Chapter Three
The night air above Devil’s Hollow was a war zone of heat and falling gray ash. Smoldering red embers glowed like dying eyes in the scorched cedar trunks, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the jagged limestone ridge.
Buster led the climb, his nose low to the hot ash; his dark coat dusted with white powder. Cole moved silently behind him, shotgun cradled, every muscle tuned to the dark timber.
Maya kept pace right at Luke’s elbow; her yellow wildland jacket discarded at the bunker steps to leave her in a dark, form-fitting tactical shirt.
She moved with a quiet, agile grace born of years navigating rugged wilderness crime scenes.
In her right hand, she carried a high-resolution digital imaging scanner; strapped to her hip was her standard-issue sidearm.
Luke didn't try to order her back to the vehicle again. He knew the set of her chin, the cold determination in her dark eyes. Maya Lin wasn't a bystander; she was the hound following the scent just as much as Buster was.
"Up ahead," Cole whispered, throwing up a single flat hand.
Buster froze instantly at the base of an overhang, his body rigid, his tail straight as an arrow pointing up toward a narrow shelf of limestone thirty feet above the bunker's entrance.
Luke stepped forward; his Sig Sauer raised, taking the lead as they scaled the slick, ash-coated rock face. When his boots cleared the ledge, his flashlight beam swept over a flattened patch of mountain laurel that had miraculously escaped the worst of the blaze.
"He was sitting right here," Luke said softly, crouching down in the soot.
Maya dropped beside him, bringing her scanner light close to the ground. The impression in the crushed dirt was pristine. "Heavy-duty tactical boots. Size eleven, deep lug pattern, reinforced steel toe. But look at the indentation on the rock wall behind it."
Luke leaned in, his shoulder brushing against hers. "A tripod mark."
"He had a high-powered optics rig set up," Maya said, her breath dusting warm against Luke's cheek as she pointed out three circular gouges where metal feet had been pressed hard into the limestone.
"He wasn't just watching the fire crews cut the firebreak, Luke. He’s been sitting on this ridge monitoring the hollow for days. "
"He knew where the bunker was," Luke growled, his gaze fixing on a small, dark object half-buried in the soot near the ledge's edge. He reached down with his gloved hand, pinching a small, crushed cylinder of brass between his fingers.
A custom-milled, heavy-rifle casing.
"Forty-five-seventy government round," Luke murmured, turning the brass in the flashlight beam. "He brought enough horsepower to drop a bear—or punch straight through an engine block."
A cold wind whipped up from the burning ravine below, carrying the sharp, bitter stench of fresh accelerant.
Maya froze, her head snapping toward the dark timber five hundred yards north along the ridge line. Her sharp forensic nose picked it up instantly. "Luke... that's not burning cedar."
Cole stepped up onto the ledge, his jaw tight as Buster let out a low, vibrating growl from deep within his chest. "Diesel fuel. Heavy, unrefined commercial grade."
"The transformer upwind didn't blow on its own," Maya whispered, the horrifying truth dawning on her as she looked at Luke.
"The fire wasn't an accident, and it wasn't meant to expose the cellar.
He soaked the ridge line in diesel to burn away the timber cover—so he could locate the iron door and retrieve those badges before anyone else found them. "
Luke stood up to his full height, his broad shoulders silhouette against the orange glare of the burning valley. His hand came down to rest on the small of Maya’s back, a steady, protective anchor amidst the gathering storm.
"He failed," Luke said, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal promise that echoed across the ridge. "We have the badges, we have his brass, and now we have his trail. He wanted a fire, Maya... but he’s about to find out what happens when the state of Texas burns right back."