Chapter 12
TWELVE
COLT
The water cuts off with a metallic groan, steam billowing around me like smoke from a fresh fire.
I grab the towel off the hook, drag it over my face, my chest, my hair—still half-hard from the way Willa looked spread out on our bed when I left her twenty minutes ago, lips swollen, thighs marked with my fingerprints and my cum.
The thought makes me smile in the mirror, a real one that pulls at the corners of my mouth.
Never smiled this much in my life. Never thought I’d want to.
I wrap the towel low on my hips and step out of the bathroom, bare feet hitting cold pine.
The bedroom is empty.
Bed’s rumpled exactly how we left it—quilts kicked to the foot, her side still dented from her body. But she’s not there. Not in the room. Not reaching for me with that sleepy, satisfied smile.
“Willa?”
Silence.
My gut twists. The flannel she’d been wearing is on the floor near the nightstand, like it was dropped in a hurry. One sleeve inside out. Her panties—those little black ones I peeled off her earlier—are gone. No socks. No boots. Just the flannel.
I cross the room in three strides, heart already kicking up.
The front door—hell, the whole cabin feels wrong.
Cold air pours in. The heavy oak door is hanging crooked on one hinge, wood splintered where the frame used to meet the deadbolt.
Snow has blown inside, a white streak across the floorboards like a scar.
Drag marks. Two sets of boot prints, deep and hurried, cutting through the fresh powder on the porch.
No.
The word slams through me like a rifle round.
I’m moving before my brain catches up—towel hitting the floor, naked and dripping, yanking on jeans from the chair, not bothering with a belt.
Shirt next, the gray Henley I wore yesterday, still smelling like her.
Boots. Rifle from the rack by the door—already chambered because I never leave it empty.
Extra mags shoved in my pockets. Knife strapped to my ankle out of pure habit.
“Willa!” I roar it this time, voice cracking on the empty cabin. The sound bounces back at me, mocking.
She’s gone. They took her. While I was in the goddamn shower humming like an idiot, thinking we were safe for one fucking night.
My hands shake as I grab the sat phone off the counter. First number I hit is Hank Lawson. It rings once.
“Colt?” Hank answers, voice gravelly like he was asleep. “It’s three in the morning—”
“They took her.” My voice is raw, barely human. I’m already out the door, snow biting my ankles where the boots aren’t laced. “Matthew James and his crew. Kicked the door in. Drag marks in the snow. She’s naked, Hank. They took her naked. I was in the shower—I didn’t hear—”
“Slow down, son.” Hank’s tone shifts to cop mode, sharp and steady. “When?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes ago. Maybe less. I just stepped out. Prints are fresh. Heading down the mountain, had to be. No way they climbed up the back way in this snow.”
“I’m rolling now. Got two deputies I trust—Garrett and Ruiz. We’ll meet you at the fork where your road hits county. You armed?”
“Always.”
“Good. Don’t do anything stupid. We’ll get her back.”
I end the call, breath fogging in the dark. The moon’s out now, full and cold, turning the snow into a silver sheet. I can see the van tracks—wide, fresh, cutting straight down the switchbacks. They didn’t even try to hide them. Cocky bastards. Think the judge’s name makes them untouchable.
Fear claws up my throat, hot and metallic.
Not for me. Never for me. For her. My Willa.
Small and soft and trusting, the woman who let me inside her body and her heart in the same night, who whispered she was moving in, who wants my babies, who looked at this lonely mountain and called it home.
They took her naked. Hooded her, probably.
Zip-tied her. The image burns behind my eyes—her bare skin in the snow, shivering, crying for me while I stood under hot water like a fucking fool.
I swing into the truck, engine roaring to life. Tires spin once on the ice before they bite. I gun it down the drive, snow flying.
Second call. Rhett.
He answers on the first ring, voice alert like he never sleeps. “Ghost.”
“They took her.” No preamble. “Matthew James. Middle of the night. My cabin. She’s gone, brother.”
“Fuck.” Keys jingle in the background. “Location?”
“Heading down Iron Peak toward town. Hank’s meeting me at the county fork. We think they’re taking her to that old fishing cabin the James family keeps up past Blacktail Creek. Private road, no cameras, middle of nowhere. Judge uses it for ‘hunting trips’ that ain’t hunting.”
“I’m two hours out. Roads are shit but I’ll push it. You wait for me if you can. Don’t go in half-cocked.”
“Try telling that to the man who just lost the only woman he’s ever loved.”
Rhett’s quiet a beat. “Copy. I’ll be there.”
I hang up. The truck fishtails on the next switchback.
I correct, knuckles white on the wheel. Every second feels like a knife twisting.
Is she cold? Hurt? Scared out of her mind?
Did they touch her? The thought makes me see red—literally, vision tunneling with rage so pure it scares even me.
I’ve killed men in war. I’ll kill again tonight if they laid one finger on her.
The county road appears ahead, plowed but still treacherous. Hank’s cruiser is already there, lights off, parked sideways. Two more trucks behind him—Garrett’s lifted F-250 and Ruiz’s older Tacoma. Good men. Men who hate the James family as much as I do.
I kill the engine, jump out. Hank meets me halfway, breath fogging, shotgun in hand. He’s in full winter gear, badge clipped to his coat.
“Tracks match a van,” he says without hello. “Wide tires, new tread. Matthew’s got a black Sprinter registered to the family business. We pulled his plates twenty minutes ago. Last seen fueling up in town yesterday afternoon.”
“They’ve got her.” My voice cracks. I don’t care. “Naked, Hank. They dragged her out of my bed while I was in the fucking shower. She’s probably freezing to death right now.”
Hank’s jaw tightens. “We’ll get her. GPS pings on Matthew’s phone died an hour ago, but his cousin’s place—old fishing cabin on Blacktail—is the only spot that makes sense. No cell service, no neighbors, easy to hole up. Judge owns it outright. Perfect for making problems disappear.”
Garrett steps up, big bearded deputy, rifle slung. “I’ve got thermal binoculars. Ruiz brought the breaching kit. We move quiet, we move fast.”
Ruiz nods, checking his sidearm. “Three hostiles minimum—Matthew and the two who usually ride with him. Possibly four. We assume armed.”
I pace, boots crunching snow. “Plan. Now.”
Hank spreads a paper map on the hood of his cruiser, flashlight beam cutting through the dark.
“Cabin’s here—single story, two bedrooms, main room, back porch over the creek.
One road in, steep. We park here—” he taps a spot half a mile out—“hike the rest on foot. Garrett and Ruiz take the east tree line, provide cover. You and me approach from the west, using the ridge. Rhett coming?”
“On his way. ETA ninety minutes if he pushes.”
“We can’t wait that long if she’s in immediate danger.” Hank looks at me hard. “You stay frosty, Colt. I know you love her. But we do this by the book enough to keep it clean. Evidence, arrest, not a bloodbath—unless they force our hand.”
I nod once, but we both know the truth. If they hurt her, there won’t be arrests. There’ll be bodies.
We load up. I ride with Hank. The other two follow.
Radio silence except for short check-ins.
The road narrows, pines closing in like sentinels.
My mind won’t stop spinning worst-case scenarios: Willa crying, Willa bleeding, Willa begging for me while Matthew laughs.
The fear is worse than any combat I’ve seen—primal, gut-deep.
She’s mine. My woman. The one who made this mountain feel like home instead of exile.
The one carrying my future inside her if last night took. I can’t lose her. I won’t.
We park in a turnout hidden by snow-laden branches. Engines off. Lights off. The night is dead quiet except for our boots on snow and the distant rush of Blacktail Creek.
Hank hands me a radio. “Channel four. Stay on it.”
We move out—single file at first, then spreading.
Garrett and Ruiz peel east, vanishing into the trees like ghosts.
Hank and I take the west ridge, climbing slow, using the moonlight.
Every step feels too loud, too slow. My rifle’s in my hands, safety off.
Heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Half a mile in, the cabin appears below us through the pines—dark logs, snow-heavy roof, single light burning in the front window. A black van parked crooked out front, doors open like they were in a hurry. No guards visible. Smoke curls from the chimney.
She’s in there.
I know it in my bones.
Hank crouches beside me, binoculars up. “Two heat signatures in the main room. One in the back bedroom—smaller. Could be her. Third on the porch, smoking.”
My grip tightens on the rifle. “I’m taking the porch.”
“Negative. We wait for Rhett or we go on my count. No hero shit.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are locked on that back window. Is she tied up? Still naked? Scared? The thought of her fear—of her thinking I failed her—makes me want to roar.
Static crackles in my earpiece. Rhett’s voice, low and calm. “In position. East ridge. Got eyes on the porch guy. Say the word.”
Hank glances at me. “Your call, Colt. But we do this smart.”
I exhale slow, forcing the terror and rage into a tight ball I can use.
“Smart,” I repeat. But my finger’s already on the trigger guard. “We go in three minutes. Garrett and Ruiz on the back. Rhett takes porch. You and me through the front. Flashbangs if it goes loud. Goal is her—alive.”
Hank nods once. “Copy.”
We move into final positions—silent shadows in the snow. I belly-crawl the last thirty yards, rifle ready, eyes never leaving the cabin.
Willa’s in there.
My woman.
My future.
And I’m coming for her.
Right now.
The team is set. Rifles up. Breaths steady.
We’re outside.
Ready.
And God help anyone who stands between me and my girl.