Chapter Thirteen
Cal’s text came through with a picture attached. Beck opened it, and his stomach went cold. Silas’s truck. The damn thing was nose-down in the creek, half swallowed by the freezing water.
“The deputy says he tried to get to it,” Beck said, his voice rough as he showed Grace the image. “But the current was too strong and the water’s like ice. He had to swim back and call for help.”
Grace leaned closer, her breath catching as they studied the grainy shot. Through the truck’s window, Beck could make out a figure slumped forward. Stocking cap pulled low. Still. Too still.
“There’s someone inside,” Beck said quietly. “The deputy couldn’t make out the face. Just said they looked lifeless.”
Beck’s phone buzzed again, and when he opened the message, his gut tightened. Cal had sent another photo, this one of a paper taped to the side rail of the bridge. The words were jagged, scrawled in thick marker: Grace and Beck, you are responsible for this. Another death on your heads.
Beck turned the screen toward Grace. “You need to see this.”
Her breath caught as her eyes scanned the words. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, with a slow exhale, she whispered, “It feels like a setup.”
“Yeah,” Beck agreed, his voice low and tight. “But if there’s a body in that truck, we need to know who it is.”
Grace looked up at him, resolve in her expression despite the unease. “Then we go.”
Beck nodded once and quickly typed a text to Noah. Heading to the bridge. Will update you. Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he grabbed his coat. Grace was already pulling hers on.
They didn’t speak again as they stepped outside into the bitter sleet. Beck unlocked the truck, and she slid in beside him. The cold air stung his face as he rounded the hood and climbed in.
The bridge, and whatever waited in the water, wasn’t far.
Beck started the engine and got them moving.
His hands tightened around the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road as sleet whispered against the windshield.
The temperature hovered right at freezing, the kind that turned asphalt into a trap waiting to happen.
The wipers struggled to keep up, smearing the slush into streaks of gray light.
He couldn’t shake the thought that maybe Silas had lost control, that the slick road had sent the truck careening into the creek.
It would explain the wreck, the position of the vehicle.
But it didn’t explain the note. Someone had left that message for them—for him and Grace.
If Silas’s crash was an accident, then the killer had used it, turning chance into a weapon.
Or maybe it hadn’t been an accident at all. Beck’s gut told him to trust the darker option. There could have been two people in that truck, one now dead, the other somewhere out there, watching. Waiting for them to walk into whatever came next.
The bridge finally came into view, slick with ice, the railings glazed over in white. The creek beneath it was swollen and black, the current dragging sheets of broken ice downstream. In this stretch, the water spanned nearly twenty yards, and the thick woods pressed in close on both banks.
Two sheriff’s cruisers blocked the road, their light bars pulsing weakly against the gray sleet.
A third vehicle, Cal’s, was parked at an angle, and Beck spotted him near the shoulder, shoulders hunched against the cold.
Sheriff Chase and the deputy were farther up, both keeping an eye on the wreckage below.
Beck slowed, then pulled in behind one of the cruisers. Before Grace could reach for the handle, he stopped her with a look. “Vests first.”
They pulled them on, the Velcro loud in the icy stillness. Beck passed her one of the backup handguns from the lockbox in the truck, sliding his own into place as well. If this was a setup, he wasn’t stepping out there blind.
When they finally opened the doors, the cold slapped hard, sleet stinging their faces. Beck squared his shoulders and scanned the tree line before motioning Grace to stay close. Together, they walked toward the others, boots crunching against the thin crust of ice that had formed on the road.
He could already feel the eyes of the sheriff and her deputy on them, measuring, weighing. And beyond the flashing lights and the hiss of the sleet, the creek churned steadily, holding its secrets in the half-submerged truck.
From the edge of the bridge, Beck could just make out the outline of the truck’s roof and the upper half of the cab where the icy water hadn’t swallowed it.
It looked like Silas’ truck, the same color, the same dent near the wheel well, but he couldn’t be certain.
The person inside was slumped against the driver’s side window, unmoving, their stocking cap pulled low.
No rise and fall of breath, no movement at all.
Cal moved closer, his jaw tight, his breath white in the air. “Sheriff’s got a dive team rolling. They should be here any minute. Current’s too fast and the water’s too cold for us to risk it before they arrive.”
Beck gave a single nod and turned back toward the truck. A pair of binoculars rested in the gear compartment, and he grabbed them before stepping off the slick roadway and into the tree line where he had a better angle.
The sleet hissed down through the branches, dripping off the limbs and pattering onto his shoulders as he lifted the binoculars.
He focused on the cab, adjusting until the image cleared.
The figure inside was pressed awkwardly against the glass, pale where the skin showed under the hat.
Still no movement. No bubbles escaping to hint at breath.
Beck exhaled, lowering the binoculars, his gut tightening. Whoever was in that truck wasn’t fighting to get out. They weren’t fighting at all.
Grace stepped in close, her coat brushing against his arm, and Beck passed her the binoculars. She lifted them, squinting through the sleet as if the glass might somehow give her an answer the naked eye could not. A low sound escaped her, frustration mixed with dread.
Cal joined them, his infrared scope already raised. He scanned the half-submerged cab, then shook his head. “No heat source. Whoever’s in there is gone.”
Beck clenched his jaw. That confirmed what he already suspected, but he needed to be sure. He needed to see the face.
“Let’s move down the bank,” he said, his voice tight against the hiss of sleet.
They stepped carefully over frozen weeds and slick rocks, the sound of the creek rushing louder the closer they got. The current licked at the submerged tires, tugging at the truck as if it wanted to pull it further under.
Beck’s boots slipped once, and he caught himself on a low branch before continuing, Grace steady behind him and Cal sweeping the tree line with his scope.
They found a narrow break in the trees where the view opened wider to the creek. From here, Beck had a clearer angle on the truck’s driver’s side window. The figure inside was still slumped, cheek pressed to the glass, stocking cap pulled low.
Beck narrowed his eyes, his heart thudding in his chest. The sleet made it hard to see clearly, blurring the glass and distorting the face inside.
The stocking cap covered most of the head, shadowing the features.
For a moment he thought he recognized the line of the jaw, but it could have been anyone.
He couldn’t be sure, not from this angle, not through the curtain of icy rain.
The three of them edged forward, boots sinking into the slick ground at the edge of the creek. Beck kept his focus on the half-submerged truck, the water swirling around its frame. He was just about to signal Cal to shift closer when a deafening crack split the air.
The truck erupted, fire and steel bursting outward in a violent blast. The shockwave slammed into Beck, knocking him hard to the ground.
Shards of twisted metal and shattered glass rained down, thudding into the frozen earth all around them.
The air filled with the stench of fuel and smoke, the roar of the explosion echoing through the trees.
Beck’s ears rang as he scrambled up, his instinct driving him to shield Grace. Flames licked across the mangled remains of the truck, the creek hissing and steaming where the fire met water.
“Son of a bitch,” Cal shouted over the chaos, ducking behind a tree for cover.
The crack of gunfire ripped through the chaos, sharp and vicious against the roar still fading from the explosion. Bullets chewed into the tree trunks and sent splinters flying, others smacking into the frozen ground with dull, deadly thuds.
Beck didn’t think, didn’t wait. He grabbed Grace and hauled her with him as he dove behind a thick oak, Cal sliding in on the other side.
Grace let out a sharp gasp, clutching her ribs, and Beck’s heart seized. He snapped his gaze to her, but she shook her head quickly, her face tight with pain. Not a bullet wound. Just the hard fall against her injured side. Relief surged through him, immediately followed by fury.
Someone was trying to kill them. Again. And that someone had come damn close to hitting Grace.
Another round of shots ripped past them, bark raining down like hail. Whoever was out there wasn’t spraying random fire. These were tight, controlled bursts, aimed to kill.
Beck leaned close to Grace when she started lifting her head. “Stay low.” His voice was rough with command, his body bristling with the need to end this before one of them didn’t get back up.
Cal eased a glance around the tree, then jerked back as another bullet smacked into the trunk inches from his face. “This asshole knows exactly where we are,” he hissed.
Beck’s pulse pounded, his instincts roaring. The ambush wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.
The air still reeked of fuel and scorched metal, debris drifting down like deadly confetti.
Beck pressed his shoulder harder against the oak, straining to pick apart the rhythm of the shots.
The crack of the rifle echoed off the water, bouncing through the trees, but his gut told him the source was across the creek.
He didn’t dare risk glassing the bank with his binoculars. The moment he lifted his head, the shooter would put a bullet through it. But the pattern of fire was steady, deliberate. Whoever was out there had them marked long before the explosion. This wasn’t chaos. It was planned.
Another volley ripped across the clearing, some rounds smacking into the dirt just feet away, others whining toward the bridge. Beck’s stomach dropped when he heard the heavy ping of a cruiser being hit, followed by the sheriff’s voice.
“Take cover!” Sheriff Chase’s shout carried across the roar of the creek and the sting of sleet.
Beck clenched his jaw. If the shooter was firing toward the sheriff and her deputy, it meant his sights were no longer trained on Cal, Grace, and him. The window was narrow, but it was something.
He eased out from behind the tree, leaning just far enough to scan the opposite bank. Cal mirrored the move, edging out from the other side of the trunk, both of them trying to catch a glimpse of the bastard who wanted them dead.
Beck’s pulse thundered in his ears. “Twelve o’clock,” he muttered, eyes locked on a shadow of movement in the trees across the creek.
Grace’s voice was tight but steady. “Then we open fire. All three of us. One of us will hit.”
Beck’s gut twisted. He wanted to tell her no, to keep her behind cover where the bullets couldn’t reach her. But she was right. They couldn’t just sit here while the sheriff and her deputy were pinned down. And he knew Grace—telling her to stay put would only push her forward harder.
He gave a sharp nod. Cal shifted his stance, gun ready. Beck dropped lower, muscles tight, and signaled with his hand.
The three of them surged out from behind the tree, low to the ground, guns up. Beck squeezed off shots in quick succession, the cracks ripping through the sleet-laden air. Grace and Cal fired with him, the combined sound pounding in his chest.
On the far bank, the shooter shifted. A flash of movement between the trees. Beck’s sights tracked fast, and he fired again. The gunman ducked, but not before Beck saw the muzzle flash answering back.
Bark splintered overhead. The echo of gunfire filled the creek bed, each shot ratcheting the tension higher.
Gunfire rattled through the woods, sharp and relentless. Beck fired in tight bursts, keeping rhythm with Cal and Grace. The shooter answered with precision, each crack echoing across the creek.
Until the blast stopped them.
The deafening explosion split the air wide open.
What was left of Silas’s truck went up again, the explosion sending water and jagged metal high into the air.
The wave of debris surged at them, forcing Beck, Grace, and Cal to dive low.
Metal shards clattered around them, and icy spray drenched their clothes.
Before the ringing in Beck’s ears settled, a chain of smaller detonations flared on the far bank. Each one snapped and popped in succession, not random at all. Controlled. Timed.
Beck pressed into the frozen ground, gritting his teeth. “Shit.”
He angled his body, shielding Grace even as she lifted her weapon again. Smoke rolled thick across the water, blotting out their line of sight.
The realization hit him hard. These blasts weren’t cover fire for them. They were cover fire for the shooter.
He clenched his jaw, heat cutting through the bitter cold. Whoever set this up wasn’t just firing blind. They knew how to plan, how to vanish under chaos.
And Beck understood the truth as the echoes died. Their shooter was already gone.