Huck’s hat lay in the dirt beside her truck, its perfect shape crushed and dusty, the chin strap broken as if it had been yanked off his head.
She stared at the hat, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. Huck would never leave his hat. Would never abandon Jasper. Would never miss his competition unless…
Unless someone had made him.
She snatched up the phone, her hands shaking so badly she could barely dial Rowan’s number.
“Come on, come on, pick up,” she whispered, pressing the phone to her ear.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
“Rowan, something’s wrong,” she said, her voice breaking. “Huck’s missing. His horse is loose and…please call me back. Please.”
She ended the call and tried again, panic rising in her throat like bile.
The sound of a vehicle approaching made her look up. A white van was pulling into the parking area, driving slowly between the rows of trailers. Sierra barely registered it as she hit redial on her phone.
Still no answer.
The van pulled up beside her truck and stopped. The side door slid open.
“Mom?”
The voice was weak, scared, but unmistakably Huck’s.
Sierra pocketed the phone and spun toward the van, running. “Huck? What?—”
Strong hands grabbed her arms, and a man yanked her toward the open van door. She fought, kicking and clawing, but another man appeared, dragging her into the vehicle’s dark interior.
A hood dropped over her head, cutting off her vision and muffling her screams.
“Mom?!” Huck screamed. “Mom!”
The van door slammed shut, and the engine roared to life.
And all she could think, as the van drove away, was that she’d been right to worry about the other shoe dropping.
She just hadn’t imagined it would land quite this hard.
Thirteen
This should be straightforward. Find Ralph, question him about the conspiracy, get the evidence they needed to shut down this operation. Maybe he’d lawyer up, maybe he’d try to run, but either way they’d get their answers. Then Rowan could get to the rodeo and watch Huck compete. Simple plan, clean execution, family time afterward, happy ending loaded up for mission success.
The drive to Rousseau’s office took twenty minutes through the winding roads that connected the rural crime scene to downtown Renegade.
Rowan’s fingers drummed against the passenger door handle while Detective Martinelli navigated the curves, plotting their entrance.
Two-man entry through the front, Saxon covering the rear exit. Check for vehicles in the parking area, assess security measures, identify escape routes. Standard building clearance protocols. Simple interrogation setup with Martinelli taking lead, Saxon documenting, himself reading body language and microexpressions.
Aw. He needed to step back, because clearly this wasn’t Martinelli’s plan as he pulled up to the front of the office complex. All modern glass and steel, with manicured landscaping, the building spoke of corporate money and legitimate business interests—so not the look of an evil lair.
Except it made it the perfect cover for criminal activity, right?
Martinelli’s radio crackled with updates from the surveillance team. “Subject’s residence appears empty.”
“Copy.” Martinelli keyed his mic. “Maintain position and report any movement.”
