Chapter 23
Nash struggled to maintain the speed limit as he drove across town. He didn’t have a clue where the old Stagmeyer farm was, but he’d punched the Miller residence into the search on his phone and it popped up with an address on the edge of town.
The gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled into the driveway. The four-square house with a wraparound porch sat in disarray. A few new boards stood out on the siding. Nash could see someone had been working on the repairs.
An old GMC truck sat beside the barn. Nash parked and slipped his phone into a pocket and his pistol into the hidden holster at his waist.
Only a precaution. He prayed he didn’t need it, but he wasn’t about to chance it with Addison’s life on the line.
He rang the bell. Nothing. Pressing the button again, he leaned in and listened. Still nothing.
He cupped his hands around his face and peered through the window. The house was dark. No footsteps resonated, not even a barking dog. That was odd, especially for a farmhouse. Wasn’t it law that they had to have a dog or two?
He stepped off the porch. With his hands on his hips, he surveyed the yard. There was an old machine shed that appeared to be used as a garage. A barn in the back looked like one good storm would take it to the ground. Was that a front hitch of a camper stuck out around the edge behind the barn?
Nash took another look at the house, then back at the camper.
Could be if someone’s fixing it up, they were staying in the camper.
He took one last look at the house before crossing the yard, full focus on the camper.
As he reached the edge of the machine shed, movement drew his attention.
He flinched, hovering his hand over his holster.
An orange and white cat jumped from a tractor parked in the shed.
The expression it held was one of contempt, as if Nash was interrupting its nap.
That would teach Nash not to pay attention.
He’d been out of the military too many years.
He needed to remember to keep his head on a swivel.
Nash moved up beside the opening to the machine shed, flattened his back against the wall and leaned in, scanning the interior.
It wasn’t quite a hoarder’s home, but there was plenty of stuff.
Some of it looked like it went back multiple generations.
Hanging on the wall were old manual tools from a generation long before not only Nash, but his father.
He tiptoed around the tractor and looked for signs of life.
No new footsteps, no noise, and a layer of dust an inch thick on the workbench.
He’d bet no one had been in here for a long time. Except the cat.
He backed out of the shed and headed toward the barn. This time, he canvassed the area like he’d been taught back in the military.
No signs of life in the barn. He tiptoed closer to the camper.
It had high cutouts above the wheels—an ice fishing house.
The curtains were drawn, obscuring Nash’s view of the inside.
He placed his ear to the glass. Silent, but he couldn’t leave without checking inside.
He unholstered his gun and reached for the door.
Inhaling, he steadied himself, and on the count of three, tried the knob.
Locked. He pounded on the door. No sound came from inside.
Nash looked over his shoulder. The coast was clear. Pulling the multi-tool from his pocket, he released the lock in seconds. Not the strongest lock ever made.
He stepped back and flung the door wide open. When nothing happened, he leaned in. The icehouse was empty. Damn. He really wished Addison would be here.
He holstered his weapon and checked the rest of the camper.
Back outside, his phone rang. Detective Simon’s number flashed on his screen.
“Anything?” Nash sent up a silent prayer that they found her.
“Miller didn’t show up for work and didn’t call in. A couple of the guys on the jobsite said he’s a bit of a prepper, and he talked about a cabin up north. I’m running a check on him, but so far, no properties pop under his name or his parents.”
Where the hell was she?
“Steele, one more thing. One of Miller’s coworkers sold him an old van last month.”
Nash’s jaw ticked. “The color?”
“Gray.”
Son of a bitch. Nash stared through the window into the dark house. “Do you have his number?”
“Yes, but you don’t need it. This is a police matter.”
“Gray Duck Grove PD isn’t that big that you couldn’t use some help. Cade and I were former military. He was special ops. You might as well loop us in. You’re not going to keep us out of it.”
Simon’s groan came through the phone, loud and clear. “Fine. I’ll text it to you. But Steele, don’t do anything that I have to arrest you for.”
Too late.
Nash ended the call.
One line from Simon was spinning in his brain. Miller was a prepper. Nash didn’t know much about survivalists, but what he did know was the best thing when the shit hits the fan wasn’t bugging out. No, it was bugging in.
With his hands on his hips, he turned, scanning the farmyard. Miller could have a hidey-hole in the basement or the outbuildings.
Nash had already checked the barn and shed. He eyed the house. From this side, he could see the basement access door, the kind that angled like a storm cellar.
Good thing he hadn’t promised Simon he wouldn’t break the law. Nash pulled out his phone and called Cade.
“Did you find her?” His friend answered with concern in his voice.
“Not yet. But I might need you to have bail money ready.”
“And let you have all the fun? No way. Where are you?”
“I’m at the Miller farm. So far, I’ve got nothing, but… Something in my gut tells me this is our guy.” He had learned long ago to trust his gut.
“I know a guy who might be able to track his phone.”
Nash heard Cade typing on the other end of the line.
“Who?”
“Sawyer. He’s IT for a mobile phone company. Let me see what he can do before you break down the guy’s door.”
“Five minutes.” Liar. In two minutes, he’d be busting in. The thought of what could be happening to Addison right now had him fidgeting like back in his first training exercise.
“Sawyer replied. What’s the guy’s number?”
Nash’s phone rang. Sawyer’s number popped up. “Gotta go. Sawyer’s on the other line.” He clicked over to the other call.
“What’s the guy’s number?” No hello from his friend. All business.
Nash rattled it off. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t mention it. Really. I could lose my job for this.”
The clicks of Sawyer’s keystrokes in the background had Nash’s leg bouncing.
“Got it. Texting it to you now.”
Nash hovered his finger over the screen, waiting. It wasn’t long, but to him, it felt like hours. “No way! They’re here! Or at least his phone is.”
Nash cupped his hands to the side of his face as he peered through the glass of a back window. Everything was dark inside, even though it was the middle of the day. He was right about Miller fixing up the place. There were sawhorses sitting in the center of the room and some lumber on the floor.
The crunch of tires drew his attention. Cade jumped from the vehicle seconds later. “Sawyer texted. He’s in the office today but can bust out of there and help.”
“If I’m right, they’re here.” Nash turned his focus to the slanted double doors that led to the basement. “Simon talked to the coworkers. They mentioned a cabin up north.”
“But?” Cade turned in a slow circle as he scanned the property. “You already checked all the outbuildings?”
“Yeah. Nothing but a cat.”
Cade looked around on the ground, finally picking up a large rock. “Okay. I’ll go ring the doorbell, make a distraction, and you bust the lock. Wait for my signal.”
“I can’t ask you to help me with this. You’re on parole as it is.”
“If we’re wrong, I’ll duck out. But if we are right, and she’s here—”
He had a point. And the longer they stood there, the tighter Nash’s rib cage constricted. What if he was too late?
Nash ignored the rock and pulled out his multi-tool again. “Okay. But the rock is too noisy.”
Cade moved around the house, and Nash got to work unscrewing the old latch. Thanks to some rotten boards, he had the latch, deadbolt and all, removed from the door.
A second later, he heard Cade hollering at the front. “Anybody home?”
That was his cue. He hesitated. He’d been wrong about Jillian. What if he was wrong now?
Worst case, no one was here, and he’d put the latch back on. No harm, no foul.
He blew out a breath and prayed the hinges didn’t squeak before opening the door.
He crept down the stairs. Fuck, it was dark in here. The smell of mold had him pulling his shirt up over his nose.
Maybe it was the light filtering in from the open door, or his eyes were finally adjusting to the dark, but the contents of the basement came into focus.
Shelves with mason jars lined the wall to his left.
Some jars were empty, some full of what he couldn’t guess.
But the one thing he noticed was the lack of dust. This wasn’t canning from a late granny left in the cellar.
No, someone was stockpiling. The next shelf held canned goods.
Nash pulled out his phone and flipped on the light.
Boxes of MREs confirmed it. This guy was a prepper.
He wasn’t planning to bug out. Nope. This had the markings of a man who was prepared for something big, and he would be bugging in.
Nash scanned the room and found a door at the far end next to a set of stairs. Aiming his phone away, he crept to the side of the door. He listened. Sound. Faint, but definitely something, or someone, was moving on the other side of the door.
A scream rang out from beyond the door. Nash jumped back. He grabbed the doorknob with one hand and his gun with the other. On a deep inhale, he yanked the door open. With his phone held behind his gun, he scanned side to side. Nothing. The room was empty.
“What the—?” Was he hallucinating?
Just then, another shout filled the room.
This time, Nash saw light coming from under a door to his left.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and ran to the door.
He holstered his gun. Last thing Nash wanted was for Addison to get caught in the crossfire.
Besides, he wanted to get his hands on Miller.
He flexed his fingers and balled them into fists.
He exhaled. Footsteps pounded overhead. Cade. Nash wrenched the doorknob and burst through the door.
The light was dim but bright enough to see a scene unfolding in front of his eyes that hiked up his heart rate.
Addison tied to a cot, a bloody knife in her hand. Corey looming over her, swearing.
Nash flew into action, tackling the man from behind and taking him to the ground.
Corey pressed one hand to his side. Blood oozed between his fingers, and murder flashed in his eyes as he swung at Nash with the other.
One solid fist connected to the jaw. The second punch broke the man’s nose. Blood spurt from Corey’s face.
Nash pinned him to the ground. He fought the urge to end it, to end the bastard here and now. Thankfully, Cade bolted through the door.
“I got this. Go take care of your woman.” Cade took the spare cord from the ground and secured Corey before applying pressure to the man’s wound.
With that situation under control, Nash rushed to Addison.
“Nash?” Unshed tears clung to her lashes. The knife in her hand shook.
“It’s okay, honey. You’re safe now.” He gently pried the knife from her and started working on her bindings.
“I can’t. I—” His strong woman was rattled to her core.
“Shh. I’m here.” He knelt in front of her, surveying her body for injuries—the physical kind. No doubt she’d have some emotional ones to work through. And he’d be there for her through every step of the process. “Addison? Are you hurt?”
Her gaze roamed his face when locked with his. She propelled herself into his arms. A soft sound touched his ear. “No.”
Nash inhaled deeply, and her scent washed over him like the calm of a quiet night. The feel of her body against his slowed his heart rate, which had been on overdrive since the moment in his truck when the phone call cut out.
“Nash, Simon will be here in a minute,” Cade said from where he had Corey restrained.
It’s time to pay the piper. Honestly, Nash would pay any price to have Addison safe in his arms.