by T. R. Ragan
“Well, in case you didn’t know,” Rage said, “you’re one of the good ones.”
He spared a quick glance her way. “You’re not getting all mushy on me again, are you?”
“Not me. I don’t have a mushy bone in my body.”
He chuckled.
Rage was staring straight ahead when, a few seconds later, she asked, “Why do you think guys like Fin do what they do?”
Beast was glad to change the subject. “Who knows what might trigger the evil living inside someone. Look at Hitler, for instance. He was rejected by the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. What would have happened if he’d become an artist?”
“I wonder,” she said quietly before pointing ahead. “Looks like Fin is taking the next exit.”
They got off on Truxel and continued to follow the silver Subaru for a few miles until the car slowed and pulled into the drive of an apartment building.
Beast continued a few yards before making a U-turn. He parked across the street from the building, where he could still see the silver car.
He shut off the engine.
“There he is,” Rage said. “Second floor, last apartment on the corner.”
Beast could see Fin from where he sat. He was looking around nervously, seemingly scouting the place out as he dug around inside his pocket for his key.
Rage reached for the door handle.
“Where are you going?”
“I want to take a quick look around, see if there’s anyone hanging out at the front office who might be able to tell me more about our boy Fin.”
He sighed.
“I’ll be right back. I promise.”
As he watched her go, he felt sad for failing her. She’d tried on many occasions to open up to him about life, her sickness, and her feelings. He didn’t do feelings. His wife used to beg him to open up, but nobody really understood. Every time he said more than a few words, he only made things worse. He never knew the right thing to say. It was much easier to keep quiet and observe.
He released a ponderous sigh as he watched her jog across the two-lane road. The moment her foot landed on the sidewalk, a deafening boom sounded, leaving his ears humming as he ducked for cover.
Debris dropped from the sky, scraps of wood and paper coming down like rain. A metal pipe bounced off his windshield, leaving a crack in the middle of the glass.
Car alarms sounded.
Rage, he thought. Where was Rage?
He jumped out of the car, ran through the billowing smoke. Tires squealed as nearby traffic came to a top. A van nearly struck him as he darted across the road.
There she was, lying in a heap on the sidewalk. His heart skipped a beat.
She was on her side; blood dripped from her chin. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Rage!”
He was about to scoop her into his arms when her eyes fluttered open. “What happened?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He caught his breath, tried to calm himself, didn’t want her to know how much she’d scared him. “There was an explosion,” he told her. “How badly are you hurt?” He helped her sit up, then checked her for injuries.
She nudged his hand away. “I’m fine.”
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Rage wiped her chin, saw the smeared blood on her hand, and said, “It’s only a scratch.”
“Come on,” he said, “you’re going to need a couple of stitches at least. Let’s get out of here.” He helped her to her feet. “Can you walk?”
“Beast,” she said, stopping him from worrying too much.
“I know, I know,” he said. “We’re all going to die sometime. I’d prefer it not be today, OK? Anything wrong with that?”
She rolled her eyes at him and then bent over and brushed dirt from her pants. Then she crossed the street, heading back for the truck.
Beast looked around.
People were running in and out of their apartments, checking on their friends and families. The apartment Fin had been about to enter was gone, along with half of the apartment next to his. Blown to smithereens. There was no way Fin had made it out alive.
What the hell was going on? Fin was a tattoo artist, a small fish in a very big pond. Did his own guys have him killed? If so, why?
Shit. Instead of getting answers, now all they had were more questions.
He looked over at his truck, where he saw Rage sitting in the passenger seat, waiting. Seeing her bleeding and unresponsive on the ground had unsettled him. How would he ever go on without her? She meant the world to him. He’d done exactly what he’d told himself he would never do again. He’d grown too attached to another human being, and now he would suffer the consequences.
NINETEEN
After leaving her brother’s place, Diane Weaver had found a run-down motel right off the freeway. It was a rat hole, but it would have to do. She’d just returned from the corner market where she’d bought enough food to last her a few days. On her way back to her room, two different people had tried to sell her drugs. Whatever. She wouldn’t be staying here for much longer. Another night or two should be enough for her bruises to heal. She just needed a little time to figure out what her next step would be.
The clothes and other items she’d taken from her brother’s place were in a pile on the floor next to the bed. A loud knock made her jump. Shit. She put a hand on her chest until she caught her breath. Someone was banging on the door down the hall. Her gaze darted around the room. She grabbed the cushioned chair from the corner, then dragged it across the carpet and positioned it in front of the door for extra protection.
After the racket finally stopped, she made her way to the bathroom and turned on the shower water. Ever since leaving prison, she’d felt dirty. Staying in this run-down, piece-of-shit hotel room wasn’t helping matters. And being unable to get the image of her dead brother out of her brain was making her crazy.
She stripped off her clothes. Every shade of purple and blue blended together, making a colorful trail up the right side of her body. As she waited for the water to warm up, she leaned closer to the bathroom mirror. Her face was still swollen, hardly recognizable. At least she could finally see out of both eyes.
She stepped into the tub and let the water spray her face. She used the tiny bottle of shampoo to wash her hair. The water wasn’t as hot as she liked, but that didn’t stop her from reveling in the feel of warm water against her aching body as her thoughts returned to her brother.
He didn’t deserve to die like that.
The only man mean and cruel enough to kill him was Aster Williams. She’d never told him or anyone else about her family—nobody at all. But she knew Aster well enough to know he would go to great lengths to punish those he felt had betrayed him. If Aster had found her brother and killed him, then he would kill her, too. Exactly why she needed to forget all about finding the girl and just get out of town.
The sooner the better.
But she wouldn’t get far without money. As she rubbed the soap between her thighs, she thought about turning a few quick tricks. But a beat-up face and body wouldn’t get her much, certainly not enough for a plane ticket out of hell.
The only person she knew with enough money to help her, other than Aster, was his sidekick, Patrick.
She’d left a message on his phone.
Patrick would help her. He hated Aster. He’d never said as much, but he didn’t have to. She’d seen the way Patrick looked at Aster whenever they were all in the same room together. She’d also seen the way Patrick looked at Aster’s wife. He wanted what Aster had. And, best of all, Patrick owed her a favor.
Before setting off, Hudson had let Joey sleep as long as possible. After sharing what was left of the food, Hudson filled every container he could find with water he’d boiled on top of the wood-burning stove.
The first day after leaving the cabin had been slow going.
The second day, still following the stream, they made better time, although every once in a while Hudson worried they were h
eaded deeper into the forest. They hadn’t seen a trail of any sort or another cabin since leaving. He’d made sure they rationed the jerky, nuts, and fresh water, but they were running low on everything. It wouldn’t last much longer. Two days? Maybe three?
They had both lost a lot of weight. Joey was still coughing. Every once in a while he would hack up some bloody phlegm, but he never complained or asked Hudson to slow down. He wanted off the mountain as badly as Hudson did. They didn’t talk much. When they did it was usually about what they would order if they could have anything they wanted to eat. Joey wanted steak and potatoes. Hudson wanted a giant chocolate-dipped vanilla ice-cream cone.
It was early in the morning when they awoke to a horrible sound—a cross between the high-pitched scream of a baby and squealing tires on the highway.
Joey poked his head outside the tent. “What was that noise?”
“I don’t know, but we better pack up and get out of here.”
They worked faster than usual, breaking the tent down and rolling up the sleeping bag within minutes.
Hudson had given Joey the wool socks and the heavy winter coat he’d taken from Derek. He’d also told him to sleep in the tent to keep the cold wind off his ears and face during the night. Hudson wore the knit cap and buried himself deep inside the down sleeping bag.
Packed up and ready to go, they heard the noise again. Not as loud this time, but just as eerie sounding.
They started off.
When they heard the noise for the third time, Hudson knew they were close—too close to ignore. They crept through the brush, weaving between trees, careful not to make too much noise. Hudson could hear Joey breathing close behind.
And there it was again, not as loud this time. A low whimper sounded from behind a large moss-covered boulder.
Hudson drew in a breath and headed off in the direction the sound was coming from. Joey stayed on his heels.
Neither of them said a word when they saw who’d been making the racket.
It was Denver. He was on the ground, sitting up, his back against the trunk of a tree. Blood, fresh and crimson, dripped from his face and hands. He was missing part of a leg, and a chunk of flesh had been ripped from his arm. It was obvious a wild animal had gotten a hold of him.
“Water,” he managed to say.
Hudson grabbed the bladder, held it to his mouth until Denver had had his fill. He was a bloody mess, and he was shivering.
“I’m so cold.”
Unable to stand seeing him suffer, Hudson dropped what he was carrying and pulled off his coat and then unzipped his sweatshirt. He then carefully slid one of Denver’s arms into a sleeve and then the other. It wasn’t easy maneuvering his battered limbs, but what else could he do? Hudson then pulled up the hood to cover Denver’s ears and the wound on his face and neck, and he zipped the sweatshirt as high as he could. It was a tight fit, but at least Denver would be warmer than before.
“Where’s Aiden?” Joey asked.
Denver could say only a few words at a time. Between gurgles, Hudson heard the words dragged off and mountain lion.
Hudson thought about sharing their food, but what good would it do? He wasn’t sure Denver would even be able to chew in his condition. “What should we do?” Hudson asked as he turned to face Joey.
Joey pulled the gun from the backpack he was carrying, then walked up close to Denver and put the barrel up against the side of Denver’s head. His hands were shaking, his expression one of horror.
Before Hudson could protest, Joey fired a shot.
TWENTY
It was close to noon when Colton and his dad were finally able to check in at the sheriff’s office in Mendocino County. They had gotten little sleep, and Colton figured it was going to be a long day. They spent the first forty-five minutes filling out paperwork, including a waiver they both had to sign letting the world know they were heading up the mountain at their own risk.
They were also given some cold, hard facts. Mendocino National Forest covered 913,306 acres and had no paved road leading to it. There were wild animals roaming about, not to mention dangerous and wanted men. They were then given maps pinpointing the exact location of where the marijuana operation had taken place. Armed guards were watching the area. Plainly marked on the maps were cabins used by rangers and various working stations used by fire crews on an as-needed basis.
After being warned of various other dangers, they were escorted a few miles into the forest, pointed in the right direction, and then left to their own devices.
“Want me to take the lead?” Colton asked.
Dad grunted and started up the hill, leaving Colton to follow behind.
Although their fatigues and equipment were heavy and threatened to slow them down, adrenaline pushed them in record time to the area where the boys had been held captive.
Heavily armed security as well as tall redwoods and thick brush surrounded the area. Crime tape circled most of the outbuildings. Upon learning Colton and his dad were relatives of one of the missing boys, the officers allowed them inside the cabin where the five missing boys had lived. One boy, they learned, had been shot within minutes of escaping the cabin. His body had been removed the day of the raid and the boy had been identified as Sean Porter, a twelve-year-old from Los Angeles who had been reported missing at the age of seven.
According to the officer in charge, temperatures were swiftly dropping and more heavy rainfall was expected in the next forty-eight hours.
The inside of the boys’ cabin was devoid of light and furniture. A bleak existence for anyone, young or old, Colton thought. It was tough to imagine Hudson trapped inside this room for so many nights.
Their heavy boots were the only sound as they walked around the room, examining every inch of the place. The window had been boarded up from the outside. In the corner of the room was a gaping hole. Dad bent down on one knee to get a closer look at the hole. “This is where they escaped.”
The anguish in the old man’s voice rang clear. Colton rested a hand on Dad’s shoulder and squeezed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if digging their way out of this place was Hudson’s idea. We’re going to find him, Dad.”
Dad straightened as he walked across the room, back the way he’d come, showing no signs of slowing down after their long hike up the mountain. “We better get moving.”
Colton nodded and followed him out the door. While Dad talked with the commanding officer, Colton took a look around the wooded area surrounding the cabin. The temperatures had already dropped by at least five degrees in the past hour. It would be dark soon. They wouldn’t get far before they would be forced to set up camp.
Colton continued on, looking for any sign that Hudson had been there, the leaves and twigs brittle beneath his boots. He recalled all the nights he’d spent with Dad, Craig, and his nephew camping in the Sierra mountains. Hudson had been in his element, always ready for a challenge.
After Dad broke away from the officer, Colton waited for him to approach.
Dad pointed east. “This way.”
Colton followed. No questions asked.
Dad gestured toward a tall redwood up ahead. When they arrived at the trunk of the tree, he knelt and brushed a gloved hand over the soil. “According to the officer, this is where one of the boys was shot. Assuming the other boys were close by, we’ll use this as a starting point. As we move on, we need to think as we believe Hudson would think.”
“He would have been scared.”
“Yes, but if the boys had been planning their escape, they might have at least had a plan, which could mean Hudson already knew where he would go if and when he escaped.”
“But if they were being shot at,” Colton said, “that might have overridden everything else, including logic and planning.” He pointed to his right, where trees and brush were less visible. “I say we move that way.”
“Hudson is a runner,” Dad said. “He’s fast, but more than that he’s smart. He would have run straight uphill.”
“Didn’t you ever chase the little bugger?”
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
“Well, I have on many occasions. And every single time the rascal did the same thing. He ran straight uphill because he knew old Grandpa would never be able to catch up to him. I’m telling you, the kid is smarter than the average bear.” Dad waved his hand toward the top of the hill, debate over, and trudged upward and onward, his legs sturdy and his gait strong, looking as if he’d traveled back in time and was once again a sergeant in the army.
As the sun began to dip out of sight, they spotted a lean-to at the base of a fallen tree. Whoever had built the shelter had made cord using fibrous bark from the dead tree. The lean-to was made up of tree branches along with a thick layer of leaves to minimize wind draft. One side had since fallen, but overall the shelter was well built.
“Two indents,” Dad said, pointing to the ground. “Two people. Both small.”
Colton examined the soil and layers of leaves. Sure enough, there were two indents in the dirt not yet fully concealed by the elements. Colton’s chest tightened at the thought they could be close. He shut his eyes and drew in a breath.
“Let’s set up our tents and then eat and get some sleep,” Dad said. “We’ll set off before the break of dawn.”
Parked in front of a pool hall on Fruitridge Road, Dillon Yuhasz watched the front entrance with hawkish eyes. Dressed in civilian clothes, he was off the clock. As he waited for David Hofberg to exit the place, he scolded himself for ever allowing the douche bag to get within ten feet of his daughter. He’d known from the start that something wasn’t right with Hofberg, but he’d pushed his instincts aside. His daughter had met Hofberg back when Yuhasz was still happily married. His wife surprised him on his birthday by inviting the guys he worked with, including rookie Hofberg, to a Sunday barbecue. To his chagrin, his daughter Holly and Hofberg had hit it off immediately. They’d dated for only a few months before they announced their engagement.