Page 94 of Wildflower and Whiskey
“I’ll find him,” I said. “And I’ll bring him home.” Those words felt like a promise carved in stone. I’d never been so determined in my life.
With boots on and a big flannel jacket and flashlight, I went outside. The frost had hardened into a thin white shell over the ground. My boots crushed it as I headed for the truck. It felt like we were still being watched from deep in the orchard. I could see where Becket’s guys had cut through toward the east fence. Two sets of prints, like he said. Braden’s blanket caught on a low branch ten yards in.
It stopped my breath.
I picked it free, tucked it inside my jacket, and kept moving.
My radio crackled. Becket’s voice came through, clipped and calm. “We’ve got a set of tire tracks half a kilometer east of your line. Light vehicle. Possibly a hatchback or crossover. Direction toward Route 12.”
“Copy,” I said. “I’m coming from the west road. I can intercept before the turn.”
“Negative,” Becket shot back immediately. “Stay clear of the main route. We’ve got two units already deployed.”
I stared at the darkness ahead. “You’ll need someone who knows the orchard trails better than your GPS.”
A pause. Then a low curse. “Fine. You take the river road. Cut east and parallel our grid. Keep your lights off. Stay in contact.”
“Copy.”
I threw the truck in gear. The gravel spat behind me as I turned off the main lane and took the dirt track that followed the river. It was narrow, uneven, and lined with maples. I knew every bend because I had biked this road a hundred times as akid, even though now it felt different. Every shadow was a threat. Every branch that cracked was someone getting farther away with my son. The minute I thought the word it rang true. Braden had become my boy too.
The radio chirped again. “Vehicle sighted at the 12/40 junction,” came a voice from patrol. “Silver hatchback, Quebec plates starting with C-M. Speed moderate. Two occupants in front. Rear view obstructed.”
That was enough for me.
I hit the gas. The truck jumped forward, tires skidding for traction. I reached the old wooden bridge and slowed, crossing fast but carefully, headlights still off. When I came up the other side, I killed the engine and listened.
I heard the engine in the distance. Small, high-pitched, and moving slow.
I rolled the truck forward in neutral until I saw them through the break in the trees. A silver hatchback easing down the back road toward the east gate. They thought no one would follow from this side.
I picked up the radio. “Visual on the suspect vehicle,” I said. “East orchard road, just past the bridge. No lights, speed maybe forty.”
Becket’s voice was a growl. “Hold position, Phoenix. Backup’s two minutes.”
But I saw the taillights blink like they’d spotted movement behind them. The car started to accelerate.
“Too late,” I muttered, dropping the truck into gear, I hit the horn once.
The hatchback jerked and swerved. I caught up halfway down the lane, bumper tight to their back end. The driver tried to turn, but the dirt was slick with frost. I clipped their quarter panel, spun them sideways into the ditch. The sound of metal grinding against frozen soil filled the night.
Before the truck stopped fully, I was out the door.
“Get out!” I shouted.
The driver’s door flew open. A man stumbled out, tall, wearing a ski mask. He bolted for the trees. I didn’t waste time. I went for the back.
The rear door was jammed. I yanked once, twice, then slammed my shoulder into it. It popped open with a groan.
Inside was nothing.
Just an empty car seat.
My heart cracked open like glass.
They’d already switched vehicles.
Becket’s voice roared over the radio. “Phoenix! Stand down! Patrol has movement two kilometers north of your position, a van heading toward the highway. They decoyed you!”
