Hollow Outlier

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Tulameen backcountry, British Columbia,

Present day…

The sun sank low beyond the towering Douglas fir, painting the larch and poplar leaves, just starting to turn, a deep amber. A sharp bite cooled the evening air as a thin mist wove across the Similkameen River, clinging to the tall grass and low branches clogging the riverbank.

The Silverado’s suspension creaked and groaned as Quinton Taylor bounced along the decommissioned logging road, the tires spitting out gravel and mud. He hadn’t been up this stretch of the old mining spur in years, and the recent torrential rains had all but obliterated the roads.

The chassis thumped as he hit a deep pothole, sent his backpack sliding across the rear seat of his truck.

God, he hoped he wouldn’t need his emergency SAR kit.

That his sister, Brea, had missed her check-in because of a flat tire, or the fact she’d decided to push her limits — turn her already long run into a marathon.

And with cell service in these hills non-existent…

Quinn clenched the steering wheel. He’d been an RCMP officer too long to genuinely believe in chance.

To chalk up Brea’s silence to something benign.

Not when he’d spent the past fifteen years chasing people who operated outside the law.

Who treated life as a commodity. And with how the last few months of his life had panned out…

He shook the thought away, but it lingered in the background, tainting everything it touched.

It had been three months since he’d stood at Scout’s grave, felt the impact of every bullet they’d fired in salute, and he still expected to see her text on his phone.

Hear her voice at the end of a hard day when nothing else helped to quiet the noise.

When simply breathing had seemed like an impossible feat.

She’d always been the one. From their awkward, teenage romance throughout high school, to the ever-present longing he’d had through fifteen years of near misses. Of trying but never quite being on the same page. Reconnecting with her had been more than just fate.

It had been the start of forever.

Losing her the way he had… It had crushed him in a way no SAR call or investigation ever had.

He rolled his shoulders, focusing on the next switchback.

How the right side of the road disappeared down a steep ravine.

On the way gravel ticked off the undercarriage as shadows moved amidst the trees.

Anything but the remembered heat of her skin, the way she’d looked at him as if he filled her empty spaces, too.

The kind of memories that had resulted in his staff sergeant putting him on mandatory leave until he got his shit together. Which didn’t seem likely if Brea’s silence was proof that Fate hadn’t finished screwing with him, yet.

He crested the rise, caught a flash of white at the end of the long spur before the sun fell behind the evergreens, the deep shadows hiding all but the reflection of the Jeep’s taillights.

Quinn rolled to a stop, parking behind Brea’s Wrangler, those voices in his head all but screaming.

The door creaked as he cracked it open, stones crunching beneath his boots as he stepped out, headed for the driver’s side.

He checked the windows as he walked past, noting how empty and clean everything looked before tugging on the handle.

The door yawned open, dropping his stomach.

He scoured the tree line, searching the shadows for any hint of movement.

While Brea had never been one to lock her doors at night and lived in a community that shared her mindset, she always locked her Jeep when she went running.

More to keep bears from sniffing out an old granola bar she’d forgotten between the seats and getting trapped inside. Finding the Wrangler unlocked…

He stepped around the door, placed his hand on the hood.

Cold. Suggesting she hadn’t fired it up since she’d parked it several hours ago, and a few hours past when she should have finished her run.

Another damn red flag unless the vehicle had died.

Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out the spare key she’d left dangling on the hook beside the back door. He jumped in, tried the engine.

It ticked a few times, then turned over, everything springing to life, the motor growling in the background as her Eighties station started pumping out Bon Jovi. Cold air rattled through the vents, a hint of citrus weaving through the cab from the tree cutout hanging around the rearview.

The engine coughed, then cut off as he turned the key, shut down the vehicle. He glanced at the trail opening up on his left. Maybe she’d dropped something. Hadn’t realized until she’d gotten to the Jeep, then had doubled back to find it. Gotten turned around or hurt.

Maybe this wasn’t his worst fucking nightmare coming to life.

His heart skipped. He’d already lived through that. This… This was just another level. A sub-basement when he’d thought he’d already hit rock bottom.

The Jeep creaked as he jumped out, closing the door, before heading back to his truck.

He grabbed his pack off the rear seat, shrugged it on, then unlocked his Tikka rifle from the ceiling rack before reaching under his seat — grabbing a ten-round magazine from his lockbox.

Clicking it in place, he locked his truck, and headed out, praying he was simply paranoid.

That he was being overly cautious since his life had blown up in his face, taken his chance at a happy ending with it.

Quinn stopped at the edge of the trail, crouching to study the prints in the damp earth — small, with thick treads that headed into the forest. Definitely Brea’s.

The lack of any return strikes jacked his paranoia to a new level, had him constantly scanning the trees, looking for a glint off a sight, or the suggestion of some kind of grow-op she might have stumbled upon.

The light faded as the sun dipped beyond the hillside, casting heavy shadows across the path. He had a headlamp in his pack if he needed it. Though, if he hadn’t found her by official sunset, he’d be calling for backup.

Leaves rustled as the wind whistled through the trees, a few branches rubbing together as he followed the trail, stopping to check for prints every couple of minutes. Brea had been running these hills for years, knew them better than most of the local hunters. The chances she got lost…

The air settled like an unforgiving weight around his shoulders, a sudden eerie silence prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He scanned the area, listened.

Nothing.

No birds.

No chattering squirrels.

As if the entire forest was holding its breath.

A hint of blue caught his attention. He checked his surroundings, then ducked under a low-hanging branch — went to one knee beside a nearly empty CamelBak bladder half-buried beneath a layer of pine needles, the end spitting out water. It pooled in a massive tread molded into the muddy surface.

His chest tightened, the same hopelessness he’d felt when he’d gotten the call about Scout. Only this time, he knew exactly how fast forever could be ripped away.

Not again.

He crept forward, following the scuff marks in the undergrowth. Trampled ferns. Broken salal branches. A few drops of blood beneath a patch of bramble. Multiple boot prints mixed in with Brea’s unique runners. Proof she hadn’t gone quietly.

That eerie silence followed him, the scent of pine and damp earth saturating the air as he stopped at the base of a small creek. Spotting something black embedded in the mud between two rocks, he placed his rifle on the ground, pulled at the torn strap, wiping off the watch face covered in mud.

Shit.

Brea had been wearing a device just like that when she’d headed out. Something about a new product trial she’d been given a few weeks back at her last ultrarace. Some kind of biometric watch that came with endurance patches. A game changer, she’d said.

He turned the watch over, stared at the blue LED pulsing out a steady rhythm. What looked like more of a tracking device than a heart monitor.

Finding the remains of one of those patches stuck to a rock only added to the dread building in his gut. The reality that she hadn’t gotten lost or hurt.

She’d been taken.

He shifted, shoving the watch and patch into his pocket when a hushed thut cut through the air, the branch next to his ear shattering in a spray of bark and pine needles. No bang, just a whistle of displaced air, the wood cracking into a thousand pieces.

Quinn dropped, grabbed his weapon, and rolled behind a trunk, taking cover as the forest lit up.

Rounds chewed through the undergrowth, shredding ferns and branches, blasting him with pulverized wood and leaves.

Muzzle flashes brightened the encroaching darkness, twigs snapping in every direction as the men fanned out, trying to flank him.

He cocked his rifle, peered through the scope, catching a glimpse of black tactical gear dodging between two massive cedars. The figure vanished, reappeared at the next narrow opening, and turned toward him with what looked like a damn AR-15 notched at his shoulder.

Quinn squeezed the trigger, hitting that guy high on the right side, just outside his vest. The man twisted as he fell, kicking up a spray of mud before he rolled, shook off the hit, and returned fire.

The bullets punched into the bark, each strike reverberating through the ground and into Quinn’s chest. Another shot, dead center of the vest, dropped the bastard, but he stumbled to his feet a few seconds later, rifle barking.

Eight more rounds.

Quinn muttered under his breath. Maybe he’d misjudged that first shot — caught the edge of the vest. Something to explain how the guy was drawing closer, going through brass at an alarming rate.

Movement.