Chapter Eighteen
A wave of frustration surged hot in Isla’s chest, sharp enough that she had to curl her hands into fists to steady herself. “Damn it. He hung up.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Garrett was already hitting redial, trying to get Harris back on the line. Once. Twice. Each time the call rang into nothing. He swore under his breath, his grip tight around the phone.
“No answer,” he muttered.
Isla’s gut twisted. “This smells like a trap. If he’s really in Dry Creek, we need proof before we go walking in blind. I could get a drone up, scan the area, see if he’s alone.”
Lightning split across the window, thunder cracking after it. She blew out a breath. “Forget that. No drones are flying in this storm.”
She dragged her laptop closer and pulled up photos and a map of Dry Creek. “Last residents left in the sixties,” she said, scrolling through the faded images. “It’s not the Old West, more like a ghost town that’s been rotting for decades. Windows boarded. Storefronts collapsing. Rusted-out signs.”
Garrett leaned in over her shoulder, his jaw tight as he studied the screen. She pointed to a leaning church steeple and the row of crumbling buildings.
“This is the kind of place you pick when you don’t want to be found. Or when you want someone to walk into a kill zone. Either Harris remembers it from when he was a kid, or whoever’s pulling his strings does.”
Garrett made a low sound in his throat, something between frustration and agreement, and lifted his phone again. He hit the sheriff’s number and set it on speaker.
“Raines,” came the sheriff’s clipped voice.
“It’s McCall,” Garrett said. “We just got a call from Harris. He says he’s in Dry Creek and wants to meet with Isla and me.
He claims Marion Cole wasn’t his mother, that she was a stand-in because his real parents couldn’t risk being with him because they were in WITSEC.
The line went dead before we could get more. ”
There was silence on the other end for a beat before Raines answered. “Dry Creek? Out by Valdoro?”
“That’s the one,” Garrett confirmed.
“I can be there,” Raines said. “I’ll bring one of my deputies and meet you. But we play this quiet and get a good look at who or what’s there before we go in.”
“Agreed,” Garrett couldn’t say fast enough. “But I don’t like us going in blind. I want to bring in Crossfire Ops. Cal Granger and Jackson Ward. They’ve got surveillance gear that works even in this storm.”
There was a pause, then Raines said, “Go for it. The more eyes, the better. I’ll text when I’m within a mile of the place so we can move in together.”
“Works for me,” Garrett said. He ended the call and glanced at Isla, his eyes steady.
The storm rattled against the windows, and Isla’s stomach tightened. Dry Creek. A ghost town in the middle of nowhere, with a missing man who might not know who he really was, and a killer who had already outmaneuvered them more than once.
While Garrett drove, Isla kept her laptop balanced on her knees, the glow from the screen throwing shadows across the cab. She studied the grainy black-and-white photos of Dry Creek and then typed out a quick text to Lillian Markham.
Did Daniel ever mention a specific spot in Dry Creek? Somewhere he liked to go?
The reply came faster than she expected, the words popping up on her screen. Yes. There was an old country school. It had a stage inside. He used to pretend he was singing on it.
Isla figured that was as good of a starting place as any. She typed back a quick thank-you to Lillian and then pulled up her browser. A search brought up tourist blogs and the scattered posts of urban explorers who’d taken their chances wandering through Dry Creek’s decaying buildings.
She clicked open a recent photo of the school, such that it was.
The building leaned against time like a weary traveler, the white paint flaking to gray.
One bell tower still clung stubbornly to the roofline, though the bell itself was long gone.
The doors were chained but sagged as if one more hard push would topple them inward.
Inside shots showed broken seats scattered across warped floorboards. The stage, though, was still there—a small rise of wood, the planks cracked but mostly intact. In one of the photos, light streamed through gaps in the boarded windows, spilling across the stage like a makeshift spotlight.
Isla stared at it for a long moment, her chest tightening. A boy once imagined himself standing there, singing to an audience that only existed in his head. Now that same boy might be waiting for them there, or may be being used as bait.
She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, then angled the laptop so Garrett could see. “That’s it. That’s where he used to go.”
Her phone buzzed again, this time with a new message. Isla swiped it open and read aloud. “Cal and Jackson are on their way. Just a few minutes behind us. They’ve got the equipment.”
Garrett gave a short nod, eyes fixed on the wet ribbon of highway ahead. “Good. I don’t want to walk into that place blind.”
Isla typed back, her thumbs quick over the screen. Scan the whole area before we move in.
Another reply came almost instantly. Roger that. If we pick up more than one heat source inside, assume it’s a trap.
The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. She looked at Garrett, and his expression told her he was thinking the same thing. Harris might be waiting in that stage room, or someone else might be waiting for them.
“Agreed,” she murmured, her voice low.
Garrett’s hand tightened on the wheel. “We’ll know soon enough.”
The rain-slicked road stretched out in front of them, leading to Dry Creek and to whatever truths or dangers waited inside that decaying church school.
The storm beat against the windshield, wipers working furiously as Garrett guided the SUV down the dark stretch of road. The console lit up with an incoming call, and Garrett tapped it to speaker.
“McCall,” Sheriff Raines’ voice came through, roughened by static. “I’m on my way, too. Just tried calling Randall and Paula. Neither picked up.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed. “What about Anais?”
“She answered,” Raines said, a pause heavy on the line. “Told me she was home, but I’m not sure I buy it. Sounded to me like she was outside in the storm.”
Isla twisted in her seat, meeting Garrett’s eyes. “If she’s out, then maybe she’s heading to Dry Creek, too.”
Raines grunted. “Wouldn’t surprise me. And if her militia friend is with her, that ups the stakes.”
“Then she knows about Harris,” Garrett said, voice low.
Isla leaned forward, the hum of worry cutting through her. “But what’s her play? If she’s figured it out, does she want to silence him so he can’t implicate one of her parents? Or does she think he’s leverage?”
“Could be either,” Raines replied. “Or both.”
The SUV rolled to a stop on the cracked asphalt road just shy of the ghost town. The storm gave them a mini break. The rain was still coming down but at least not in sheets. The clouds pressed low, and the air carried that damp, electric weight of something about to break.
Isla popped on the night-vision goggles and scanned the darkness. The outlines of sagging storefronts appeared in ghostly green, empty windows like watching eyes. Her heart pounded as she swept the area. Nothing moved. No figures. No glint of weapons.
Only silence broken by the occasional splat of rain on the windshield.
“There,” Garrett whispered, nodding toward the hulking shape of the school. The roofline leaned but still stood, and the wide front door hung open.
A knot pulled tight in Isla’s stomach. “No vehicles.”
“He could’ve parked around the side,” Garrett said, his voice barely audible.
Her gaze lingered on that open door. The yawning dark beyond looked like an invitation, or a trap.
Headlights flashed behind them, then cut away. Cal and Jackson eased in, their SUV pulling up without sound except for the crunch of tires on grit. A moment later, Raines’ vehicle slid in after them, headlights also dying.
The night settled heavier.
Isla’s phone buzzed. Cal had sent a joint text. Jackson starting the scan. Will update with heat signatures.
She swallowed hard, hands tightening on her lap. Every nerve in her body told her to run straight to that open door, to Harris. But if there was more than one heat source inside, it wasn’t just him waiting.
The minutes stretched long, every drop of rain against the windshield loud in the silence. Then Jackson’s voice came through the comms. “Only one heat source inside the school. Nothing else within fifty yards.”
Isla let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, but tension still strung tight in her chest. One person. That could mean Harris. Or bait.
Her phone buzzed again. Garrett had dropped into the group text. Switching to comms. Raines, grab a pair from Cal. We move in closer, take a look at who’s inside.
Isla’s pulse jumped. She didn’t wait. “I’m going with you,” she said, already slipping the earpiece into place.
Garrett gave her a look through the dark that said he’d expected nothing less.
Raines and his deputy climbed out, moving to Cal’s vehicle to grab the extra sets. Cal himself adjusted the strap of his rifle across his chest, nodding once. “We’ll back you up.”
“And I’ll stay here,” Jackson’s voice crackled again, steady and calm. “I’ll keep the feed going and monitor movement.”
Isla wiped damp hair back from her face, her fingers trembling with anticipation. The open door of the school seemed to stare straight at her, daring them closer. She glanced at Garrett. He was already moving.
And she fell in step with him.
The rain-slicked pavement glistened under their boots as they moved in silence, shadows sliding between the skeletons of old storefronts. Every creak of the wind through broken shutters had Isla’s nerves taut as wire. She kept her weapon close, eyes sweeping alleys, windows, rooftops.
The school loomed ahead, brick worn by time and weather, its front door yawning open like a black mouth. The drizzle hissed against the sagging awning above it.
They reached the entrance. Garrett pressed to one side of the doorway, Isla to the other. Cal, Raines and the deputy covered them from farther back, their rifles angled, scanning the perimeter.
Isla dared a glance inside. Her breath caught.
Harris.
He stood on the stage, the weak glow of his phone flashlight trembling in his hand.
His face was pale, eyes rimmed red, the strain of sleepless nights and raw confusion etched into him.
Relief surged through her chest, tempered immediately by caution.
He was here, yes, but he was wounded in ways deeper than they could see.
His gaze lifted, meeting hers, and his voice cracked the silence. “Who the hell am I?”
The question cut through her like glass.
Isla drew in a steadying breath and lowered her weapon. Every instinct told her to keep it ready, but the boy in front of her wasn’t a threat. He was broken open, raw. And if she didn’t reach him now, they might lose him for good. Garrett and the others had her back.
“You were born Harris McCord,” she said softly, her voice carrying across the empty corridor. “Your parents are Randall Hayes and Leah McCord.”
Harris’s head dropped, his shoulders hunched as if she’d added weight he couldn’t bear. A groan slipped from him, bitter and pained. “Leah McCord. The woman who died in that house fire. In the house where I lived when I was a kid.”
The words hit Isla hard. She exchanged a quick look with Garrett before stepping one careful pace closer. “How do you know that?”
Harris gave a short, sharp laugh, the kind that came from disbelief more than humor. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, the edges worn soft from handling. “Because I got this.”
He unfolded it with trembling fingers, the light from his phone glancing over the creases. “No address. No name. Just details. About her. About me.”
He held the letter out, his hand shaking.
Through the comm, Jackson’s voice cut in, tense and clipped. “Second heat source approaching, three o’clock. Moving fast.”
Adrenaline spiked. Isla pivoted with Garrett, their movements sharp, weapons swinging toward the row of hollowed-out shops that crouched in shadow. The wind funneled through the broken glass and sagging doors, carrying the faint scrape of movement.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Harris froze, the light from his phone jerking wildly across the cracked walls.
Then a shot cracked the night.
The bullet hissed past, splintering old brick in a spray of dust and stone.