Chapter Two
Cal’s hands curled into fists on the tabletop as the recording cut off.
Dexter’s voice still rang in his ears, dredging up the roar of the explosion, the sting of shrapnel tearing past him, the sight of Alena crumpled on the concrete with blood spreading fast beneath her.
David lay nearby, his head wound painting the floor, his body frighteningly still.
The memories slammed into him with brutal force. For a few heartbeats he was right back there in that shithole, choking on failure. He shoved it down, hard, forcing his mind onto the now. Melissa was in danger again. Dexter was loose. That was all that mattered.
He looked across the table at Alena. Her chin was high, but he knew the scar beneath her shirt had to ache the way his own scars did. He cleared his throat, his voice rougher than he meant.
“Can you work with me on this?” he asked.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Alena gave a single nod. “Yes.”
Cal held her gaze. He knew exactly what it cost her to say that.
Every time she looked at him, she saw the nightmare all over again.
It was the reason she had walked away. The reason that after everything they had shared, they were still legally married but bound now by nothing more than a hollow title.
Husband and wife in name only.
He swallowed the bitterness and forced his focus forward. Whatever was broken between them, one truth remained. Together, they were Dexter’s best chance of being stopped.
Cal forced his thoughts back to the present. “Has there been any sign of the nurse’s car?”
Noah shook his head. “Nothing. Which means Dexter has probably already ditched it somewhere. Isla Prescott is reviewing traffic cam footage as we speak.”
Cal nodded. If anyone could sift through thousands of feeds and find a needle in a haystack, it was Isla, Crossfire Ops’ top tech. Still, the idea of Dexter out there, free and moving, twisted his gut.
“Could he be getting help?” Cal asked.
Noah clicked the remote again. Another photo filled the screen. A man this time, broad-shouldered, hair gone silver at the temples, his expression stern and unyielding.
“This is Arneson Westbrook,” Noah explained. “Dexter’s older brother. He raised him after their parents were killed in a car accident. By all accounts, Arneson thinks Dexter can do no wrong.”
Cal studied the photo. The family resemblance was clear in the eyes, that same hard glint.
“Arneson owns a mid-sized construction company out of Cypress Falls,” Noah went on. “He’s done well enough for himself. Enough cash flow that he could easily fund Dexter’s escape or hide him if he wanted to.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “So we start with him.”
The photo of Arneson stared back at them, cold and unwavering. If he was helping his brother, then the hunt had already become more complicated than a fugitive on the run.
Alena pushed back her chair and stood. Her spine was straight, her eyes locked on Arneson’s photo. “We need to talk to him. If Arneson is hiding Dexter, he could already be moving Melissa.” She glanced at Noah. “Who’s the lead investigating officer on this?”
“The county sheriff,” Noah said. He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Deacon Raines. You know him. We’ve worked with him before.”
Cal remembered Raines well. Solid lawman, sharp instincts, not afraid to step into the fire when things turned ugly. That was exactly the kind of ally they needed.
“You’ll liaise with him,” Noah added. “Keep him looped in and let him open doors where he can.”
Cal nodded. It made sense. Sheriff Raines knew the terrain, and he knew them. If they were going to track Dexter before more blood spilled, they needed every advantage they could get.
Alena’s gaze flicked to Cal, the briefest acknowledgment that she was ready to do this beside him, no matter how much it cost.
Noah wrapped up the briefing with a final nod. “Stay close to Raines, keep me updated, and find Dexter and Melissa.”
Cal rose, the weight of the mission heavy on his shoulders. He and Alena stepped into the hallway, the buzz of Crossfire Ops activity around them a familiar rhythm. Alena immediately pulled her phone from her pocket, her movements brisk, almost practiced.
She tapped the screen and angled the phone so Cal could see. A moment later, David’s face filled the display. His smile was wide, boyish in its openness, though his eyes carried that distant haze Cal had come to know too well.
“My favorite couple,” David said, his voice bright.
Cal’s chest tightened. David still believed the lie, and for his sake, they let him.
“Hi, David,” Alena greeted. “Are you all right today?”
“Yes,” he answered with simple certainty.
Relief loosened something in Cal’s chest. At least for now, David was safe and unaware of the storm circling around them.
“Can you do me a favor,” Alena asked, her voice warm but coaxing, “and stay inside today?”
David tilted his head. “But I like the trails.”
Cal knew that was true. Using the winding paths around the facility was one of the things that gave David peace, and the trails had been customized to work for his wheelchair.
“Bad weather’s coming,” Alena said.
David nodded, accepting the explanation without question. “Okay. I’ll stay in.”
Alena smiled at him, though Cal could see the strain behind it. He stayed silent, letting her hold the moment. The last thing David needed was the truth—that Dexter Westbrook was free and hunting.
Cal only knew one thing for certain. Protecting David wasn’t just a choice. It was a promise.
Alena said goodbye softly, then ended the call. She lowered the phone, her fingers lingering on it for a moment before sliding it back into her pocket. Cal watched the quiet determination in her face. She wasn’t going to let David sense even a flicker of danger.
Without another word, they moved down the hall together and pushed through the front doors of Crossfire Ops headquarters.
The late-morning sun met them head-on. Heat rolled off the asphalt, already thick and unforgiving though it was only May.
Out beyond the parking lot, the Texas Hill Country spread wide and rugged—limestone ridges, stubborn green oaks, and cedar under a sky as bright and endless as fire.
They crossed to one of Crossfire Ops’ black SUVs, gleaming, built for the job, and equipped with anything they might need for an op. Cal hit the fob, climbed behind the wheel, and waited as Alena settled into the passenger seat. He pulled out his phone and called Sheriff Deacon Raines.
Raines picked up quickly. “I was about to contact you,” the sheriff said, his voice steady, all business.
“I’m heading to see Arneson Westbrook in Cypress Falls.
I want you both there with me. I’ve been trying to reach him, but he isn’t answering his phone.
His office manager told me he called earlier and said he’d be working from home today. ”
Cal’s grip tightened on the wheel. If Arneson was harboring Dexter, keeping quiet would be the first step.
“Send the address,” Cal said. Within seconds, the text came through, and he entered it into the GPS. “We’re on the way,” he added before ending the call.
Raines’s uncertainty echoed in Cal’s mind. That was why the sheriff wanted to knock on Arneson’s door in person. And why Cal intended to be standing right beside him when it happened.
Cal slid the phone into the console, started the engine, and pulled the SUV onto the road. The hunt for Dexter Westbrook had already begun.
The SUV ate up the miles, tires humming over the sun-baked highway.
Alena had her tablet open, eyes locked on the files Crossfire Ops had pulled from the prison and the crime scene.
She scrolled fast, sharp movements that told Cal she wanted to stay buried in data rather than look at him.
He figured it was her shield, a way to keep a wall between them.
But walls and silence sure as hell wouldn’t help them catch Dexter.
“You’re sure okay to do this?” he asked.
“Yes.” The word came fast, then she hesitated, and her hand stilled on the screen. “Okay enough.” Alena glanced at him, her expression guarded. “What about you?”
The question scraped against memories he could never shake. “What happened six years ago was a pisser, a whole string of them,” he answered. “No way around that. But we have to find Melissa. And we have to stop Dexter.”
Her shoulders eased just slightly. She nodded. “Then we agree.”
For the first time since walking into Noah’s office, Cal felt the ground beneath them shift. Not solid, not safe, but steady enough to start the hunt.
The miles slid by until the highway narrowed into the outskirts of Cypress Falls.
The Hill Country opened wide, dotted with ranch land that gave way to newer developments.
Stone-faced houses rose behind iron gates, manicured lawns cut sharp against the wild scrub just beyond the fences.
Cal’s gaze shifted to the rearview mirror where a familiar cruiser followed close, Sheriff Deacon Raines keeping pace.
The GPS guided them into an upscale neighborhood, the kind with winding streets, wide lots, and houses built to impress. Arneson Westbrook’s place fit right in, a two-story limestone home with a slate roof and perfectly trimmed hedges.
Cal slowed, scanning the property. No cars in the driveway. No sign of movement behind the curtained windows. He eased the SUV to the curb, the tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Raines pulled in behind them, the cruiser’s engine cutting off.
They all stepped out, the heat pressing down like a weight. His instincts sharpened, every sense tuned to the silence of the street. Alena joined him on the sidewalk, her eyes locked on the house, while Raines approached from the rear, his hand resting near his holstered weapon.
Together they moved toward the front door. Their footsteps on the pavement seemed to echo in the stillness. Cal’s chest tightened. If Dexter was inside, he would know they were coming. And a man like Dexter Westbrook wouldn’t hesitate to open fire.
Cal raised his hand to signal a pause. The air hung heavy, thick with the possibility that the next sound could be a gunshot.
Raines stepped onto the porch and pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed faintly inside.
No answer.
He jabbed the button again, then rapped his fist against the wood. “This is Sheriff Raines. Arneson, open the door.” His voice carried down the quiet street, hard and commanding.
Silence stretched, broken only by the buzz of insects in the heavy May heat.
Raines glanced back at Cal and Alena. “I’ve got a search warrant. If he doesn’t answer, we go in. I’ve got a battering ram in my cruiser for exactly this reason.”
Cal nodded, every muscle coiled tight. He shifted his grip on his weapon, senses straining toward the still house. Alena’s gaze flicked to him for a heartbeat, then back to the door.
Raines knocked again, louder this time. “Arneson, this is the sheriff. Open up now.”
From inside the house came a sudden crash, sharp and heavy, like something toppling to the floor.
Cal’s pulse spiked. He raised his weapon higher, eyes narrowing on the door.
Raines muttered something under his breath and turned toward the steps, ready to head back to his cruiser for the battering ram. Before he could move, Alena slipped a slim leather case from her pocket and crouched at the lock.
Cal’s pulse kicked up as he watched her. She had always been quick with her hands, a talent sharpened on missions where silent entry meant survival. Within seconds the lock gave. Alena pushed the door open with a quiet nudge, then slid back into position, weapon raised.
Cal moved in first, Raines close behind him, Alena covering the rear.
The foyer stretched wide, polished tile underfoot, a sweeping staircase curving to the second floor.
To the left, a formal dining room sat in disarray.
Chairs overturned, the table runner hanging half off, crystal shattered across the floor.
To the right, the living room was worse.
Cushions slashed, drawers yanked from end tables, picture frames smashed against the fireplace.
The air held a faint tang of dust and something sour, as if the place had been torn apart in a hurry. Cal’s gut tightened. Someone had searched this house, and they hadn’t cared how much noise they made.
He swept his gaze across the wreckage, his finger firm on the trigger. Every overturned chair and shadowed corner felt like the mouth of a trap.
They moved deeper into the house, clearing each room with slow precision. The silence pressed in heavy, broken only by the creak of their boots on the polished tile. No blood. No obvious signs of violence beyond the chaos of the ransacked rooms.
Cal’s mind worked through the possibilities. Had Dexter come here and torn the place apart? Had there been some kind of struggle? Or worse, had he dragged Melissa here and she managed to fight back before being overpowered again?
A muffled sound carried faintly from the back of the house. Cal’s shoulders tightened. He raised his hand in warning, then gestured for them to move. Guns up, they followed the noise, each step careful, every shadow a potential threat.
The kitchen opened wide, sleek and modern with granite counters and stainless steel appliances. The smell of spilled wine and something acrid hung in the air. A broken glass glittered on the floor near the sink, jagged edges catching the light from the window.
His gaze locked on the island. A man sat bound to a chair on the far side, a canvas bag pulled tight over his head. His arms were tied behind him, his chest heaving against the restraints.
Cal raised his handgun and leveled it, keeping the sights steady. His pulse hammered in his ears. This could be Dexter. Or it could be someone else Dexter had left as bait.
Alena aimed beside him, her weapon unwavering. Raines moved forward, steady but cautious, then grabbed the canvas bag and pulled it free.
The man beneath blinked hard against the light. His face was battered, his lip split and bleeding, but recognition hit instantly.
It was Arneson Westbrook.