Chapter 31
thirty-one
“Dad!”
Bear burst awake in full fight mode before his brain registered it was Logan’s voice shouting for him. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Logan stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. “Atlas was—he was going crazy, and woke me up then he just stopped barking, and there’s—I looked out my window, and there was someone, a truck, I think—” He stopped, breathing hard. “I think something’s in a tarp. In the truck bed.”
Maybe he was still asleep, because the words tumbling from his son’s mouth weren’t making any sense. “Wait, what?” He got up and crossed the room, the floor cold under his bare feet. When he put his hands on Logan’s shoulders, he found the kid was shaking. “Hey, buddy. Did you have a nightmare?”
“No! You’re not listening!” He knocked Bear’s hands off his shoulders. “There was someone over at Greta’s, and I think he put her in a tarp in the truck bed. She’s in trouble.”
Every single cell in Bear’s body flash-froze.
Greta. Was. In. Trouble.
He moved. Down the hall, Logan behind him. King was already at the bottom of the stairs, throwing himself at the front door.
Bear hit it at a run, all but ripping it off its hinges. King burst out in front of him and took off down the street, chasing after a set of taillights.
“King!” Logan shouted. “Come back!”
The dog didn’t turn. Didn’t slow. Just kept running, his dark shape visible for another two seconds before he turned the corner and disappeared into the night.
But Bear couldn’t worry about his wayward dog right now. All he could focus on was the dark house across the street. His feet slapped the pavement, still warm from the day’s sun, then the damp grass, then the wood of her front porch.
The door hung open.
The house was silent.
If Atlas had been barking, he wasn’t now.
“Greta!”
The living room was untouched. Couch, coffee table, lamp, TV— all exactly where they should be. The only change was the corkboard on the wall with its empty spot where Alice’s flyer used to be.
No signs of struggle.
“Greta!” He took the stairs two at a time, and there, in the upstairs hallway, was Atlas.
The dog lay on his side near Greta’s bedroom door, his breathing shallow and fast, his eyes open but unfocused.
Blood matted the fur around his muzzle and ran in a thin line from his nose to the tile.
His back legs scrabbled against the floor like he was trying to get up, trying to stand, but nothing was working right.
Bear checked the bedroom and found it empty. It also looked undisturbed, like nothing had happened.
But Greta wasn’t here, and Atlas was hurt, and Logan had seen someone loading a fucking body-shaped tarp into a truck.
Fuck.
He wanted to put his fist through the wall. He wanted to rip the house down to the studs.
But instead, he went back to the hall and dropped to his knees beside Atlas. He checked the dog’s head, running his fingers over the skull, checking for the give of broken bone. Atlas tried to lift his head. A low whine built in his throat.
“Easy. I’ve got you.” Bear’s voice came out steadier than he felt. His hands kept moving, checking Atlas’s jaw, his neck, his ribs. The skull felt intact. The jaw was another story—swollen on the left side. Fractured. Maybe worse.
But the dog was conscious and taking his movements. That was something. Hurt, but conscious, and trying to get up even now. Trying to do his job even though someone had hit him hard enough to break bone.
Bear’s vision went white at the edges.
He made himself breathe. Made himself keep checking—ribs, spine, hips, legs. Nothing else obviously broken. Just the jaw and whatever internal damage he couldn’t see. Atlas’s back legs kicked again, claws scratching the hardwood, and Bear put a hand on the dog’s shoulder to hold him still.
“Logan.”
His son was hovering on the stairs behind him, phone in hand, face pale. He held out the phone. “I called Boone.”
Bear took it. His hands were shaking as he raised it to his ear.
“Bear! Bear, talk to me! What the fuck is going on?” Boone demanded.
“Someone took her.” Was that his voice, all raw and ragged? “Logan saw it. Saw someone putting her in—” He couldn’t make his brain finish the sentence.
“Fuck. Was it Daniel Goodwin?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have a description of the guy, the vehicle?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Boone blew out a breath. “Okay, I’m letting Ghost off his leash. He’ll find her.”
Ghost off-leash was a terrifying thing, and, in that moment, Bear couldn’t be more relieved to have the ex-CIA operative in his corner. “Thank you.”
“In the meantime, stay there. We’re on my way.”
Bear ended the call without responding, leaving a smear of Atlas’s blood on the screen. Then he noticed his floor.
Red footprints stained the wood, but it wasn’t just Atlas’s blood. He was bleeding, too. A shard of glass the size of a quarter was embedded in the side of his left foot, sticking out near his heel.
He hadn’t felt it. Hadn’t registered the pain, the cut, any of it.
“Dad.” Logan’s voice was quiet. Steady. “You need to put shoes on.”
Bear glanced over at his son. Fifteen years old, standing in a crime scene at—he didn’t know what time it was, sometime after midnight, sometime in the dark—looking at his father’s bleeding feet and a dog with a broken jaw and staying calm. Staying functional.
He passed the phone back to his son. “Call Lila. We need to get Atlas help.”
While Logan dialed, Bear crouched and slid both hands under the dog’s chest and hindquarters, lifting slowly and carefully.
Atlas was seventy pounds of deadweight, his body gone loose in Bear’s arms, his head lolling against Bear’s chest. The dog’s breathing hitched, and he whined again, low and pained.
Bear held him closer. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’ll be okay and so will Greta.”
He carried Atlas through the living room, through the front door, down the porch steps, across the street. Logan followed, then raced ahead to the truck in their driveway, pulling the passenger door open.
Logan climbed into the driver’s seat.
Bear looked at him. “You’re not driving.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Logan—”
“Stop arguing and get in, Dad. I’ve been practicing at the ranch with Boone.” Logan started the engine. “Where’s the clinic?”
Bear had a second, just a second, to think, holy shit. His baby boy, the toddler he used to hold on his shoulders, was old enough to learn to drive. In less than a year, Logan would have his permit.
Then he shook it off and climbed into the passenger seat with Atlas. “East on Maple, left on Cedar, three blocks down on the right. White building, green awning.”
Logan put the truck in gear and backed out of the drive.
He drove like someone who’d been doing it longer than a few weeks—smooth acceleration, clean turns, both hands on the wheel.
Bear didn’t comment. Just held Atlas and counted the dog’s breaths and felt the blood from his own foot spreading warm and wet, soaking into the footwell’s carpet.
The streets were empty. Dark houses, dark yards, the occasional porch light throwing a pale circle onto the sidewalk. The clinic appeared on the right, and Lila’s truck was already there, parked at an angle near the front door with the headlights still on.
Logan pulled in beside her and killed the engine.
Bear shoved the door open and slid out with Atlas in his arms. His left foot buckled when he put weight on it, and he caught himself against the truck, Atlas’s weight shifting in his grip. The dog whined, and Bear adjusted his hold, cradling the big head against his chest.
Lila met them at the door. She moved fast, her hair loose and her jacket half-zipped over her pajamas. But at least she’d been smart enough to pull off boots. She reached him just as his foot gave out again.
“I’ve got him.” She slid her arms under Atlas, taking the weight easily despite her petite size, and Bear let her. Let the dog go into someone else’s hands because Lila could help him, and Bear couldn’t, and holding on would only waste time.
“Go find Greta.” She turned, already moving back toward the clinic door with Atlas limp in her arms. “I’ll call when I know something.”
Bear watched her go. Watched the door close. Watched the lights come on inside, bright and clinical through the front windows.
He limped back to the truck.
Logan was still in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. Pale, scared, but holding it together.
He looked so adult in that moment.
He glanced over when the passenger door opened. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Logan swallowed hard. “What about King?”
“He’ll come back.” At least he hoped so.
Logan’s jaw tightened. He nodded, then started the engine again. “Let’s go find Greta.”
The drive back to Maple took four minutes.
Bear counted them. Counted the turns, the empty streets, the dark windows of houses where people were asleep and didn’t know that Greta Dougherty was missing and her dog was broken and Daniel fucking Goodwin’s truck was somewhere in the night with a head start they couldn’t measure.
When they turned onto Maple, the street was full of vehicles. Neighbors had come out onto their porches to gawk.
Walker’s truck was at the curb in front of Greta’s house, Boone’s beside it. Ghost’s black SUV blocked the street at an angle. Jax’s truck, X’s, and River’s ancient beat-up Ford all blocked the other end.
They were all there, and they were pissed.
Logan parked behind Walker’s truck and killed the engine.
Bear got out. His foot screamed, and he ignored it, limping across the grass to where Walker stood with his phone in his hand and his hat pushed back.
Boone was beside him, arms crossed. His expression said he was deciding who needed to be hurt and how badly.
Ghost stood next to his SUV, his laptop open on the hood, laser focused on the screen, typing fast. Jax, Jonah, and Anson were by the driveway with Hatch, all of them quiet, and X and River were near the trucks, talking in low voices that fell silent when Bear got close.
Naomi stepped out of Greta’s front door with her phone pressed to her ear. She saw Bear and held up one finger—wait—then spoke into the phone in the clipped professional tone she used when she wanted to make sure people listened.
“Yes. Greta Dougherty. Five-foot-three, strawberry blond hair, around one-hundred-twenty pounds. Last seen approximately twenty minutes ago, being loaded into a truck. Suspect vehicle is a dark-colored pickup, last seen heading east on Maple. I want to confirm that Daniel Goodwin is still in lock-up. He was arrested for assaulting her earlier tonight.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
Walker crossed to Bear. He looked at Bear’s face, then down at his feet, then back up. “Dane. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine.”
“Fuck,” Naomi said softly, and he spun toward her, heart high in his throat.
“What?”
She hung up and glanced at Walker and Ghost before her gaze settled back on him.
“Goddammit, what?”
“Hey,” Ghost said and stepped between them. “Back off. She’s on your side.” It was only when his hand landed on Bear’s chest that he realized he’d stepped into Naomi’s space, crowding her.
“Sorry.” He backed up a step and dragged his hands over his head. “Just tell me what you found out.” Alice’s bones, buried in the mud of the creek bank, flashed through his mind. No. He viciously shoved the image away.
Greta was not going to end up like Alice.
Naomi exhaled slowly and met his gaze. “Daniel is still in jail. Whoever took Greta, it’s not him.”