by Kyla Stone
“What’s wrong?” Jackson asked.
“We lost the scent, but we can find it again.”
Lena sucked in a breath and steeled herself. Her energy flagging, she checked her pump. Her numbers were low and falling. She ate two packages of fruit snacks and gulped down apple juice.
She shared some water with Jackson and Eli, then she pulled out Bear’s water bowl, poured him water, and gave him kibble from a Ziplock bag. Bear worked hard; he needed a rest too, even though everything in Lena pushed her to keep moving, to press on.
“Drink up, boy. Otherwise, they’ll be sending a search party out for us.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Lena. In this moment, they were the only search party. Everything had seemed to fall apart slowly, and then all at once.
Once more, Lena shrugged off her backpack and removed the brown paper bag. She opened it and pulled out Shiloh’s shirt. Refresh, reward, reestablish.
“This is Shiloh. We’re going to find Shiloh.”
Bear’s tail wagged so hard it shook his hindquarters. He barked and dashed for the edge of the clearing. She followed Bear down a ravine and up the other side, her thighs burning.
“Did he find it?” Eli asked.
Her heart surged. “He found it.”
“Don’t get too far ahead,” Jackson said. “Wait for us—”
Lena was already scrambling after the dog. “Good job! Keep going!”
Bear moved swiftly, with purpose. The scent grew stronger. He was zeroing in, getting close. The cross currents in the ravine must have snarled up the scent cone.
Lena broke into a jog, Jackson and Eli right behind her. The world was all shadows: tree trunks and ragged branches, felled logs and rocky ledges. Shadows pooled, receding, forming shapes of demons and wraiths.
She pushed through the shadows, then broke out of the underbrush.
There, in the scarlet moonlight, not marked on any map, not registered with official documentation or county permits, stood a cabin.
62
ELI POPE
DAY SEVEN
“He’s in there,” Jackson said to Eli. “And Shiloh’s in there with him. We need to go in now.”
Eli shook his head, never taking his eyes off the cabin with his night vision field glasses. “We don’t have enough intel. We could be walking into a death trap.”
They lay belly-down in a nest of pine needles just inside the perimeter of the tree line thirty yards from the front of the cabin. A fallen log offered cover and concealment. His ghillie suit provided additional camouflage, blurring his human form to anyone watching.
They spoke low in whispers, maintaining as much noise and light discipline as possible. Eli would rather they didn’t speak at all, but they had not trained together. They needed to communicate to execute this mission, however ad hoc it would be.
They had sent Lena and Bear hiking back toward the closest main road, County Road 587, based on the map. Lena had her compass and heavy hiking boots. She would flag down a car and head to the Sheriff’s office back in Munising.
Neither of them wanted Lena anywhere near the impending firestorm. He pushed thoughts of her out of his head; he needed total focus.
Eli glanced at his watch. It was midnight. Staying low, he had circled the perimeter twice, examining the shed, the outhouse, gleaning what intel he could. He’d searched for IED booby traps, scanned for trip wires, anything out of place.
He hadn’t seen anything. It didn’t mean the door wasn’t bootstrapped with explosives to kill an entry team. It was impossible to discern what was inside.
Tension wound tight in his gut. How close was the hostile to his weapon? Where was the hostage, how was she restrained? Was there more than one hostile? He needed answers to every question, but he wasn’t going to get them.
He was used to coordinated hostage rescues with the Rangers and other government agencies. They had massive resources and intel at their disposal, including drones, tactical thermal imaging cameras, and listening devices.
Eli and Jackson had none of those things.
“What toys do we have?” Eli asked.
“I have breaching rounds in my shotgun. Several flashbangs. A thermal imaging scope but it won’t help us see inside.”
Jackson reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two sets of sound protection ear plugs. He handed one set to Eli. They would protect the ears from gunshots but allowed for conversation. Eli inserted them in his ears with his free hand.
If they waited for the sheriff’s department or the state police to arrive, or the FBI SWAT team from the Detroit field office, Shiloh may not make it that long.
Moments ago, Jackson had deputized him within his powers as undersheriff. Now, he eyed Eli’s AK-47. He exhaled. “I don’t know if this is the right thing.”
“I am the monster you send in to take out a bigger monster.”
Jackson nodded, unconvinced. He rubbed his jaw—nervous, on edge. Good. He should be. This was a cluster of epic proportions.
Eli had already gone through his gear methodically, checking weapons, counting ammo, extra magazines, mentally preparing for the assault to come. It didn’t matter how many times you ran through the drills, how many times you’d done this, in training or in real life, with bullets flying and enemies closing in.
It could all go sideways in a heartbeat. He’d lost too many good team members, too many brothers and sisters in combat, had seen bad luck put a bullet in a man’s brain a hundred times.
“I am going to arrest him,” Jackson said. “I’m going to bring him in and he’s going to stand trial for what he’s done.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Do not use lethal force unless you have to.”
“I have to.”
“He will answer to the law, not to a vigilante with a gun.”
“Then I won’t use a gun.”
“The law matters, Eli.”
“The law is broken.”
Jackson sucked in a sharp breath. “We save Shiloh. What you do after that is your choice, but the consequences will be yours, too.”
Eli didn’t take his eyes off the cabin. The curtains were closed. Nothing moved. The forest seemed to hold its breath. “Understood.”
Maybe Eli should have eliminated Jackson back there in the woods. Shot him in the spine and left him to bleed out. He’d been sorely tempted.
The truth was, they needed each other. A partner could mean the difference between an operation’s success or failure. Eli would rather have a spec ops hostage rescue team at his back, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
The curtains in the left window moved slightly. A flutter as a figure moved past it. The curtains were too opaque to make out details. Someone was in there with Shiloh. Were there two hostiles inside? Three? Or just the one?
“You see that?” Jackson asked.
“I do.”
“We need to go in now! He could be hurting her. Killing her.” Jackson’s mouth thinned, like he couldn’t bear to imagine what that monster might be doing to Shiloh.
Neither could Eli, but he couldn’t let hot heads compromise the mission, either.
“This will be a crap shoot. You might get him and save her or he might shoot her, shoot one or both of us. Without intel, flip a coin. He dies. Flip it again. We die. One more time. She dies.”
In a go-now situation with so little intel, the possibility of losing part of the team or the hostage herself was high. Even using flash bangs could injure Shiloh, depending on where she was inside the cabin. Permanent blindness, deafness, or serious burns were possible.
He didn’t like the odds.
“I don’t care what happens to me,” Eli said. “She does not die. That is not how this is going to end.”
Jackson glanced at him. “We’re on the same page there.”
The unspoken agreement passed between them. Whatever reckoning was between them, it came after they saved the girl.
Eli’s radio crackled. “Thi
s is Lena. Come in.”
He kept the binoculars zeroed in on the cabin as he brought the radio to his mouth. “You’re a go, Lena.”
“There’s someone out here.”
“Don’t engage,” Jackson said. “Lena, don’t you do it—”
“Too late,” Lena said. “It’s—it’s not a threat. Call you in a minute.”
“Lena—”
The radio clicked off.
63
LENA EASTON
DAY EIGHT
Less than a mile from the cabin, a figure crashed through the underbrush off to the southwest, maybe fifty yards up the ridge line of a ravine. Through the trees, Lena glimpsed a ribbon of red hair.
The sound of sobbing reached her. A girl. Female.
Shiloh. But no, the red hair didn’t fit. This wasn’t Shiloh. Then who?
Ahead of her, Bear went rigid, nose high in the air, ears pricked. He glanced back at Lena with an imploring expression.
“Go find her,” Lena instructed. She drew her M&P 9, chambered a round, and held it low at her side. “But be careful.”
Bear dashed ahead. Shadows from the tree canopy overhead dappled his brown fur. Lena followed at a jog, leaping over fallen logs, sidestepping boulders, climbing the ravine with sure steps.
At the top of the ridge, Bear let out a soft bark. Lena broke through a cluster of trees into a clearing. A figure faced away from her. A girl, half clothed in filthy shorts and a black tattered tank top. Red hair dirty and tangled.
The girl turned at the sound of Bear’s bark. Terror in her glassy blue eyes. She was trembling like a leaf.
Lena didn’t holster her weapon but kept it low. Pity washed through her. This girl looked like she’d been through hell and back. “I’m a friend. I won’t hurt you.” Lena looked around, tense and wary. “Is there anyone else here? Are you in imminent danger?”
The girl opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. She gave the tiniest shake of her head. “Help.”
“Yes. Yes, I am here to help you.” Lena holstered her gun, shrugged off her pack, and pulled out a water bottle, which she handed to the girl. She took out an emergency blanket and unwrapped it. “What’s your name, honey?”
“R-Ruby Carpenter.”
Ruby shivered as Lena wrapped the emergency blanket around her shoulders and placed the water bottle in her hands. Shakily, Ruby took a sip of water.
“I’m going to check you over, okay. Does it hurt anywhere?” Lena knelt next to her and quickly assessed her vital signs, asking her questions to evaluate her physical and mental state.
The girl was conscious, alert, breathing normally, with cuts and bruising. She checked her pupils, her pulse—ninety-three beats per minute. No evidence of head injury. Lena reached into her pack again and pulled out a tube of glucose gel to get her blood sugar levels up quickly.
Ruby trembled, teeth chattering. It was clear she had experienced trauma, the kind that wouldn’t always show on a cursory evaluation. This girl needed medical care, a hospital, a warm bed, people that loved her.
But Shiloh was still out there. Lena hated to do it, but for the other girl’s sake, she had to press Ruby, had to ask her the critical questions.
“What happened, honey? Did you come from the cabin?”
Something flickered behind her eyes. Fear. Haltingly, she nodded. “I…I ran…”
Urgency needled Lena. “Did you see Shiloh Easton? Small, black hair, dark eyes.”
“She—she got me out. But…she stayed. She stayed back there, to find her brother.” The girl shook her head. “It’s a bad place. A terrible place. If he comes back—if he finds her—”
The girl shook her head, mute with terror. Fear slithered up Lena’s spine. She wanted to run into that dilapidated cabin herself. She was a rescuer—every fiber of her body longed to save Shiloh.
“Ruby, this is very important. The man who took you, is he alone?”
The girl stared at her blankly. Lena was losing her, she was retreating into her mind, into her terror. Gently, Lena gripped her shoulders and squeezed. “Honey, you can help Shiloh, okay? This is how you help her. Is he the only one?”
“The only one I’ve seen,” the girl rasped. “Yes.”
Lena reached for the radio.
64
SHILOH EASTON
DAY EIGHT
“When I am through with you, you’ll wish you were in that hole,” Boone said.
Shiloh thought of Ruby, locked down in that fetid hole in the ground. How the girl had chewed through her own ropes to free herself. She thought of Cody, how he’d chosen to leap off a cliff to give her a chance to escape. And she thought of her mother.
All the survivors who had come before her.
Some had won. Some had lost. All had fought to the bitter end.
Their blood ran through her veins, through the veins of every girl who’d ever been hurt, every woman who’d been hit, every boy who’d been damaged.
She knew their terror and she knew their strength.
Shiloh Easton would not let them down. This would not be her end.
He was the worst kind of windigo, an evil spirit who consumed beauty. Who saw innocence and wanted to crush it. Who ravaged and defaced and destroyed every good thing.
Like Cody, she would not let him have her.
“I’m going to kill you,” she said.
She spat on him. Water leaked traitorously from the corners of her eyes.
Boone leaned over her and grasped her armpits. Shiloh writhed like a fish caught in a net. She kicked wildly. Struggling to twist around and land a kick. Her ribs throbbed. She fought anyway. Surging upward, she sank her bared teeth into his right earlobe.
The man screamed and wrenched back. She did not let go. Warm blood gushed between her lips. Flesh tore. She bit down and tore out a chunk of cartilage.
“You filthy little slut—”
She spat the wad of flesh from her mouth and snarled. Gasping, chest heaving, hands still bound behind her, blood dribbled down her chin.
On her back, she kicked out, desperate and furious. Her heel smashed his face. A crunch of cartilage and bone. Her heart a frantic thing in her chest. Terror locked in her throat.
Boone gave a wet howl. Blood streamed from his nose. Maybe it was broken. She sure as hell hoped so.
He rose over her. Eyes like dead beetles. Blood ringed his mouth like a depraved clown. He gripped the iron hawk lamp base in both hands. He raised the base over his head.
Shiloh screamed.
65
ELI POPE
DAY EIGHT
Eli crouched at the edge of the clearing, preparing himself for the assault. He pushed out the fear, his misgivings, and ticked through tactical options in his head. Weaknesses and stress points.
Jackson had already moved to the other side of the cabin, ready to breach the back door.
The existence of Ruby Carpenter changed everything. With Lena’s help, they’d swiftly extracted critical information. The layout of the cabin, the furniture, the rooms, how the hostile likely had Shiloh restrained—with ropes. The trapdoor with the pit dug underneath the floorboards.
As he’d suspected, the cabin wasn’t boobytrapped. Boone came and went using the front door. He had a handgun and a shotgun, plenty of ammo. And he was currently alone.
They would make a dynamic entry and go in gangbusters. Creating an environment of chaos gave them the advantage of clarity and dominance.
If they went in fast and explosive, clearing room by room, Eli hoped to take the hostile by surprise and eliminate him before he could kill Shiloh.
The element of surprise was good; the element of sheer terror was better.
With Ruby’s help, the odds were no longer fifty-fifty. They had a chance.
A scream filtered through the trees. It came from inside the cabin.
Adrenaline shot through Eli’s veins. He sprinted toward the cabin, weapon drawn. “We’re going in hot! Go, go, go!”
66
/> ELI POPE
DAY EIGHT
Eli lowered into a half crouch and crossed the fifty-yard clearing, approaching the cabin from the east, windowless side. His AK-47 at his shoulder, he continually scanned for threats.
His breathing steadied, a cold calm descending over him. It was go-time.
There was little concealment between the tree line and the cabin. He moved fast and low, weeds swishing against his shins. The ghillie suit blurred his outline, but he was far from hidden.
The aurora rippled in crimson ribbons overhead, the night brighter than a full moon. Crickets whirred in the grass. An owl hooted.
He reached the edge of the cabin, ducked behind a large rain barrel, and bladed his body against the wall. Every sense on high alert, nerves raw.
A male voice came from inside the cabin, vicious and threatening.
Silently, he cut the corner, leading with his weapon, and made his way along the front of the building toward the door. At the first window, he rose, keeping his profile low, and peered inside. The curtains blocked most of his sightline.
He shifted and glimpsed a narrow slice of the interior—the sofa, the LED lantern on the end table, and the hostile, standing in the center of the room, some sort of heavy object held in both hands. A pistol glinted on the coffee table.
He could not see Shiloh but assumed she was on the floor, restrained. Too close to use the flash bangs. Urgency crackled through him. Time to go. Now.
Boom! Boom! Several thunderous cracks sounded. Jackson had fired the 12-Gauge TKO breaching rounds at the hinges of the back door, blowing it open.
Eli sprinted for the front door. With great force, he kicked the door in, his boot striking above the door handle. The cabin was old. The half-rotted frame crumbled inward. The door crashed open.