Chapter Five
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Colt’s gut twisted the second he heard the words. She’s murdering me. It wasn’t just fear in Wallace’s voice. It was final. A last gasp of terror and pain that Colt had heard too many times in too many war zones. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay focused as he worked the trace.
Beside him, Brenna was still on the line. “Wallace, can you hear me? Tell me where you are. Wallace?”
Silence.
Colt’s screen pinged, and a location popped up. He didn’t wait. “Got it. Thirty miles out. Southeast. Near Spring Hollow.”
“We’re going,” Harlan said, already moving.
“I’ll text Noah,” Brenna said, pulling out her phone.
They didn’t waste another second. Colt led the way, pushing through the Crossfire Ops headquarters and out the front doors. The October sun was rising fast, lighting up the lot where the team’s SUVs were parked.
Brenna’s boots hit the pavement behind him. Harlan’s did too.
Colt unlocked the black Crossfire Ops SUV with a sharp beep, climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and loaded Wallace’s location into the GPS. Harlan took the back seat. Brenna, shotgun.
The moment they were in place, Colt took off. Fast. Because every second counted. Or rather he hoped it did. He damn sure didn’t want to be too late to try to save Wallace.
Colt kept one hand on the wheel and the other ready to shift, his eyes locked on the road stretching out ahead. The SUV ate up the miles quickly, tires humming against the pavement as they left Crossfire Creek behind.
Beside him, Brenna had her phone out, fingers moving fast. “I’ve got the location pulled up,” she said. “It’s a heavily wooded area. No nearby houses. Closest structure looks to be a storage shed or maybe an old hunting blind.”
Colt glanced down at her screen when she angled it toward him. The satellite view was dense with trees, the kind of cover that could hide just about anything. And anyone.
In the backseat, Harlan was already on the phone with Noah. “We’re en route now. Location looks isolated. We’ll check in when we’re close.”
Colt’s jaw tightened. His instincts were screaming that this was all wrong. Or maybe it was exactly right for someone who wanted to draw them in.
“This could be a trap,” he muttered.
Brenna looked over at him, her expression unreadable. “We have to check it out.”
“Yes,” Colt said, eyes flicking back to the road. “We do.”
The risk was high. But leaving Wallace out there, if he was still alive, was not an option.
They were going in.
The SUV curved along a winding two-lane road, weaving through the rugged beauty of the Texas Hill Country.
Mesquite and cedar trees lined the edges, their branches brushing against old barbed-wire fences that sectioned off wide fields and the occasional cattle ranch.
The land rolled and dipped in quiet waves, dotted with limestone outcroppings and wild brush.
It was peaceful, the kind of landscape that had a way of getting into a man’s bones.
Colt’s grip stayed tight on the wheel. The scenery might look quiet, but he knew better. It only took one shadow in the wrong place to turn this serenity into a war zone.
They were about fifteen minutes out when Brenna’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, sighed, and then glanced at Colt and Harlan.
“It’s Naomi Darnell, an investigative reporter who did some stories on Timberline,” she said. “She calls me at least once a month. Just checking in, asking the same questions. She never has anything useful.”
Colt shot her a quick look. “And why is she still digging into Timberline after three years?”
Brenna lifted her shoulder. “Naomi says the story grabbed her and won’t let go.”
Harlan gave a grunt from the back seat. “That sounds like obsession.”
“It is,” Brenna verified. “She thinks something was missed. She’s convinced there’s more to what happened that day. And now with the new killings… she’s not going to back off.”
Colt kept his eyes on the road but filed that away. Anyone that fixated was either going to be useful or dangerous. Maybe both.
Brenna hit the speaker button and held the phone between them as Naomi Darnell’s voice crackled to life, sharp with urgency.
“I just heard about Marcus Hartman and Leah Grayson,” the woman blurted. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”
Colt’s pulse kicked harder. He kept his eyes on the road but angled his head slightly toward the phone.
“How did you hear that, Naomi?” Brenna asked. “That hasn’t been made public yet.”
“I got a text,” Naomi said. “From an unknown number. No name, no ID. Just this message. I think the killer sent it.”
Colt and Brenna exchanged a glance, and he saw a mix of both concern and skepticism.
“Read it,” Brenna insisted.
There was a beat of silence, then Naomi’s voice steadied.
“It said: ‘You tell your viewers the truth. Justice will not be handed down by cops who protect predators. Or the private security contractors like Strike Force and Crossfire Ops that they hire to clean up their messes. Real justice is coming. One name at a time. The text ended with: ‘Let the world know what justice really looks like. You’re the only one who can.”
Colt silently cursed. It did indeed sound like a message from the killer.
“Sounds like the killer wants a platform,” Brenna said, her voice grim. “And he’s picked you to deliver the message.”
“I want to deliver it,” Naomi was quick to say. “I want to expose the truth about what happened at Timberline, about what’s happening now.” She paused a heartbeat. “Who’s doing this, Brenna? Who killed Marcus and Leah?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth,” she added when Naomi huffed. “But my advice for you is to report the text to the cops.”
“I don’t trust them,” Naomi blurted. “You know that. And I don’t think you know which of them to trust either.”
Brenna sighed. “This isn’t a matter of trust right now. It’s what you legally have to do. If you conceal something that could have potentially come from a killer, then you could be charged with obstruction.”
That was true. And what Harlan, Brenna, and he were doing now could be construed as that as well. But right now, getting to Wallace was the priority. Everything else could wait.
“All right,” Naomi finally said. “Who do I take the text to?”
Brenna hesitated and clearly had a debate with how to respond. “Just give the info to both San Antonio PD and the Crossfire Creek Sheriff’s Office.”
Colt knew the reason for her hesitation. Brenna wasn’t sure who to trust in those offices, but since the text had to be reported, the news of it would soon get around anyway.
Which was likely what the killer wanted.
Muddying the waters like this created a sort of chaos. Multiple agencies jockeying for position. It would end up making it harder to find this asshole.
“And what about the story he wants me to do?” Naomi asked.
Again, Brenna paused. “Hold off until you talk to the cops,” she finally said before she issued a quick goodbye and ended the call.
“You trust her?” Colt immediately asked.
Brenna’s gaze briefly met his. “I’m not sure.
” But then she shook her head. “No, I don’t.
If you’re asking if Naomi could have found out about the murders and then sent herself that text, then it’s possible.
For her, it’s all about the headlines, about getting the readers.
A text from a killer would definitely generate readers. ”
It would. And that meant, along with Gary, Naomi was someone else they needed to speak with.
Colt slowed the SUV as they approached the GPS marker, tension coiling tighter in his gut with every foot of ground they covered. The road narrowed into gravel, winding through dense brush. Just ahead, the terrain thickened with post oaks and scrub cedar.
“This is close enough,” Colt said, pulling off the road and cutting the engine. The location where Wallace’s phone had pinged was still about fifty yards in, hidden by trees and uneven terrain. “We go the rest of the way on foot.”
They stepped out, weapons drawn, eyes sweeping the woods. It was quiet. Too quiet. Colt signaled to stay low as they began their approach, moving carefully between shadows and fallen limbs. Every rustle of leaves had him ready to fire.
Halfway up the slope, something shifted ahead. A figure stepped out from behind a thick tree.
“Hold it right there,” Colt ordered, weapon up and locked on target. His voice cut clean through the stillness.
The man stepped out from the trees, hands raised, palms open.
“It’s me,” he said. “Gary. Gary Ward.”
Colt cursed under his breath. The face was unmistakable. Gary looked harder than he had three years ago, thinner too, with dark stubble across his jaw and shadows under his eyes. His jacket was dusty, his boots caked with dried mud.
And he was armed.
He was holding a gun, not pointed at them. He was holding it barrel down toward the ground. Brenna kept her eyes on that gun. On his hand. In case Gary made any move to try to shoot them.
“Do you have Wallace Kemp?” Colt demanded, attention locked on the man.
Gary’s brows furrowed. “You mean Jennifer Kemp’s brother?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. “No, I don’t have him. Why the hell would I?”
Harlan moved to Colt’s side, still covering him.
“Then why are you here?” Colt demanded.
Gary slowly reached into his pocket. “I got a text. No name. Just a message with coordinates and a line that said if I wanted to know the truth about Timberline, I had to come here. Alone.” He held out his phone for them to see.
Colt took it, read the message, and felt a familiar chill run down his spine. The wording was similar to the one Naomi Darnell had gotten.
Someone was playing a dangerous game. And Gary Ward had just stepped into the center of it. Or maybe Gary was the one controlling the whole damn thing.
That was the reason Colt kept his gun trained on the man.
Colt glanced at Harlan, and even though they didn’t speak, they seemed to be on the same page.
Colt gave Harlan a quick nod. They had done this dance too many times not to know what needed to happen next.
“I’ll stay here with Gary,” Harlan said, stepping closer to the man, rifle angled low but ready. “We can have a little chat while you two go find Wallace.”
Gary started to protest. “I told you, I don’t know where he is. I came because—”
“Shut up,” Harlan snapped. “You’re not helping.”
Colt was already moving. “Come on,” he said to Brenna.
They pushed deeper into the woods, the dense tangle of cedar and oak closing in around them. Fallen branches snapped under their boots. The smell of damp earth and decaying leaves hung thick in the air. Colt kept his rifle ready, his eyes scanning the terrain.
The GPS on Brenna’s phone said they were getting close.
He glanced at her and caught the same urgency etched across her face that pulsed through his blood. Every second could count. Wallace might already be dead, but if there was even a sliver of hope, they had to move fast.
There were too many damn trees. Too many blind spots. Too many places someone could hide. Colt didn’t like it. The silence crawled along his skin. Birds weren’t even chirping. The only sound was their breathing and the crunch of dried leaves underfoot.
If Gary was part of this, Harlan would handle it. Colt didn’t know yet what role Gary played, but one thing was clear. Gary had either orchestrated this or else he’d been pulled into something dark and calculated. He’d need to find out which once they were done here.
Colt lifted a hand to slow Brenna as they reached a slight rise. Below them, the ground dipped into a shallow ravine.
And something glinted at the base.
Colt moved cautiously, sweeping his rifle across the tree line while Brenna stayed just behind him. The phone lay in a patch of trampled leaves, its screen dark, the casing smeared with what looked like blood.
He held up a hand to stop her from getting closer. “Wait. Could be wired.”
Brenna nodded, watching as he circled the area. He checked the underbrush, the branches, even the ground beneath the phone. Nothing. No wires. No traps. No sign of anyone nearby.
Satisfied, Colt stepped forward. “Clear.”
Brenna joined him, crouching beside the phone. She tapped Wallace’s number into her own and hit call. The ringtone buzzed beside them.
“This is his,” she said quietly.
Colt’s gaze swept the area again. “Then where the hell is he?”
Something caught his eye. A pale rectangle nailed to a tree about twenty feet away.
He walked to it, heart already pounding. A sheet of paper fluttered slightly in the breeze, one edge stained red. He read the words printed in thick, jagged font.
“Do exactly as you’re told, and you have a chance to stall true justice, you have a chance to save Wallace Kemp.”
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