Alena said goodbye softly, then ended the call. She lowered the phone, her fingers lingering on it for a moment before sliding it back into her pocket. Cal watched the quiet determination in her face. She wasn’t going to let David sense even a flicker of danger.
Without another word, they moved down the hall together and pushed through the front doors of Crossfire Ops headquarters. The late-morning sun met them head-on. Heat rolled off the asphalt, already thick and unforgiving though it was only May. Out beyond the parking lot, the Texas Hill Country spread wide and rugged—limestone ridges, stubborn green oaks, and cedar under a sky as bright and endless as fire.
They crossed to one of Crossfire Ops’ black SUVs, gleaming, built for the job, and equipped with anything they might need for an op. Cal hit the fob, climbed behind the wheel, and waitedas Alena settled into the passenger seat. He pulled out his phone and called Sheriff Deacon Raines.
Raines picked up quickly. “I was about to contact you,” the sheriff said, his voice steady, all business. “I’m heading to see Arneson Westbrook in Cypress Falls. I want you both there with me. I’ve been trying to reach him, but he isn’t answering his phone. His office manager told me he called earlier and said he’d be working from home today.”
Cal’s grip tightened on the wheel. If Arneson was harboring Dexter, keeping quiet would be the first step.
“Send the address,” Cal said. Within seconds, the text came through, and he entered it into the GPS. “We’re on the way,” he added before ending the call.
Raines’s uncertainty echoed in Cal’s mind. That was why the sheriff wanted to knock on Arneson’s door in person. And why Cal intended to be standing right beside him when it happened.
Cal slid the phone into the console, started the engine, and pulled the SUV onto the road. The hunt for Dexter Westbrook had already begun.
The SUV ate up the miles, tires humming over the sun-baked highway. Alena had her tablet open, eyes locked on the files Crossfire Ops had pulled from the prison and the crime scene. She scrolled fast, sharp movements that told Cal she wanted to stay buried in data rather than look at him. He figured it was her shield, a way to keep a wall between them.
But walls and silence sure as hell wouldn’t help them catch Dexter.
“You’re sure okay to do this?” he asked.
“Yes.” The word came fast, then she hesitated, and her hand stilled on the screen. “Okay enough.” Alena glanced at him, her expression guarded. “What about you?”
The question scraped against memories he could never shake. “What happened six years ago was a pisser, a whole string of them,” he answered. “No way around that. But we have to find Melissa. And we have to stop Dexter.”
Her shoulders eased just slightly. She nodded. “Then we agree.”
For the first time since walking into Noah’s office, Cal felt the ground beneath them shift. Not solid, not safe, but steady enough to start the hunt.
The miles slid by until the highway narrowed into the outskirts of Cypress Falls. The Hill Country opened wide, dotted with ranch land that gave way to newer developments. Stone-faced houses rose behind iron gates, manicured lawns cut sharp against the wild scrub just beyond the fences. Cal’s gaze shifted to the rearview mirror where a familiar cruiser followed close, Sheriff Deacon Raines keeping pace.
The GPS guided them into an upscale neighborhood, the kind with winding streets, wide lots, and houses built to impress. Arneson Westbrook’s place fit right in, a two-story limestone home with a slate roof and perfectly trimmed hedges.
Cal slowed, scanning the property. No cars in the driveway. No sign of movement behind the curtained windows. He eased the SUV to the curb, the tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Raines pulled in behind them, the cruiser’s engine cutting off.
They all stepped out, the heat pressing down like a weight. His instincts sharpened, every sense tuned to the silence of the street. Alena joined him on the sidewalk, her eyes locked on the house, while Raines approached from the rear, his hand resting near his holstered weapon.
Together they moved toward the front door. Their footsteps on the pavement seemed to echo in the stillness. Cal’s chest tightened. If Dexter was inside, he would know they werecoming. And a man like Dexter Westbrook wouldn’t hesitate to open fire.
Cal raised his hand to signal a pause. The air hung heavy, thick with the possibility that the next sound could be a gunshot.
Raines stepped onto the porch and pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed faintly inside.
No answer.
He jabbed the button again, then rapped his fist against the wood. “This is Sheriff Raines. Arneson, open the door.” His voice carried down the quiet street, hard and commanding.
Silence stretched, broken only by the buzz of insects in the heavy May heat.
Raines glanced back at Cal and Alena. “I’ve got a search warrant. If he doesn’t answer, we go in. I’ve got a battering ram in my cruiser for exactly this reason.”
Cal nodded, every muscle coiled tight. He shifted his grip on his weapon, senses straining toward the still house. Alena’s gaze flicked to him for a heartbeat, then back to the door.
Raines knocked again, louder this time. “Arneson, this is the sheriff. Open up now.”
From inside the house came a sudden crash, sharp and heavy, like something toppling to the floor.
Cal’s pulse spiked. He raised his weapon higher, eyes narrowing on the door.
