Fear claws up my throat, hot and metallic. Not for me. Never for me. For her. My Willa. Small and soft and trusting, the woman who let me inside her body and her heart in the same night, who whispered she was moving in, who wants my babies, who looked at this lonely mountain and called it home. They took her naked. Hooded her, probably. Zip-tied her. The image burns behind myeyes—her bare skin in the snow, shivering, crying for me while I stood under hot water like a fucking fool.
I swing into the truck, engine roaring to life. Tires spin once on the ice before they bite. I gun it down the drive, snow flying.
Second call. Rhett.
He answers on the first ring, voice alert like he never sleeps. “Ghost.”
“They took her.” No preamble. “Matthew James. Middle of the night. My cabin. She’s gone, brother.”
“Fuck.” Keys jingle in the background. “Location?”
“Heading down Iron Peak toward town. Hank’s meeting me at the county fork. We think they’re taking her to that old fishing cabin the James family keeps up past Blacktail Creek. Private road, no cameras, middle of nowhere. Judge uses it for ‘hunting trips’ that ain’t hunting.”
“I’m two hours out. Roads are shit but I’ll push it. You wait for me if you can. Don’t go in half-cocked.”
“Try telling that to the man who just lost the only woman he’s ever loved.”
Rhett’s quiet a beat. “Copy. I’ll be there.”
I hang up. The truck fishtails on the next switchback. I correct, knuckles white on the wheel. Every second feels like a knife twisting. Is she cold? Hurt? Scared out of her mind? Did they touch her? The thought makes me see red—literally, vision tunneling with rage so pure it scares even me. I’ve killed men in war. I’ll kill again tonight if they laid one finger on her.
The county road appears ahead, plowed but still treacherous. Hank’s cruiser is already there, lights off, parked sideways. Two more trucks behind him—Garrett’s lifted F-250 and Ruiz’s older Tacoma. Good men. Men who hate the James family as much as I do.
I kill the engine, jump out. Hank meets me halfway, breath fogging, shotgun in hand. He’s in full winter gear, badge clipped to his coat.
“Tracks match a van,” he says without hello. “Wide tires, new tread. Matthew’s got a black Sprinter registered to the family business. We pulled his plates twenty minutes ago. Last seen fueling up in town yesterday afternoon.”
“They’ve got her.” My voice cracks. I don’t care. “Naked, Hank. They dragged her out of my bed while I was in the fucking shower. She’s probably freezing to death right now.”
Hank’s jaw tightens. “We’ll get her. GPS pings on Matthew’s phone died an hour ago, but his cousin’s place—old fishing cabin on Blacktail—is the only spot that makes sense. No cell service, no neighbors, easy to hole up. Judge owns it outright. Perfect for making problems disappear.”
Garrett steps up, big bearded deputy, rifle slung. “I’ve got thermal binoculars. Ruiz brought the breaching kit. We move quiet, we move fast.”
Ruiz nods, checking his sidearm. “Three hostiles minimum—Matthew and the two who usually ride with him. Possibly four. We assume armed.”
I pace, boots crunching snow. “Plan. Now.”
Hank spreads a paper map on the hood of his cruiser, flashlight beam cutting through the dark. “Cabin’s here—single story, two bedrooms, main room, back porch over the creek. One road in, steep. We park here—” he taps a spot half a mile out—“hike the rest on foot. Garrett and Ruiz take the east tree line, provide cover. You and me approach from the west, using the ridge. Rhett coming?”
“On his way. ETA ninety minutes if he pushes.”
“We can’t wait that long if she’s in immediate danger.” Hank looks at me hard. “You stay frosty, Colt. I know you love her. But we do this by the book enough to keep it clean. Evidence, arrest, not a bloodbath—unless they force our hand.”
I nod once, but we both know the truth. If they hurt her, there won’t be arrests. There’ll be bodies.
We load up. I ride with Hank. The other two follow. Radio silence except for short check-ins. The road narrows, pines closing in like sentinels. My mind won’t stop spinning worst-case scenarios: Willa crying, Willa bleeding, Willa begging for me while Matthew laughs. The fear is worse than any combat I’ve seen—primal, gut-deep. She’s mine. My woman. The one who made this mountain feel like home instead of exile. The one carrying my future inside her if last night took. I can’t lose her. I won’t.
We park in a turnout hidden by snow-laden branches. Engines off. Lights off. The night is dead quiet except for our boots on snow and the distant rush of Blacktail Creek.
Hank hands me a radio. “Channel four. Stay on it.”
We move out—single file at first, then spreading. Garrett and Ruiz peel east, vanishing into the trees like ghosts. Hank and Itake the west ridge, climbing slow, using the moonlight. Every step feels too loud, too slow. My rifle’s in my hands, safety off. Heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Half a mile in, the cabin appears below us through the pines—dark logs, snow-heavy roof, single light burning in the front window. A black van parked crooked out front, doors open like they were in a hurry. No guards visible. Smoke curls from the chimney.
She’s in there.
I know it in my bones.
