Page 156 of Found by the Pack
He answers before the second ring, voice gravelly. “Boone. You’re up to something?”
“Bring men,” I say. “Block the exits. And don’t let anyone with a plated truck out. Especially the ones that don’t belong to town.”
“I got you,” he says. I tell him where to be and he confirms it.
Muscle matters. Numbers matter. Engines matter. We stack it all up like Lego bricks until we have something strong enough to hold a man down.
I touch base with Julian—he’s the one who lent us the yacht. He’s literally the only person in this town who can tell me what small, fast boats are under the county’s nose.
“I need fast extraction points,” I say. “If they try to cut to the water, they have to move past the cove and the breakwater. Put a watch on the cove. Anyone you trust, you pull. Block the docks where you can.”
He promises, voice steady. He’s a good man. Lucky for me, he likes Shepard. Lucky for us, he likes me, too.
“What do you need from me?” he asks. He’s breathing hard. I can hear trucks idling in the background, the city mobilizing.
He doesn’t ask for my plan. He knows what I’m going to do. This is what pack does for pack.
“I need you to send people to check on Shepard,” I say. “Get a medic there now. If he’s alive, he needs to be moved before he bleeds out. After that, take anything you can spare—men, trucks, everyone. Start canvassing the township to stop any vehicles moving east.”
“On it,” Julian says. No hesitation, no cussing. That’s all the answer I want.
I wheel my own truck into a convoy—two of my rookies, Riley, Marco, and Rhys’ ATV riders—then hit the gas. My chest is burning. Every red light is a personal insult.
I sail through intersections because right now the town needs speed more than it needs traffic lights. I run radio to the county.I patch into the towing crews, tell them to look for a battered black pickup with scratches on the tailgate.
“It’s probably got alloy rims,” I tell them, because those details matter. They’ll look twice. They’ll get a lead.
The dispatcher calls back with a fragment—a sighting near the old mill road, a truck that matches the description headed north. My foot slugs the pedal.
North is the highway out of town. If they’re moving that way, I have my window.
I shout at the rookies with a voice so sharp they flinch. “Eyes open. Call anything you see. We do this clean. We box them in. No heroics unless you absolutely have to. I’m going to the mill; you cover the ridge.”
They nod. I watch them shift into position—faces taut, hands steady enough for now. The littlest one, Tyler, eyes wide but determined, catches my glance and gives me a quick, brave nod like he’s been doing this his whole life.
That’s faith. That’s family.
I wedge my shoulder into the radio again and tell the sheriff’s men the coordinates, set a perimeter. I add one more layer—volunteer fishermen with boats that can block the water exit.
I make a call to Declan; he’s already driving heavy machinery past the harbor. He grunts and promises lines, ropes, anything handleable to string across the cove. I can hear the strain in the background like a drumbeat.
Everyone in town is waking now. Fear spreads fast, but so does loyalty.
Then I get a ping on my phone. The video Shepard sent to Millie is circulating. It’s grainy, but I know what I’m watching: Sadie screaming, Scott’s face like a coffin lid, the four of them herding her into a truck.
My stomach goes cold in a way that isn’t about the smoke.
“No,” I whisper, like saying it loud will make it untrue. I won’t let that happen. Not on my watch.
The sheriff radios confirmation that the north exit is blocked. Knuckles’ crew is in position on the east approach. Riley reports a truck matching the description on Route 9; it’s headed west, trying to skirt out of the county.
I stomach the thought of them making it. I don’t have that luxury.
“Box them in,” I tell the sheriff. “Use the secondary roads. Force them to take Route 9. If they go west, Knuckles has them. If they go north, I’m on it.”
I sling my radio in my pocket and sprint out of the truck, boots slapping pavement, lungs burning with the cold sting of smoke.
The team moves as one—my boys, the sheriff’s deputies, a handful of volunteer hands bigger than their fear. We grid the roads and we watch.
