39. Huxley
39
HUXLEY
Rodolfo is deep in slumber as we pull into Helena, his dreams shielding him from his first true glimpse of ‘America’ beyond the confines of the D.C. airport during our layover.
As I steer toward the Mitchell residence, I attempt to reach Savannah on the phone, but only silence greets me. It’s not unexpected. She’s probably knee-deep in preparing for Rodolfo’s welcome. My mouth waters at the thought of Al’s empanadas—deep-fried, Colombian style, just the way I told Sav that Rodolfo loves them.
“We’re here, pal,” I say, nudging Rodolfo awake.
Blinking against the sudden light, he takes in the sight around him with a slow, impressed whistle. It’s an average-sized house, but to him, it must look expansive, especially the lawn. He trails behind me as we approach the front door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, too groggy to feel the nerves or indulge in his usual antics.
As the door swings open, I brace for the warm, inviting scent of empanadas. But it’s absent. The atmosphere that greets us is as tense as a stretched wire.
Al’s expression is strained, a visible tension creasing his features as he struggles to muster a warm welcome for Rodolfo. He wraps his arms around the boy in a grandfatherly embrace, a protective shield against the unease. Then he lets Ranger and Ruby approach, unleashing their slobbery greetings and making Rodolfo squeal in disbelief.
The old man and the boy exchange brief pleasantries in Spanish, apparently recounting bits of Rodolfo’s long journey, though the boy is too weary to contribute much, stifling yawns and leaning against the doorway.
“Where is Mama Saltamontes ?” he asks through a yawn.
“You’ll meet her soon,” Al assures him, his gaze darting anxiously toward me.
What?
What’s happening to her? Is she sick? Did she have an accident? Was it something to do with Fabian fucking Gill?
Al puts his arm around Rodolfo, guiding him to the guest bedroom upstairs. “Why don’t you rest a bit more? Later, I’ll make some dinner.”
The guest room’s been turned into something fit for a young one. Nothing fancy, just cozy and welcoming. Al and I show him around, tension humming between us, but thankfully, Rodolfo’s too tuckered out to take any note of it. The moment he hits the mattress, he crashes. Al spreads the covers over his small frame, and we pad outside.
I shut Rodolfo’s door behind me. “Where’s Savannah?” I press Al.
“She was supposed to be at the riding school today, but she didn’t show,” Al explains, his usual steady composure frayed with worry.
So she’s missing? I can’t decide if this is worse or better than the scenarios I’d imagined before. Actually, nothing is better or worse. If Savannah isn’t by my side, it’s a bad scenario .
Al adds, “I went there myself, drove the surrounding areas too. Didn’t find anything, and my calls went to voicemail.”
My pulse kicks up a notch, pounding fiercely against my ribs. “Where’s this school?”
“Out east, near Big Timber.”
I make a beeline for Savannah’s room, eyes scanning for any clue that might suggest something’s wrong. My thoughts whirl, inevitably snagging on her ex.
“You called Fabian yet?” I manage, striving for calm.
“More than called. I was this close to wringing his neck, but he swore up and down he hadn’t seen her today. He’s an unbearable son of a bitch, but he was speaking straight, for once.”
Knowing Al, he’d get the truth out of a stone. And I reckon Fabian wouldn’t dare cross him with a lie.
Al exits Savannah’s room with haste, suggesting he can’t bear to linger amid her belongings.
Now alone, I’m engulfed by the essence of Savannah’s presence. Her room remains untouched, the familiar scent of lavender lingering in the air. Drawn almost magnetically, I wander into the bathroom, my eyes scanning without purpose until they fix on something startling in the wastebasket. My knees go weak.
A positive pregnancy test.
A flood of emotions overwhelms me. Joy, fear, confusion. My heart wrenches, thoughts spiraling as I grasp the full impact of what this truly means. She’s pregnant with my baby. There’s a life growing inside her, our life.
Yet, this is no time for introspection. I steel myself, clenching my fists. The need to find her is more critical than anything else. Every ticking second is precious, and I can’t let my fears—or hopes—distract me .
I burst from the room, nearly crashing into Al, who’s anxiously searching for any sign of good news.
“Watch over Rodolfo,” I instruct, my voice firm with resolve. “I’m heading out to retrace her path to that riding school. There might be a clue or something that could pinpoint her last location.”
“Find her, Huxley,” Al’s voice breaks slightly.
“I will find her,” I promise.
As the road stretches toward Big Timber, I connect with Cora-Lee, Red Mark’s tech guru. She’s my best shot at tracking down Savannah’s last known whereabouts.
“Cee, I need a trace on Savannah’s cell. Can you manage that?” I ask, keeping my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
Cora-Lee’s usually composed voice wavers slightly. “Sure, Hux. What’s going on?”
“She’s missing,” I cut in sharply, no time for preambles.
A moment of silence, then I hear the clatter of keystrokes. “Okay, her phone’s off. Last signal pinged off a tower near Big Timber.”
“Coordinates, please, Cee.”
“Sending them, but keep in mind the search area is roughly 150 to 180 yards from the tower,” she cautions.
As the coordinates beep through to my phone, I veer onto a new path, mentally plotting our search operation.
“Need backup?” Cora-Lee’s voice is steady again.
“Get Chase on it unless he’s wrapped up elsewhere,” I respond, ready to coordinate with my trusty partner.
“On it, Comet. He’ll meet you there,” she confirms efficiently.
Ahead, a nearly invisible by-street branches off the main road. I pull over and exit the car with meticulous care, my senses razor-sharp for any hint of surveillance or danger lurking in the shadows. Yet, the only presence here is the silence of the wild.
I sweep my flashlight across the area as the sun sinks low, creating long shadows and deepening the dusk.
My search initially turns up nothing unusual, until a specific detail catches my eye. Tire tracks. They tell a story of a truck and trailer maneuvering a sharp turn onto a narrow, unkempt road.
I follow the tracks until they lead me to her vehicle. The truck and trailer parked off to the side. A closer look confirms my deepest fears. It is Sav’s truck, and there are signs of a scuffle. Dark specks scatter on the path not far from the abandoned vehicle, likely blood. I swallow hard, my throat tight with the hope that it isn’t Savannah’s.
Suddenly, the silence shatters under the sound of hooves pounding against the ground.
No way!
Misty, Savannah’s mare, gallops toward me in clear distress. My heart tightens at the sight of her frantic approach, but I focus on calming the scared animal. “Easy, Misty,” I whisper, my hands steady as I pat her. The lead rope has snapped. No doubt, she set herself free.
“What happened to her, Misty?” I murmur once the mare calms, her sides heaving. She snorts and nods as if understanding.
I return to my car to prepare for what might come next. Having practically gone straight from my arrival, I only had what I packed for Bogota—minimal tactical gear. I slip into a ballistic vest and secure my Glock firmly in its holster and my survival knife in its sheath. I note our proximity to Lakefall as I check the map. My gut tells me the Blackwater Brutes are behind Savannah’s disappearance, manipulated by unseen hands. I swear to God, they’ve never faced an enemy like me. They’re in for one hell of a shock.
I fetch Savannah’s jacket from the truck, the fabric still carrying her scent. I present it to Misty, knowing the strong bond between rider and horse and trusting the mare’s keen sense of smell. I’m convinced she can lead me directly to Savannah if we’re close enough.
As I prepare to mount, I face an unexpected hurdle. The saddle Savannah had stashed in the trailer isn’t what I’m expecting. I couldn’t fit even half my ass on it. Looks like it’s bareback for us.
Climbing onto Misty, I lean in and whisper, “Take me to her.” And we start forward.
Just then, my phone rings. With my flashlight tucked in my armpit, I answer. It’s Chase, but the weak signal completely fades before I can answer. I switch to my satellite phone as he tries again.
“Comet, I’m held up. Friggin’ landslide has blocked my route, but I’m navigating through,” Chase reports.
“Head to Lakefall,” I reply, feeling Misty pulling in that direction.
“Roger,” he says, and then the line goes dead.
Misty picks up her pace, shifting into a determined trot. “Let’s go find her,” I murmur. No matter what it takes, I’m ready to face whoever took her. She will be safe in my arms. Tonight.