, and if the clerk balked, loop Burke for a formal request. Half this job was keeping it quiet so the right people kept talking.
Keying her mic, she called softly, “Tag secured. Sending it your way.”
Scout jotted the plate number into his notebook: rental pool—Charlotte. He ran it through dispatch—confirmed pickup at Asheville Regional. Smart. Harder to trace.
He thumbed a message to Sara: Bring coffee in the morning. Request footage for the last forty-eight hours on the front lot and office. If he balks, I’ll sign the request.
Scout exhaled, tension easing at last. They had him. The game had shifted. The danger wasn’t circling anymore—it was already here.
Evan
Behind the wheel, Evan watched the rearview. The glow of headlights had tightened his nerves for half a mile. Cruiser. He was sure of it. For one sharp heartbeat, his hand hovered near the gearshift, ready to bolt.
But then the patrol car rolled right past, never even slowing.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned back, tapping ash into the dark. Small-town cops. Predictable. Undertrained.
He’d played this game before—in bigger cities, with hunters sharper than these. None of them touched him. Sylva wouldn’t either.
Still, he checked the mirror again—habit or paranoia, even he couldn’t tell which—and cracked the window, letting smoke drift into the night. Tomorrow, he’d get closer.
With a cheap hotel pen, he drew a map on a napkin: Oak Street here, the back lane there, the museum up the hill, Lucy’s on Main, Hotel Sylva on the edge. He drew arrows where he’d seen the patrol car go and dotted the places most people didn’t look—alleys, service doors, the cut-through behind the antique store. Same game, different town. The trick’s always the same: make yourself part of the scenery until the scenery opens doors.
Burke
Back at the station, Burke shut down for the night, exhaustion heavy but instincts sharper than sleep. One last loop, he told himself.
He slipped down the front street, headlights grazing Darcy’s cottage—dark, peaceful… but not enough.
Circling to the back, Burke rolled past slowly. Scout’s Wrangler was tucked deep in the shadows. As Burke lowered his window, their eyes locked.
Burke gave the slightest nod—an unspoken bond, forged in grade school, hardened at the academy, tested on nights when their lives depended on each other.
Scout dipped his chin in silent reply. No words were necessary.
Burke drove home lighter. Darcy was safer tonight—not because of the badge, but because Scout was there. Still, unease lingered beneath the calm. Safety, he knew, was only ever temporary—especially when danger had already learned her name.
Chapter 38
Pursuit
Scout
Scout watched the motel lights flicker across the hood of his Wrangler, Sara’s call still fresh in his ear. She had the tag—now it was his turn to dig.
The night around him was restless—neon buzzing faintly overhead, moths battering the sign, and the gentle spatter of summer rain beginning to fall. Scout drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, nails tapping with a jittery impatience that made his knuckles ache. A habit that came alive whenever his gut said the trail was heating up. His focus snapped sharp.
Back at his laptop, he ran the plate through the channels he knew better than the back of his hand—queried NCIC/NLETS and cross-checked the local systems. The hit came back fast—and the number on his screen told him enough.
Rental truck. Not through a national chain but a small, cash-friendly outfit near Asheville Regional. The kind of lot that didn’t ask many questions, logged names by hand, and shredded receipts sooner than they should. No paper trail. No cameras worth a damn. If someone wanted to stay invisible, this was the way.
