CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
"Thanks, Bo," Sheila said. "With any luck, this will all be over soon."
She hung up the phone and let out a deep sigh.
"Everything okay with Star?" Finn asked.
Sheila nodded. "She's as restless as a tiger in a zoo, but he'll keep her safe."
Thus assured about Star's safety, Sheila turned her attention to the abandoned farmhouse before her, which squatted against the morning sky like a wound in the landscape, its weathered boards and broken windows testament to years of neglect.
She and Finn were concealed in a copse of scrub oak, the rising sun at their backs painting long shadows across overgrown fields.
"No signs of current activity," Finn said quietly, lowering his binoculars. "But those tire tracks by the side door are fresh. Someone's been here recently."
Sheila studied the building through her own binoculars, cataloging details with desperate intensity.
A rusted tractor sat half-hidden behind the house, brown weeds growing through its chassis.
The front porch had partially collapsed, forcing anyone entering to use the side door—creating a natural bottleneck. Perfect for an ambush.
"They're smart," she said. "Choosing a place with clear sight lines, only one viable entrance." She shifted position slightly, branches crackling beneath her.
"Which is exactly why we need backup." Finn's voice carried the weight of worry—not just for Gabriel, but for her. "This has trap written all over it, Sheila. That call, the address... they knew you'd come."
"Of course they knew." She lowered the binoculars, her jaw tight. "They took him because of me. Because I wouldn't let Mom's case rest."
"All the more reason not to walk into their trap alone."
"You think I don't know that?" Her voice cracked slightly. "But if we bring in a tactical team, create a perimeter—what happens to Dad? They'll see us coming, Finn. And people willing to kill a sheriff over old secrets won't hesitate to kill their hostage."
Finn was quiet for a moment, watching a crow circle overhead. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle but firm. "They might not even have him here. This could just be where they plan to take you out."
"Maybe." Sheila's hands tightened on the binoculars until her knuckles went white. "But if there's even a chance..."
"Then we need to be smart about this. Your father wouldn't want you walking into an ambush."
"My father wouldn't be in this situation if I hadn't pushed so hard to solve Mom's murder." The words tasted bitter, like copper and regret. "He told me to be careful, that these people would do anything to keep their secrets buried. But I couldn't let it go."
Tears gathered in her eyes. "He tried to warn me," she continued. "Said some questions were too dangerous to ask." She met Finn's eyes. "But I kept asking anyway. And now they have him."
"Sheila." He touched her arm gently. "We will find him. But getting yourself killed won't help anyone."
She looked back at the farmhouse, its broken windows staring like empty eyes across the overgrown fields. Somewhere in there—or somewhere else entirely—her father was being held by people who had already proven they would kill to keep their corruption hidden.
"I can't wait for backup," she said finally. "Can't risk them moving him, or worse." She turned to Finn, her face set with the same determination he'd seen before her biggest fights. "But I'm not asking you to come with me."
"Like hell you're not." His voice carried equal parts exasperation and loyalty. "You really think I'd let you do this alone?"
"Finn..."
"No. Do you want to go in there? Fine. But we do it together, and we do it smart." He pulled out his phone. "At least let me tell Sarah where we are. If things go wrong..."
Sheila nodded slowly. "Okay. But give us an hour before she moves in. If Dad's in there, we need time to get him out."
They studied the farmhouse in silence for several moments. Somewhere inside that hollow shell of a building, answers waited. The question was: would they survive learning them?
"Ready?" Finn asked softly.
Sheila checked her weapon one last time, thinking of her father, of all the times he'd been there for her. Now it was her turn.
"Ready."
The stillness pressed against them like a physical thing as they moved through tall grass toward the farmhouse. Their approach kept them in the shadow of an old equipment shed. The grass whispered beneath their careful steps, crickets falling silent as they passed.
Reaching the side of the house, they pressed against weathered boards still cool from night air. The side door stood fifteen feet away, its frame warped with age and weather. Sheila caught Finn's eye and gestured—she'd go high, he'd go low.
Paint flakes crumbled beneath her fingers as they edged along the wall. Every sense strained for signs of movement, for any indication they weren't alone. A crow called somewhere distant, the sound emphasizing the unnatural quiet around the farmhouse.
The door's hinges looked rusty, likely to squeal. Sheila tested the handle with infinite patience, feeling the mechanism's resistance. It turned. Unlocked.
She met Finn's eyes again. Too easy? Or exactly what they'd expected to find?
The door opened with only the faintest whisper of wood against wood. Stale air washed over them, carrying the scent of abandonment. They moved inside like smoke, clearing the small mud room.
The kitchen beyond bore signs of recent use—fresh boot prints in decades of dust, a cabinet door left slightly ajar.
Light filtered through filthy windows, painting patterns across a scarred linoleum floor.
Every surface held a thick layer of grime except for one chair, pulled away from the table. Recently used.
Finn gestured toward the front room. More boot prints led that way, along with something else—a darker trail, like something wet had been dragged across the floor.
Sheila's throat tightened as she recognized what it probably was. Blood.
They moved forward, sweeping each corner, each shadow. The front room opened before them, revealing an old sofa sitting against one wall, its fabric rotted by time and weather. More chairs had been arranged facing it, their positions suggesting an interrogation setup.
Dark stains marked the floor near the chairs. Fresh stains.
A floorboard creaked overhead.
They both froze, weapons trained toward the ceiling. Another creak—deliberate this time. Someone moving above them.
Sheila's eyes found the staircase leading to the upper floor. More blood drops marked the steps.
She took a step toward the stairs, but Finn's hand caught her arm. His eyes carried a clear message: This is exactly what they want.
She nodded slightly. I know.
They moved toward the staircase together, every board beneath their feet a potential betrayal. The blood drops led upward into shadow.
Sheila took the first step, testing her weight against aged wood. No sound. She moved higher, Finn close behind, both of them pressed against the wall where the boards would be most stable.
Another creak from above, closer now.
Pale light filtered through broken windows at the top of the stairs, casting strange shadows across walls stained by years of neglect. The blood trail continued, turning left at the landing. Sheila paused at the top step, listening. Nothing but the hollow sound of wind through empty rooms.
There was a door on the right. Sheila quietly tried the handle, but it was locked. She considered kicking it open, but the blood trail led to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
That was her priority.
Sheila's hands felt slick on her weapon as she and Finn approached the master bedroom. The door stood partially open, darkness beyond holding answers she wasn't sure she wanted. She met Finn's eyes. He nodded.
The door opened with painful slowness. Light from the hall spilled across bare floorboards, illuminating more chairs arranged in that same interrogation setup. Blood stained the seat of one. Brass casings caught the light, scattered near the wall like fallen coins.
The room was empty.
"That's far enough, Sheriff Stone."
The voice came from behind them.
They spun, but too late. The muzzles of three rifles pointed at them from the hallway. The men must have been hiding in the locked room, waiting for Sheila and Finn to pass.
Sheila inwardly cursed herself for not clearing that room. Her worry for her father had clouded her judgment, compromised her training. Was he already dead?
"Weapons on the floor," the voice commanded. "Slowly."
Sheila's mind raced, calculating angles, possibilities.
"Now, Sheriff. Unless you want to make this harder than it needs to be."
She set her weapon down, watching Finn do the same from the corner of her eye. Three men in dark clothing advanced into the room, their faces hidden by ski masks.
"Where's my father?" Sheila demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.
"He's alive." The speaker seemed to be in charge. "For now. Which is more than I can say for you two if you don't cooperate."
"You really think you can kill a sheriff and her deputy without consequences?"
"Wouldn't be the first time someone died investigating things they shouldn't." The rifle gestured toward the master bedroom. "Move."