Chapter 16 #2
The Charger pulled out two cars behind them. Not aggressive. Not shy.
Just there.
Sterling watched the side mirror. “He’s not really hiding it, but he’s not making an announcement either.”
“That’s a statement all by itself,” Buddy said. His knuckles tightened around the wheel. “The only question is whether or not he’s gonna make a move or just watch.”
Dove clicked her seat belt. “Nobody makes themselves known unless they plan on doing something. Not unless they’re dumb fucks.”
They made the turn onto Main Street, then a quick right onto Union Route, before taking the second right onto old Calusa Cove Drive. It ran parallel to Main and looped back onto Cypress Street before merging into Union Route, a couple of miles outside of town, where there was nothing but road.
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you're leading us to our deaths,” Dove whispered. “This street is creepy.”
“That’s the old theatre that Decker’s going to eventually restore.
He’s also filed a proposal with the town to turn that old warehouse into a combo museum honoring local heritage, along with a wildlife learning center for locals, scouts, and tourists.
Trent’s all over that, and he’d be a great teacher. ”
“Of children?” Dove asked. “That man is a lot of things, but not sure he should be allowed near kids.”
Buddy glanced at the review. The Charger followed.
Adrenaline unfurled in his veins, dark and cold and welcome. He took another right, deeper into the warehouse grid.
“Trent might surprise you,” he managed as he pressed his foot on the gas.
The Charger closed the distance.
“You seeing this?” Sterling asked.
“Oh yeah,” Buddy said.
The road narrowed after the theatre and the warehouse—nothing but empty space and echo.
The Charger surged forward.
“Here we go,” Buddy said. “Be ready for anything, and someone can text Dawson now.”
“Already did.” Dove waved her cell. “I’m not too stupid to live. This road is clearly where clowns come to die. And in the horror movie world, clowns don’t fucking die.”
The Charger slipped into their blind spot on the left, pacing them, matching their speed within inches.
“What the fuck are these assholes doing,” Sterling muttered.
The passenger window rolled down two inches.
Enough to fit a hand.
A silver canister flew out, bouncing twice before spinning under their front bumper—
“Fuck,” Buddy yelled as he swerved, hitting the gas, hoping he didn’t run the fucking thing over, and praying he got far enough away. “Tell me when you see that thing—”
“That canister’s not the problem.” Sterling pointed. “They’re coming back.”
The Charger raced toward them from the opposite direction.
“Looks like they want to play chicken.” Buddy gripped the steering wheel, foot easy on the gas, not accelerating—not losing speed either.
The Dodge jerked to the right, and another canister came hurling at the hood of the truck before the Charger fishtailed and took off.
Buddy slammed on the brakes.
The canister detonated at the nose.
KSSSHFFFF—POOF
A geyser of blue, pink, gold, yellow, and green glitter erupted like a damn Mardi Gras parade.
“What the hell was that?” Dove asked.
Buddy rammed the gearshift into park and opened the door. He slid from the driver's seat and stared at the glitter that decorated his truck. A breeze kicked up, and the glitter floated through the air like fucking Tinkerbell.
Sterling stood beside him, slapping glitter off his face. “Are you kidding me? Glitter? Why would someone stalk us and then hurl sparkly shit at us?”
Glitter bomb. But Buddy’s instincts had screamed grenade, and that gap—between harmless and deadly—that was the message.
His pulse didn’t spike—it condensed into something lethal.
He glanced over his shoulder, the Dodge Charger long gone. The only evidence it had ever been there was the faint sound of its engine revving in the distance and the glitter drifting down the windshield of Buddy’s truck like toxic confetti.
Dove rolled her window down and held up her hand, wiggling her fingers, as the colorful stuff floated through the vehicle. “Obviously, they didn’t want to hurt us, but they did want to send a message. Any idea what that is?”
Buddy’s blood ran cold as understanding dawned.
Not because of the glitter — but because of the colors.
Blue. Pink. Gold. Yellow. Green.
Fallon’s fundraiser colors.
The Tessa Project.
His gut twisted into an ugly, instinctive knot. “This isn’t for us,” he said, barely above a breath.
Sterling dusted glitter off his sleeves again. “No shit, it isn’t for us. It looks like a unicorn sneezed.”
“No,” Buddy growled, jaw locking. “It’s not random. These are Fallon’s colors. These are tomorrow’s colors.”
Dove’s amusement vanished. “What are you saying?”
Buddy knelt, swiped his fingers through the glitter on the pavement. The cheap sparkle stuck to his skin like it meant to stain.
“A fundraiser for missing girls,” he said softly. “A tribute to Tessa.” He lifted his hand, watching the glitter shimmer. “And the biggest crowd of young girls this town sees all year.”
Sterling’s face paled. “Shit.”
Dove’s boot scraped gravel. “You think the message is: ‘See you tomorrow’?”
Buddy didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
He stood quickly, pulling his phone from his pocket and bringing up Fallon’s contact info. His fingers shook—not from fear, but from fury. He tapped the call button. It didn’t even ring. It went straight to voicemail. “Shit. Fallon’s not answering.”
Sterling frowned. “She’s at work, right? She said she was heading into the Glades.”
“With Cullen,” Buddy clipped out. “Which means she’s on patrol. Which means she’s exposed.”
Dove stepped closer. “She’s armed. Trained. Smart.”
“And being hunted,” Buddy said, stabbing at his contacts. “And I’m done giving these bastards a head start.”
He tapped the call button a second time.
Straight to voicemail—again.
“Fuck.” His pulse slammed hard enough that he felt it in his teeth. “Sterling, call Cullen’s phone.”
Sterling tried — same result.
Dove’s expression shifted, sharp and grim. “Service is spotty out where she patrols. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”
Buddy holstered that reassurance but stayed ready to draw. “You two wait here for Dawson. He’s already on the way. Bring him up to speed. Tell Chloe and Flagler to mobilize. And text Fletcher, Keaton, and Hayes to get prepped.”
“For what?” Sterling asked.
Buddy’s stare darkened. “For whatever the hell is coming.”
Dove nodded once, already typing. “We’ll lock this area down. Dawson will be here in minutes.”
Buddy didn’t waste another second.
He jogged around the truck, slid behind the wheel, and slammed the door.
Sterling stepped close. “Buddy—what if they’re baiting you? What if they want you to chase Fallon so they can—”
“They already have her in the crosshairs,” Buddy said, voice breaking into something darker than anger. “And I’m not losing her. Not her.”
That sentence tasted like poison.
Sterling swallowed hard. “Where do we meet you once Dawson gets here?”
Buddy started the engine, gravel spitting under the tires. “My place. As soon as you’re all assembled. I want everyone armed and ready.”
Buddy put the truck in gear. “Text me a report after you’re done with Dawson.”
“Will do,” Dove said.
Buddy pressed his foot to the floor, the truck tearing down the glitter-stained road toward the Glades, toward the woman he refused to lose, toward the danger he could finally see—and toward the plan already unfolding for tomorrow.
The fundraiser.
The crowd.
The girls.
Fallon was at the center of it all.
Not a victim.
A target.
And the bastard behind this wanted Buddy to know it.