Chapter 39
Phoenix
Becket’s taillights disappeared at the bend, red fading to nothing against the black orchard. I stood in the doorway long after, my fingers clenched around the edge of the frame, trying to keep my brain from doing the math: minutes, distance, odds.
Elyna sat in the kitchen behind me, both hands around her phone like she could will it to ring. I heard the quiet click of her trying again to refresh the baby monitor app. Static. Nothing.
“I should be out there,” I said.
“You heard your brother,” she whispered. “They could circle back.”
“I don’t care.” The words came out harsher than I meant. I turned, met her eyes. “They took my family, Elyna. I’m not okay with sitting and waiting.”
She stood, jaw trembling but her voice steady. “Then don’t. Just don’t go alone.”
That stopped me for half a second when I noticed she was shaking while still having the bandwidth to worry about me doing something reckless. I loved her for that.
I crossed the kitchen and brushed my thumb along her cheek. “Lock everything. Don’t open the door for anyone but me or my dad. I’ll have the radio.”
“Phoenix. . .”
“I’ll find him,” I said. “And I’ll bring him home.” Those words felt like a promise carved in stone. I’d never been so determined in my life.
With boots on and a big flannel jacket and flashlight, I went outside.
The frost had hardened into a thin white shell over the ground.
My boots crushed it as I headed for the truck.
It felt like we were still being watched from deep in the orchard.
I could see where Becket’s guys had cut through toward the east fence.
Two sets of prints, like he said. Braden’s blanket caught on a low branch ten yards in.
It stopped my breath.
I picked it free, tucked it inside my jacket, and kept moving.
My radio crackled. Becket’s voice came through, clipped and calm. “We’ve got a set of tire tracks half a kilometer east of your line. Light vehicle. Possibly a hatchback or crossover. Direction toward Route 12.”
“Copy,” I said. “I’m coming from the west road. I can intercept before the turn.”
“Negative,” Becket shot back immediately. “Stay clear of the main route. We’ve got two units already deployed.”
I stared at the darkness ahead. “You’ll need someone who knows the orchard trails better than your GPS.”
A pause. Then a low curse. “Fine. You take the river road. Cut east and parallel our grid. Keep your lights off. Stay in contact.”
“Copy.”
I threw the truck in gear. The gravel spat behind me as I turned off the main lane and took the dirt track that followed the river.
It was narrow, uneven, and lined with maples.
I knew every bend because I had biked this road a hundred times as a kid, even though now it felt different.
Every shadow was a threat. Every branch that cracked was someone getting farther away with my son.
The minute I thought the word it rang true. Braden had become my boy too.
The radio chirped again. “Vehicle sighted at the 12/40 junction,” came a voice from patrol. “Silver hatchback, Quebec plates starting with C-M. Speed moderate. Two occupants in front. Rear view obstructed.”
That was enough for me.
I hit the gas. The truck jumped forward, tires skidding for traction. I reached the old wooden bridge and slowed, crossing fast but carefully, headlights still off. When I came up the other side, I killed the engine and listened.
I heard the engine in the distance. Small, high-pitched, and moving slow.
I rolled the truck forward in neutral until I saw them through the break in the trees. A silver hatchback easing down the back road toward the east gate. They thought no one would follow from this side.
I picked up the radio. “Visual on the suspect vehicle,” I said. “East orchard road, just past the bridge. No lights, speed maybe forty.”
Becket’s voice was a growl. “Hold position, Phoenix. Backup’s two minutes.”
But I saw the taillights blink like they’d spotted movement behind them. The car started to accelerate.
“Too late,” I muttered, dropping the truck into gear, I hit the horn once.
The hatchback jerked and swerved. I caught up halfway down the lane, bumper tight to their back end. The driver tried to turn, but the dirt was slick with frost. I clipped their quarter panel, spun them sideways into the ditch. The sound of metal grinding against frozen soil filled the night.
Before the truck stopped fully, I was out the door.
“Get out!” I shouted.
The driver’s door flew open. A man stumbled out, tall, wearing a ski mask. He bolted for the trees. I didn’t waste time. I went for the back.
The rear door was jammed. I yanked once, twice, then slammed my shoulder into it. It popped open with a groan.
Inside was nothing.
Just an empty car seat.
My heart cracked open like glass.
They’d already switched vehicles.
Becket’s voice roared over the radio. “Phoenix! Stand down! Patrol has movement two kilometers north of your position, a van heading toward the highway. They decoyed you!”
I leaned against the car, trying to breathe past the spike of panic. Braden’s car seat still smelled like his shampoo. I turned, saw Becket’s cruiser tearing down the road, lights strobing across the orchard.
He jumped out before the wheels stopped turning. “You good?”
“Where’s the van?”
“Still moving. They ditched this car to slow us down. We’ll cut them off at the highway.”
“I’m coming.”
He didn’t argue this time. He tossed me a spare vest from the trunk.
“Then keep up.” I got into the car with Becket.
The chase felt like it belonged to someone else.
Cold air pouring through the cracked window, the radio spitting coordinates.
We hit Route 12 doing a hundred kilometers an hour then one ten.
Patrol units from two towns over joined in.
The van was fast. A dark, older model with a bent in half plate to hide the numbers.
They made a hard right at the quarry road. Becket followed.
“Spike strip ahead,” came the call over the channel.
The van tried to dodge, fishtailed, clipped the edge of the strip. A tire blew. The driver fought the wheel, swerved again, and went off into the ditch near the tree line.
Becket and I were out before the cruisers stopped moving.
“Police! Out of the vehicle!”
The passenger door opened. A man in dark clothes jumped out and ran. Becket chased. I went for the rear.
The back doors flew open and there he was.
Braden.
Buckled into a different car seat, crying but whole. His face blotchy, his small fists reaching.
I popped the straps open and scooped him up. I felt his heartbeat hammering against my chest. “Hey, buddy,” I whispered, shaking with relief. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He hiccupped against my shoulder.
Behind me, Becket tackled the passenger into the gravel. The driver had gone still, leaving the van with his hands in the air.
For the first time in hours, I breathed.
By the time we got back to the house, Elyna met us at the porch, barefoot again, eyes red and raw. I stepped out of the truck with Braden still pressed against me.
She made a sound I’llnever forget, a half laugh half sob, as she ran to us.
I handed our son into her arms.
“He’s okay,” I said quietly. “They didn’t touch him.”
She held Braden so tight he squeaked. “You found him.”
I nodded; throat thick. “We found him.”
Becket lingered near the truck; phone pressed to his ear.
I heard him say something about “two in custody” and “waiting on IDs.” He looked at me, eyes tired but proud.
“We’ll debrief later. Go inside. Patrol’s brought Harmony Bellerose into the station.
She’s safe, but we want to see what she knows. ”
“Thanks, Becket. I’ll let Elyna know.”
My brother just blinked and tapped my shoulder like it was another day’s work but, in reality, he was a hero.
This time I listened to him and went in the house.
The lights were still on, the air warm again. I sank to the floor beside Elyna and Braden and finally let myself shake.