Chapter Eleven
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The roar of the blast cracked the air wide open. Colt barely had time to turn before the water tank burst apart.
Steel screamed. Rivets popped. Rusted metal split like a rotten barrel.
Then came the wall of water.
It hit like a freight train, a crushing, cold wave that swallowed him whole. The ground vanished beneath his boots. He felt weightless for half a second, then slammed into something hard. Might’ve been the shed. Might’ve been the ground. Didn’t matter. His lungs seized, ribs flaring with pain.
He tumbled, twisted, soaked, and blinded.
Branches scraped past. Mud sucked at him. He managed to drag in a breath when the water receded just enough, then another.
“Brenna!” he shouted, coughing. “Harlan!”
No answer. Just water rushing over debris and the groan of the collapsed tower still echoing in the woods.
Colt shoved up on his elbows, blinking through the water and grit stinging his eyes. Every breath stabbed his ribs, sharp and deep, but he pushed past it. The explosion had knocked them all off their feet, but the killer might still be close. He scanned for movement.
“Brenna,” he called, his voice rough.
She stirred a few feet away, soaked and stunned, but alive. She coughed, then sat up, shaking her head like she was trying to clear it. She brought the Glock up and checked the barrel, her hands steady despite the tremble in her breath.
Smart.
There was no telling if the danger was over, and Colt no longer had his primary weapon. It’d been knocked loose, so he drew his backup from his slide holster.
“Harlan,” Colt shouted.
No answer.
He tried again, louder this time, forcing air into his aching lungs.
A moment later, a figure staggered from behind a half-collapsed tree.
Harlan. He limped toward them, cuts trailing down his face, a bruise swelling on his cheek.
His shirt was torn and dripping, but he held his gun up and checked it just like Brenna had.
“You two good?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained.
“Yeah,” Colt said. “Hurts like hell, but still breathing.”
They were all soaked to the bone, dripping and battered. The waterlogged ground squelched beneath them as Colt forced himself to his feet. His vest felt twice as heavy. His ribs throbbed like a bad tooth, but he wasn’t going down.
“We need to find Wallace,” he said. “Now.”
No one argued.
They fanned out, eyes scanning the soaked terrain, calling Wallace’s name while keeping their weapons ready. Colt’s boots squished in the wet grass, and his ribs ached with every step. The air still carried the scent of scorched metal and old water, the wreckage of the tower looming behind them.
Colt heard the approaching men before he saw them, the steady crunch of boots on wet leaves and the low murmur of voices. Noah’s backup arrived fast, two figures striding through the trees like they owned the land. They moved with purpose, cutting through the brush without hesitation.
The taller of the two, Cal Granger, had a calm, easy gait and wore a Texas Rangers ballcap low over his eyes. His tan shirt was soaked, but he didn’t seem to care. The half-smile tugging at his mouth made him look like he was on a casual stroll instead of walking into a possible kill zone.
Garrett McCall was all sharp edges and tension. His dark, buzzed hair was plastered to his scalp, and his eyes were already scanning the surroundings as if expecting an ambush. He gripped his rifle like he had something to prove.
Colt gave them both a nod. “Appreciate the quick response.”
Garrett returned the nod and glanced at the collapsed tower. “Looks like we missed one hell of a party.”
Garrett made a sound that might’ve been a laugh, then moved into position without another word. Cal followed, already checking the area near what was left of the shed.
Colt turned his attention back to the trees. Whoever had done this might still be close. Or they might be watching, waiting for a chance to strike again. Either way, the search for Wallace had just become even more urgent.
He kept moving, boots sinking into soggy ground as water pooled around fallen limbs and scattered debris.
The air was thick with the smell of rust, mud, and something scorched.
He heard Brenna before he saw her. Her footsteps were uneven, and when she stepped around a battered tree trunk, he saw her limp.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, brushing wet hair off her face.
He wanted to believe her. The gash near her knee and the way she favored her left leg said otherwise, but he didn’t press. Not now.
They moved together, putting more distance between themselves and the ruined tower.
The land sloped downward, leading to a narrow creek, shallow and fast-moving from the deluge.
Colt scanned the trees, eyes darting to every shift of shadow, every broken twig.
No sign of Wallace. No sign of whoever might’ve done this.
Brenna paused near a half-fallen cedar. “Any idea which direction Wallace might have gone? Or been taken?”
“No,” he admitted. “But if Wallace crawled or limped off, he’d head away from the blast. He might be hiding.”
She nodded, falling in step beside him. They pushed through the brush, soaked clothes clinging to them, the only sounds the rush of water and their own breaths.
Something had to give soon. Either they’d find Wallace alive… or they wouldn’t.
Colt spun toward the sound of Harlan’s voice, heart thudding hard against his bruised ribs.
“I found something!” Harlan shouted again.
Colt and Brenna took off through the trees, pushing past soaked brush and downed limbs. The mud sucked at Colt’s boots as he jogged the last few yards and found Harlan crouched near a clump of reeds at the creek’s edge.
“What is it?” Colt asked.
Harlan held up a phone, dripping wet, the screen dark. “Found it right here. Could be the one Wallace used.”
Brenna leaned in, peering at it. “Can you tell if it still works?”
“No clue,” Harlan said, rising. “Could’ve been dropped when the water hit. Or knocked out of his hand.”
Colt frowned, scanning the area. No tracks. Too much mud and runoff. “Doesn’t mean he’s not close. He could be hurt.”
“Or taken,” Brenna added quietly.
They all went still at that. The possibility hung heavy.
Colt looked down at the phone again. “Let’s keep going. If he dropped this, he might’ve tried to reach higher ground.” He turned toward the rise of trees ahead. “He can’t have gone far.”
Colt froze at the low sound drifting through the trees.
A moan.
He glanced at Brenna and Harlan. Both had heard it, too.
“Could be Wallace,” Brenna whispered, already shifting her weight like she was ready to run.
“Or it’s a setup,” Harlan said, lifting his weapon as he moved toward the noise.
Colt followed, gun up, scanning the trees and brush. Garrett and Cal had heard it too and were fanning out, watching the flanks.
Another moan. Closer now.
They moved fast but cautious, boots squishing through mud and water-soaked ground. The moaning grew louder with each step. Pained. Weak.
A sharp call echoed through the trees.
“Over here!” Harlan shouted.
They ran toward the sound, Colt’s pulse spiking. Harlan stood at the edge of a gully, his hand outstretched.
“It’s Wallace,” he said. “But don’t come any closer.”
Colt slowed. Then he saw it.
Wallace Kemp was tied to a tree, wrists behind him, his mouth taped. Wires snaked out from the ground, crisscrossing his legs and chest. On the dirt near his feet, two bricks of C4 sat wired to a crude timer and a small blinking receiver. Colt’s stomach turned.
“Booby trap,” he muttered.
Brenna stepped beside him. “Dear God.”
Wallace’s eyes were wide, panicked, and he shook his head as if to say don’t come closer. Garrett and Cal approached and both froze when they saw the setup.
“Damn,” Garrett said. “This guy’s lucky he didn’t sneeze.”
Or maybe not lucky at all, Colt thought. He narrowed his gaze on the wires, the placement of the explosives. Too careful. Too clean.
Something about it didn’t sit right.
But for now, Wallace was alive.
And they had to keep him that way.
Colt crouched low, eyes locked on the timer.
Two minutes, forty-seven seconds.
Not enough time. No expert would make it here fast enough.
“Brenna,” he said, his voice steady but sharp.
“I’m here.” She was already beside him, her gaze fixed on the wiring.
He looked her in the eye. “We have to do this ourselves.”
She nodded. No hesitation.
Harlan kept watch behind them, weapon raised. Cal and Garrett flanked either side, scanning the trees for movement.
Colt leaned in, careful not to jostle the wires. “See that receiver?”
“Yeah. Remote trigger. But the timer’s the primary threat.”
“Agreed. I’ll take the timer. You cut the receiver lines when I say.”
She shifted, took out her pocket knife. “Tell me when.”
Colt steadied his breathing. One wire at a time. The connections were old military style, but rigged dirty. Whoever did this knew enough to make it deadly.
“Wallace, do not move,” he said quietly.
Wallace blinked, the only signal he understood.
One minute, thirty-eight seconds.
Colt traced the power flow, sweat breaking down his back. His ribs screamed when he shifted, but he didn’t stop.
“On three,” he told Brenna. “Cut both receiver wires. I’ll hit the timer feed. Ready?”
She nodded again.
“One.”
Colt tightened his grip.
“Two.”
His pulse roared in his ears.
“Three.”
Snip.
He yanked the main line to the timer.
The digits blinked… and went dark.
Silence. No beeping. No detonation.
Just the sound of five people holding their breath.
Brenna exhaled first.
Colt sat back hard, adrenaline crashing through him like a wave. Wallace sagged against the tree.
They had done it.
But Colt wasn’t celebrating yet.
Someone had meant for this to be the end. And that someone was still out there.
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