Chapter 24
twenty-four
They cut north through the back acreage, following the muddy path that paralleled the fence line.
The sun was weak and cold, the kind of light that stripped color from everything.
Ghost’s hands felt numb on the reins. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work the tension out, but all it did was send a stinger of pain up his right side.
The shoulder had given him trouble for years, thanks to a bullet that bitch Isolde put in him.
He ignored it. Pain was a familiar shadow, and it kept him sharp.
They rode hard, barely slowing for the switchbacks or the tangle of deadfall along the trail. Greta set a punishing pace. He liked her more for it.
Bear followed on his equine bulldozer, Titan.
He didn’t say much, but the grim set of his jaw made it clear he was ready for trouble.
King loped alongside Titan, a massive, shaggy shadow with his tongue out and his eyes always moving.
Cinder stayed close to Ghost’s stirrup, matching the horses’ stride for stride, never outpacing them, never lagging.
She was a good dog. Too loyal for her own damn good.
He checked the radio every few minutes, but nothing came. Static and the occasional status update from back at the Ridge. Nobody had eyes on Naomi, which meant nobody had a real lead yet.
The closer they got to Cole’s cabin, the more the atmosphere changed. The woods out here were denser, darker. Less touched by civilization. More wild, more unpredictable. The wind carried sharp, shifting scents through the trees, and the horses got jumpy as they left the last fence line behind.
Greta signaled them to slow as the trail narrowed, then dropped her voice. “He’s got motion sensors and trail cams everywhere. Don’t touch anything. And don’t make any sudden moves unless you want to get a warning shot.”
Bear snorted. “You sure he’s not gonna shoot first and ask questions later?”
“Only if you’re stupid,” Greta answered, her eyes never leaving the trail ahead. “And something tells me that’s not your first instinct.”
Ghost’s jaw clenched as they continued on. The trees grew denser, branches hanging lower, forcing him to duck occasionally. A flash of something metal caught his eye—a wire, nearly invisible among the fallen leaves. He raised his hand, signaling the others to halt.
“Trip wire,” he warned. “Ten o’clock.”
Greta nodded. “He’s got them everywhere. Follow my path exactly.”
They picked their way forward, the horses stepping carefully under their guidance. Cinder stuck close, her eyes alert, nose working overtime, hackles raised slightly.
The cabin came into view on the path ahead.
Rough-hewn logs darkened by weather, a metal roof gleaming dully in the weak sunlight.
Smoke curled from the stone chimney. Two windows faced the approach, both with the curtains drawn.
The entire place had the feel of a fortress, meant to keep the outside world at bay.
A Cane Corso with a head like a cinder block sat on the porch steps, watching their approach with predatory focus. It didn’t bark or growl. Just watched, which somehow made it more unnerving.
Ghost tensed as the beast rose to its feet, muscles and scars rippling beneath its short, dark coat. At his side, Cinder went rigid, a barely audible rumble vibrating through her chest.
“That’s Tilly,” Greta murmured. “Don’t stare her down.”
Tilly?
What a ridiculous name for a dog that looked spawned by the pits of hell.
The cabin door swung open before they could dismount.
Evander Cole stepped onto the porch, rifle balanced casually in the crook of his arm.
Not pointed at them, but not exactly put away either.
He was tall and lean, all sinew and hard muscle earned from splitting wood, hauling water, and wrestling a living out of the wilderness, with the coiled stillness of someone who’d seen real combat and had killed enough people to stop counting.
His face was all hard angles, hidden behind a thick, full blond beard, and those watchful brown eyes missed nothing.
Cole’s gaze settled on Ghost first, lingering there with the cool assessment of one predator recognizing another, then shifted to Bear with the same calculation. But when he finally looked at Greta, his expression changed, softening a fraction.
“Greta.” His voice was low, graveled from disuse or smoke. “Didn’t expect company.”
“Sorry for the surprise, Evander.” Greta stayed on her horse, hands visible on the reins. “We need your help.”
Cole’s gaze flicked back to Ghost, measuring. “With what?”
“Naomi Lefthand is missing,” Greta said. “Our K9 team picked up her scent at the edge of your property line.”
Cole didn’t react beyond a slight narrowing of his eyes. “Don’t know her.”
Ghost’s patience, already threadbare, snapped. “FBI agent. Long black hair, brown eyes. Stubborn as hell. She disappeared last night.”
“And you think she’s here?” Cole’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the rifle.
Bear shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking beneath him. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”
“Yet.” The word hung in the air between them.
Ghost wanted to tear the place apart, search every inch of Cole’s property until he found her. But the rifle, the dog, and the man’s hard stare all promised that approach would end badly. He forced himself to breathe through the urge to move.
“Our dogs tracked her here,” Greta said, voice steady. “Then lost the scent. We just want to know if you’ve seen or heard anything unusual in the last twelve hours. Vehicles on the logging road, strangers in the woods, anything.”
Cole studied them for another long moment, then whistled softly. The massive dog at his feet stood down, sinking back to the porch boards with a heavy sigh.
“Haven’t seen your agent,” he said finally. “But Tilly was barking at something the night before last. Down by the old Kettering barn, ‘bout two miles east of here.”
Ghost’s heart rate kicked up. “What time?”
“Middle of the night. Two, maybe three in the morning.”
“Did you check it out?” Bear asked.
Cole’s mouth twitched. “Not my business what happens off my property.”
Ghost bit back the urge to call him a selfish prick. Instead, he leaned forward in the saddle, forcing his voice to stay level. “The barn. How do we get there?”
Cole pointed toward a narrow game trail that branched off to the east. “Follow that until you hit the creek. Cross at the shallows, then head uphill. Can’t miss it—old red barn, half the roof caved in. Used to be a hunting cabin attached, but that burned down years ago.”
“Can you show us?” Greta asked.
“No.” Cole’s expression closed off completely. “I stay on my land.”
Ghost wanted to argue, to drag the man along, but Greta caught his eye and shook her head slightly. Not worth the fight.
“Thanks for the lead,” she said to Cole. “If you hear anything else—”
“I won’t.” Cole turned back toward his door and disappeared inside without another word.
Tilly remained on the porch, dark eyes tracking them as they turned the horses and headed for the trail Cole had indicated.
Only when they were a good fifty yards away did Ghost hear the dog finally retreat inside.
“Friendly guy,” Bear muttered, ducking under a low-hanging branch.
“He’s not as bad as he seems,” Greta said. “Just prefers his own company.”
Ghost didn’t care about Cole’s social preferences. All he cared about was the barn and whether Naomi was there. He urged Coyote forward, pushing the pace until the trail narrowed too much to risk it.
The woods were thick here, the undergrowth tangled with thorns and deadfall.
Each step seemed to take forever, the horses picking their way carefully over roots and rocks.
Ghost’s skin crawled with impatience. He wanted to dismount and run ahead, but even he knew that would be stupid in this terrain.
They reached the creek fifteen minutes later. The water ran fast and cold, swollen from the recent rain. Greta led them to a crossing point where the streambed widened and flattened out, the water barely reaching the horses’ knees.
As they climbed the far bank, Ghost caught a flash of something through the trees—weathered red boards, the remnants of a structure. The barn.
He signaled to the others, pointing. Bear nodded, his hand dropping to his hip where Ghost knew he carried a .45. Greta whistled softly, and Atlas came to heel, ears perked forward.
The horses sensed their tension, shifting nervously beneath them. Ghost dismounted first, tying Coyote to a sturdy pine. Bear and Greta did the same with their mounts.
“I’ll take point,” Ghost said, his voice low. “Cinder, stay.”
The dog looked unhappy about the command but obeyed, settling next to the horses. King did the same at Bear’s signal, though with obvious reluctance.
Ghost drew his weapon and moved forward through the trees, every sense heightened. The barn came fully into view—an old, listing structure with most of its paint weathered away. One side had partially collapsed, leaving a gaping hole where double doors should have been.
No vehicles visible. No signs of recent activity around the perimeter. But someone had been here—a set of boot prints led from a narrow dirt track up to the barn’s remaining door, the mud still showing clear impressions.
Ghost signaled Bear to circle right while he approached from the left. Greta and Atlas took the center, the woman’s hand resting on her own sidearm.
The air smelled wrong—damp earth and rotting wood, but underneath it, something sharper. Something chemical. Ghost’s stomach knotted as he recognized it. Bleach. The universal cleaner for those who didn’t want to leave evidence behind.
He reached the barn’s side entrance first, pressing his back against the weathered boards. The door hung partially open, darkness beyond. He counted down silently—three, two, one—then swung inside, weapon raised.
The interior was cavernous, mostly empty except for rusted farm equipment and rotting hay bales.
Shafts of sunlight speared through holes in the roof, illuminating dust motes that danced in the still air.
Bear entered from the far side, his large frame silhouetted against the light from the collapsed wall.
Nothing moved. No sound except their own breathing and the distant call of a crow.
Ghost lowered his weapon slightly, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The floor was dirt, packed hard by years of use. In one corner, a pile of fresh straw caught his attention—too new compared to everything else in the place.
He crossed to it, boots silent on the earth floor. As he got closer, he saw dark stains in the dirt beside the straw. Blood. Not much, but enough to make his heart stutter.
“Over here,” he called, voice tight.
Greta joined him, crouching to examine the stains. “Recent,” she confirmed. “Within the last day or two.”
Bear’s voice came from the other side of the barn. “Got something.” His tone made both of them turn.
The big man stood near what must have been the attached cabin—now just a blackened foundation with a few charred beams still reaching toward the sky. He pointed to a shallow depression in the earth, rectangular, about six feet long.
A grave.
Ghost’s blood turned to ice. He crossed the distance in seconds, boots skidding in the loose dirt as he dropped to his knees beside the hole. It was empty—freshly dug but unused.
“They were going to bury someone here,” Bear said, the words falling like stones.
Ghost couldn’t speak. His throat had closed up, lungs refusing to work properly. The empty grave yawned before him, a promise of what might have been—what might still be. His hands curled into fists in the dirt.
Atlas’s bark cut through the silence, followed by the radio crackling to life on Greta’s hip.
“Search Team Alpha to Dougherty, come in.”
She grabbed the radio. “Dougherty here. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a body. Female. Blacktail Creek, quarter mile south of Highway 93.”
Ghost’s head snapped up, eyes locking with Bear’s. The big man’s face had gone blank.
“Is it Naomi?” Greta demanded, her voice professional despite the tremor in her hand.
“I don’t think so. She’s...” The voice hesitated. “She’s wearing a yellow plaid skirt and blazer.”
Leelee Padilla.
Not Naomi.
The relief hit Ghost so hard he nearly collapsed, followed immediately by a wave of self-loathing. Someone else’s daughter was dead, and here he was, grateful it wasn’t the woman he—
He cut the thought off before it could fully form.
“Understood,” Greta replied. “Secure the scene and call the police. We’re on our way.” She clicked off and looked at Ghost. “It’s not Naomi.”
“I know.” He pushed himself to his feet, dirt cascading from his jeans. “But Leelee’s dead, and whoever killed her was planning to put someone else in that grave.”
Bear’s jaw tightened as he looked down at the empty hole. “We need to find Naomi. Fast.”
Ghost nodded, already heading for the barn door, urgency driving every step. His mind raced through the implications. If they’d found Leelee’s body, it meant the killer was covering tracks, eliminating evidence. Naomi had been asking questions, connecting dots that someone didn’t want connected.
They reached the horses in record time. Ghost untied Coyote with hands that refused to be steady, then swung into the saddle. Cinder pressed against his leg, sensing his distress.
“You okay?” Greta asked quietly as she mounted Dakota.
“No,” Ghost answered, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’m not either.”
Then she turned her horse and kicked him into a gallop.