Chapter 23
The small plane banked left, and Amy’s stomach lurched as they descended toward what looked like nothing more than a dirt strip carved into farmland.
No terminal, no tower—just endless fields stretching toward the horizon.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as the wheels touched down with a bone-jarring thud.
This is it. This is really happening.
The two men flanking her hadn’t said much during the flight, but their silence was more terrifying than any threat.
The one with the scar running down his cheek—the one who’d grabbed her—kept checking his phone.
The other, a man with a thick beard, drummed his fingers against his knee like he was playing an invisible piano.
As they climbed out of the plane, hot air hit Amy’s face like a slap. Somewhere in the distance, she could make out the hazy outline of mountains. They were still in Montana, but this felt like the middle of nowhere.
“Move,” Scar-face grunted, his hand finding the small of her back.
A black SUV waited at the edge of the airstrip, engine running. Amy’s legs felt like jelly as they pushed her toward it, but she forced herself to memorize everything—the license plate, the make of the car, the direction they were headed. Nash would find her. He had to.
Windsong Reservation. The name kept circling in her head like a vulture. She’d heard Nash mention it before, but only in passing. Something about old disputes, bad blood. Her chest tightened.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into a run-down gas station that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the eighties. Faded beer signs flickered in the windows, and weeds pushed through cracks in the concrete.
“I need to use the bathroom,” Amy said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Scar-face turned in the passenger seat, his cold eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “You say one word—one single word—to anybody in there, and everyone in that gas station dies. You understand me?”
The casual way he said it, like he was discussing the weather, made Amy’s blood freeze. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good girl.”
The bathroom was a nightmare of cracked tile and flickering fluorescent lights, but Amy had never been so grateful for a locked door.
Her hands shook as she gripped the sink, staring at her reflection.
Her hair was a mess, her mascara smudged, but her eyes …
her eyes looked like a stranger’s. Wild. Desperate.
Please, God, she whispered, closing her eyes. Please help me find a way out of this. Help Nash find me. The prayer felt inadequate, but it was all she had.
The door creaked open behind her, and Amy spun around, her heart in her throat. An older woman with silver hair and kind eyes stepped in, then froze when she saw her.
“Oh, honey,” she said softly, taking in Amy’s appearance. “Are you okay?”
For a split second, Amy almost broke. Almost threw herself into this stranger’s arms and sobbed out everything. But then she remembered the threat, remembered those cold eyes in the mirror.
“I—” Amy’s voice cracked. “Can I … can I use your phone?”
She didn’t hesitate, pulling an old flip phone from her purse. “Of course, dear.”
Amy’s fingers hovered over the keypad. Nash’s number. She’d called it a thousand times, but her mind was blank with panic. Nothing. She couldn’t remember a single digit.
“You comin’?” The voice echoed through the thin bathroom door, making both women jump.
The older woman’s eyes widened with fear, and she took a step back. Amy pressed her finger to her lips, then grabbed the phone from her hands. Her fingers flew over the keys: Help. Please contact the Cross Creek Ranch and tell them that you just met Amy and she is headed to Windsong Reservation.
Amy handed the phone back to her, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. “Please,” she whispered.
The woman nodded, her face pale but determined. “I will, honey. I promise.”
The door rattled. “Let’s go!”
Amy squeezed the woman’s hand once, then forced herself to walk back out into the nightmare waiting for her.