“I don’t know where the stolen artwork is.” Her voice broke, and she leaned into me harder. “I don’t even know if it exists, though it must since Will’s so determined to find it.”
“We’ll figure it out.” I kissed the top of her head. “But first?—”
The rumble of engines cut through the air, the sound echoing off the cliff face. Dirt clouds rose from the access road, and I counted at least three vehicles heading our way.
“About time,” Allie said, relief clear in her voice.
Dungar arrived first, galloping into the mining camp on his sorhox. He was followed by two cars holding Detective Fernandez and his team. They stopped at the edge of the camp, and armed figures poured out of all the doors.
Dungar took in the chumbles scattered across the clearing, some still pecking at scattered debris, others surging toward Will and his men when Tressa directed them.
Aunt Inla stood over an unconscious guard with her frying pan in hand, and Holly was still chastising Max, who’d hung his head.
Beth stood on one side of the clearing, a kitchen knife in her hand, but her posture relaxed, as if pink birds swarming an abandoned mining camp was another Tuesday for her.
“What in the world?” Dungar called out, gaping around at the furor.
“Tressa organized a rescue,” Allie said. “With help from some very angry chumbles.”
Detective Fernandez approached us, his weapon drawn but pointed at the ground. His eyes swept the camp, taking in every detail.
“Where’s Carmichael?” he asked.
I nodded toward the mine, where muffled cursing drifted from the darkness. “Trapped inside with at least three of his men. Tressa and the chumbles are keeping them there.”
As if she’d heard her name, Tressa backed away from the mine entrance, her job done. The chumbles, freed from her direction, scattered into the forest with indignant shrieks, their chumble crumbles peeping and scurrying behind them.
Tressa bounded across the clearing to us, her tongue lolling and wearing what could only be described as a wolfish grin.
I sank to one knee and wrapped my arms around her.
“Good Tressa,” I said. “Such a good pup.”
She licked my face, her tail wagging so hard her entire body wiggled, before she raced over and stuffed her wet nose against Allie’s hand.
Detective Fernandez and his men approached the mine entrance, their weapons lifted.
“Will Carmichael,” he shouted. “Federal agents. Come out with your hands visible.”
“Don’t shoot.” Frustration and fear tightened Will’s voice. Gone was the slick tone he’d used while threatening me. “We’re coming out.”
One by one, they emerged, blinking at the bright sunlight. Scratches covered Will’s face from bird pecks, and his carefully styled hair stood up in tufts. His men came out with him, all looking equally rough, their clothes torn and their faces covered with angry red welts.
They kept their hands up, their eyes darting around the clearing like they thought more chumbles would attack them. Which they might if they were riled up enough.
“That was easier than I expected,” Detective Fernandez said as his team cuffed the prisoners.
Will’s gaze met mine, his face twisted with hate. “This isn’t over.”
“Actually, it is,” I said. Allie’s hand on my arm steadied me. Her touch was all I needed. “Detective, he h-h-hinted that he’d killed Howard Wilson and Simon Blackstone. He talked about it like-like it was normal business.”
Fernandez nodded. “We’ll question him about that. We have some solid charges already, including kidnapping, assault, and whatever else we can make stick.”
As they loaded Will and his men into the cars, my brothers rode their sorhoxes into the clearing. Greel’s face showed relief, anger, and amazement all at once. Dirt covered his clothes, and he was breathing hard as he strode over to my side.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his hands hovering over my cuts.
“I’m fine. Just a few cut-cuts and bruises.”
