Page 33 of Naughty With The Mountain Man
Because I left her alone for sixty seconds.
Ranger lets out a single sharp bark, like a curse.
“Inside,” I snap. The word tastes like blood.
We move.
Phone. Comms. Generator. Power hums back to life; lights flicker on. I hit speed dial with a thumb that doesn’t shake.
Hale answers on the first ring. “Talk.”
“Snatch and grab. Two, maybe three. Chemical assist, back window breach. Black van, no plates, headed south off the service road five minutes ago.”
“Ellie?”
“Gone.”
A beat of silence that isn’t empty—just bristling. “I’m twenty-five out,” he says. “Call Nate.”
“I’m on him.”
Hale hangs up. I hit the next number.
Nate doesn’t bother with hello. “Tell me you’re calling about breakfast.”
“Van took her,” I say. “South on the service road. Power was cut. They used gas.”
“Copy. You got a make on the vehicle?”
“Dark van. Newer model. No plates. Tints. Cold engine note. Light rear suspension—empty or close to. They knew the property.”
“Which means local help.” I can hear keys hammering. “Get me camera. Town, highway, gas stations—anything with a lens.”
“On it.”
We hang up. I throw the breaker for the small uplink I buried under the crawlspace two summers ago because I hate being blind. The satellite kicks, coughs, connects. I dump the last hour of my exterior camera cache to a cloud Nate can reach and text him the link and a three-line rundown he’ll understand better than anyone.
Hale’s truck swings into the drive twelve minutes later. He’s out while the engine’s still ticking, jaw set, eyes flat. He takes in the window, the glass, the long drag marks on the sill, and says nothing. He doesn’t have to. We speak the same language.
“Nate’s pulling DMV feeds,” I say, already shoving a rifle into his hands. “I want eyes at town ingress. West light at Miller, south rotary, Main and First.”
“Sheriff?” Hale asks.
“Calling him now.”
I dial the local sheriff—Dixon, a decent man with a long memory and two fewer illusions than the job requires. He picks up on the second ring, no rank, just, “What do you need, Hunt?”
“Kidnap in the last fifteen. Black van, no plates, south from my ridge. We’re pushing DMV and traffic cams. I need a BOLO and two cars to meet at my place for a run.”
“Consider it done.” A pause. “We’ll run sirens off until we’re in position.”
“Good.” I hang up.
The sat uplink chimes—Nate. I put him on speaker.
“Got your dump,” he says, voice clipped. “Two minutes after your power drops, a black van pops on Main, heading east. Camera at Harper’s Pharmacy got a partial silhouette—roof rack, dent on the rear passenger door, winter tires with deep V tread.”
“Direction?” I ask.
