Page 6 of Outlaw Ridge: Ryker
Hallie paused, her gaze narrowing just a fraction. “I’m assuming you both still want to stay on this. Even with the personal connection.”
Emma didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Ryker echoed her. “We’re on it.”
“Good.” Hallie gave a nod of approval, then added, “Keep it tight. Don’t share details unless it’s with someone you’d trust with your life.”
Which, for him, narrowed the list to about six people.
After Hallie gave them a dismissive wave, Ryker opened the office door, holding it for Emma as they left. She gave him a quick glance as she passed, the tension in her shoulders a little less rigid than before, but just barely.
As they walked toward the cold case room, Ryker couldn’t help but take in the now familiar details of the station. Clean walls. Reinforced doors. Updated tech. None of this had been here a year ago.
Strike Force’s founder, Owen Striker, had made sure of that.
Owen, Ryker’s former boss at Strike Force and one of the most relentless men he’d ever known, had poured time, money, and tactical planning into rebuilding Outlaw Ridge PD after the massacre that nearly wiped it off the map.
A loss that had included Sheriff Marty Bonetti, Emma’s uncle.
Ryker hadn’t known Marty that well, but he remembered the stories. Hell, even as a teenager growing up in a town two counties over, he’d heard about the straight-shooting, bigger-than-life sheriff who ran Outlaw Ridge like a fortress and loved his niece like a daughter.
He glanced at Emma again.
That’s why she came back.
Not just for the job. Not just for the quiet. Emma had come back because this place had bled, and her family had bled with it. And now Ethan, or whoever the hell was behind the dummy, had come to finish what he started.
Or reopen wounds that hadn’t healed.
They reached the cold case office, and Ryker keyed in the access code. The door unlocked with a quiet click, revealing a room that looked more like a command center than a rural PD workspace. Smart screens lined one wall, digital filing stations along the other. A sleek table dominated the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs.
It was the best setup small-town money couldn’t buy.
But Strike Force money could.
Ryker used the keypad to wake the digital screen but had to stop when his phone buzzed. A message from the lab.
“The wallet, mask, flyer, and dummy just got to the lab,” he said, skimming the text as the cold case room’s screen blinked to life. Then he paused, his brow creasing. “The tech thinks the threat on the mask might’ve been written in blood.”
Emma straightened, her eyes narrowing. “You’re kidding.”
Ryker shook his head. “Wish I was.”
She cursed under her breath. “Whose blood?”
“Hopefully,” he said, still scrolling, “we’ll have that answer soon.”
Another message pinged in. He read it twice, then frowned even deeper.
“They traced the call,” he added. “The one from the so-called utility worker to you. It came from a burner. And get this, there wasn’t a utility worker dispatched out there. Not from the county, not from private service. No one sent anyone.”
Emma groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Dammit. I fell for it. The call came in, and I just… went racing out there like it was real.”
Ryker leaned back against the table, his mouth tipping into a half-smile. “To be fair, we didn’t exactly go charging in like action heroes. We hunched down from the cold, muttered about the tarp, and wandered out there.”
That reminder pulled a faint sound from her, not quite a laugh, but close enough.
Ryker tapped the screen beside him to start pulling up files, but his mind was still on the burner phone. The flyer. The mask. The message in blood. Someone had put real time and hate into staging that scene.
