And Jericho didn’t know why, but heat flamed inside him. “He’s on duty,” he said. “Don’t distract him.”
“Noted,” she said, her voice cool. Her gaze flicked to Deke. “We moving or what?”
“Gear up—there are vests and jackets in the locker area,” Deke said, grabbing his jacket as he left.
They piled into vehicles, the air sharp with cold. Jericho climbed into a sheriff’s SUV with Crew, Orlando hopping into the back, the dog’s harness jingling as he settled.
Crew took the wheel, Deke and Harley in the other SUV. Rio and Stevie in a third. The road wound through CopperMountain’s outskirts, the river a silver thread on their left, the spruce trees dusted with snow. The sky hung low, the clouds a bruised gray, the faint howl of the wind whistling through the cracked window.
“How is it that you know these guys?” Jericho asked Crew.
“Been embedded with the SOR for the past three years,” Crew said grimly. The wipers swiped at the first flakes of snow. “Met the Sorros boys a few times. They’re snakes, all of them.”
Jericho’s jaw tightened, his gaze on the trees, the memory of that day with Harley flashing in his head—her standing in the Sorroses’ driveway, voice shaking as she blamed Mars for Gabe’s crash, Mars’s sneer inches from her face.
“I know,” he said. “I went to school with them. Mars and I got into a scuffle once. He broke my nose. My brother Sully dragged me out before it got worse.”
Crew nodded, his gaze flicking to Jericho. “Broken nose? You’re lucky that’s all you got. I saw Mars put a guy in the hospital.”
Technically, hedidgo to the hospital, but he left that out.
“So you’re FBI?”
“No,” Crew said. “I was just an informant. And next summer, I’m going to try out for the Midnight Sun Hotshots. For now, I’m just helping out Deke.”
They drove maybe twenty miles into the bush, along a county-plowed road. In the distance dogs barked, probably a sled dog camp nearby.
Orlando’s ears pricked, but he didn’t move.
They parked at the end of a drive and got out. Thin, dusted-over indentations in the snow evidenced a truck had been there recently. Stevie and Rio stood, their breaths gathering as Deke and Harley walked up.
“We’ll have to hoof it from here,” Deke said. “It’s not far, maybe a quarter mile. Crew, you and Rio and Stevie go in theside entrance. Jericho, you and me and Harley will go in the front.” He gestured to Orlando’s harness. “What do you say we take off the bell?”
Right. Although, the bell meant he could follow Orlando even if he ran out of sight. However, in this case, maybe Deke was right. Jericho unlatched the bell and tossed it into the cab of the truck. But he did grab Orlando’s ball with the rope attached.
His reward for finding his quarry.
Rio had tested a radio with Deke, and now he and Stevie and Crew headed up the road, branching off to head around the camp about two hundred yards in.
Deke walked ahead, glancing back at Harley, and Jericho read worry on his face.
Yeah, well him too, suddenly.
She walked with a sort of darkness, an intensity, a focus. A little hair-raising, the look of her.
As if she’d heard nothing Rio said about calling in for backup.
The SOR camp came into view, a cluster of structures in a snowy clearing, the remnants of an old kids’ camp turned militia hideout. A chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter, the metal rusted. The burned cabin sat on one side, its charred timbers jutting like broken bones.
Snow blanketed the ground, the drifts untouched, the silence heavy, broken only by the crunch of their boots.
But the scent of woodsmoke hinted the air.
Orlando emitted a tiny whine, a mix of desire and need.
“Shh,” he said as they came close to the gate, half-open. He glanced at Deke, who nodded.
He knelt next to Orlando. “Find,” he whispered, his hand gesturing toward the compound.
