Just ahead.
A break in the trees, wide enough for my car. I roll the truck closer. The engine hums and my pulse quickens as I turn onto the dirt path. My tires crack and pucker over the loose gravel, while low-hanging branches scratch over the side of the truck.
The road dips and Max jolts over each rut. The console rattles, making the headlights bounce, and the movement has me worried. Anyone out here is going to see my bright high beams flickering through the trees.
I don’t know how long this off-road trail goes. It could be miles and miles, or Raven and Lily could be right up ahead. Slamming my fist on the wheel, I brake. Dust kicks up in the rearview, swirling in the red glow of my taillights.
After switching off the truck, I open the door. Night air seeps in—cool and damp. The thick wet-earth smell and musk of decaying leaves feels like home.
I’m trained for this. Max is trained for this.
My boots sink into the soft ground, and with the darkness nearly absolute, I can’t even see where I’m stepping. Moonlight is the only illumination. I wince, reaching into the side of my door for a flashlight.
It’s quiet, except for the occasional trill of a western screech owl. Chilled wind brushes my nape, and I pull my North Face tighter around me and zip it up.
With a quick unholstering of my pistol, I pull back the slide to check the chamber. A round sits ready. Good. Then I release the mag, letting the clip slide into my palm. It’s full. I slam it into place, the click satisfying and comforting. I ditch the loaded gun onto my seat and check the spare magazine tucked by my ribs on the inside of my coat.
Only one extra mag.
Might be enough—or it might be like bringing a cup of water to a wildfire.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders, and reholster my gun, relishing the familiar weight at my hip.
It’s against protocol to go off on my own. My supervisor made sure I was aware of that, having me repeat those words while I was on the phone with him.
Well, I lied—screw protocol. Like he wouldn’t go after his wife or kids taken by cartel dealing thugs?
No. I won’t be following the damn protocol.
Besides. I’m not alone.
Max bolts out of the back seat when I open the back door. Checking to make sure his vest is fitted and his recall collar is secure, I leash him and dangle a sweater Lily left in my truck in front of his nose.
His body tenses as he nuzzles the sweater and buries his nose in her scent. A sharp whimper escapes him and his tail lashes unrestrained. It’s a gamble with the scent. She most likely was in a car, not dragged on foot, but if there’s any chance Max can catch her scent, maybe from an open window or from it catching a breeze from wherever she is, I’ll take it.
Max locks on to the pathway ahead, and I raise my flashlight as he pulls us, jogging deeper into the woods to find her.
Chapter 30
Lily
Bran smiles, those perfect white teeth glistening in the roar of the stoked campfire.
“Lily …” He breathes out, reaching for my messy hair and pulling the few strands to his nose to inhale.
My body shakes, trembling as I remember the last time I’d seen him. On top of me.
Get off!
Get off!
A warm tear slips down my cheek, and he reaches to thumb it away, but I jerk back, abruptly standing.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
Bran smirks, nodding to someone behind me. They grab my arms, pulling me back. This time I don’t wrestle, I don’t fight. I stare him down instead, nostrils flaring in disgust.
I’m ushered backward to a makeshift seat made from a tree stump, and as I’m forced down, they pull heavy metal chains over my legs and wrap them around my middle.
