Chapter 39 Taken
Taken
Jason West
Jason drove east from Asheville in the late-morning light, the sun tipping toward afternoon as it slanted across ridgelines awash in flame-colored leaves. The Blue Ridge in October was a spectacle—scarlet maples, gold hickories, oaks burning copper against the smoky distance.
He barely noticed. The colors blurred past his windshield, smearing together like a painting he wanted to rip in half.
The low growl of the engine filled the cabin, steady against his clenched molars.
A half-empty coffee sat forgotten in the cupholder, its bitter scent rising faintly with every curve of the road.
None of it mattered. What mattered was what waited ahead.
By the time he rolled into Sylva, the quaint mountain town only stoked his contempt.
The courthouse loomed over Main Street, brick shops lined the sidewalks, flags snapping in the cool breeze.
Then her cottage came into view—cornflower-blue siding, white shutters gleaming, the porch rail freshly painted.
A shoebox.
The sight reinforced everything he already knew: she’d traded power and status for this pathetic excuse of a life. And she thought she could be happy here? Without him? Impossible.
He parked around the block and ducked into Speedy’s Pizza Pub, tucked off Main. Autumn air rushed warm behind him as the bell jingled. Sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the counter, he bent low to the delivery kid.
He glanced at the wall clock behind the counter—2:30 on the nose. Plenty of time.
“Make sure she gets it right at three o’clock sharp,” he said, voice smooth as glass. “Not a minute before.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”
Perfect.
Around the corner, a dump truck idled, men in neon vests shoveling asphalt into a trench.
The diesel roar masked everything—the slam of doors, the bark of a dog, even the dark Tahoe Jason nosed tight against the cottage steps.
From the street, it looked like just another work vehicle parked among the crew.
He slipped out, circling the hedged side yard. Timing was everything.
The doorbell chimed, and the pizza boy shuffled nervously on the porch, a large box balanced in his arms. Inside, Rosie erupted—hackles high, claws gouging the floor, a frenzy of snarls that rattled the windows.
“Rosie, quiet!” Caitlin snapped, yanking on the leash. But the shepherd refused, chest-deep barks echoing over the dump truck’s roar.
God, she won’t stop. Caitlin dragged the dog down the hall, nerves on edge.
“Just for a minute, girl.” She shoved Rosie into the bedroom and twisted the lock.
The shepherd hurled herself at the door, claws ripping splinters from the frame.
Caitlin winced. She’s never been this bad. She’ll scare the kid half to death.
She hurried back.
“For Izzy,” the delivery boy muttered, thrusting the box toward her.
Caitlin balanced it against her hip, twisting toward the hall table. Just a second—her back to the door.
Behind her, a breath of movement—a shift of air, the faint scuff of a boot on tile. She turned, too late.
Her gasp sliced the air. Rosie’s howls became a war cry behind the locked door.
Jason’s hand clamped over Caitlin’s mouth, dragging her back. Her scream strangled against his palm as the box toppled to the floor. She twisted, elbows jabbing, heels striking—but he barely flinched.
“You ruined everything,” Jason hissed in her ear, his voice venomous. “You were supposed to be perfect.”
Plastic zip ties bit into her wrists in an instant. She thrashed and sobbed, panic rising sharp and bright as he forced her through the back door, into the Tahoe parked tight against the porch steps. The air outside was thick with diesel and asphalt.
Her heels hammered uselessly against the seat as he slammed the door.
Rosie’s frenzy shook the cottage—snarls, claws shredding wood, the lock splintering under her weight. Hope flared in Caitlin’s chest at every crash. Come on, girl. Break through. Please.
But Jason was already behind the wheel, pulling away in broad daylight, the dump truck’s engine still masking the noise of her abduction.
Behind the wheel, his fury cooled into something more dangerous: precision. The Tahoe was a tool—temporary. He would ditch it within the hour. Evan had the cabin ready, stocked, and hidden off the Blue Ridge. They’d vanish there until the pilot was in place.
Izzy? She’d be handled first. Evan knew what to do.
This wasn’t chaos. This was control. His control. And Caitlin was his again.
Scout
Far across town, Scout sat in his Jeep, a thermos of hot coffee in the cupholder and his eyes locked on the silver Tacoma idling in the Hotel Sylva lot. The lobby door opened, and a man stepped out. Scout’s gut tightened. Evan Cole.
Knew it. I damn well knew it. The photographer. What the hell were you doing casing Darcy’s place at night—and now strutting out of a hotel in broad daylight like you’ve got nothing to hide?
Evan slid behind the wheel of the Tacoma, casual as a tourist. Scout dropped his Wrangler into gear, easing out a few cars back, shadows hiding him in the stream of local traffic.
The Tacoma rolled down Main and slowed near Blue Ridge Brew. That’s when Scout saw her.
Izzy stood on the sidewalk, hair whipped by the mountain wind.
She balanced two steaming coffees in a cardboard tray, a hiking pack snug on her back.
When the Tacoma slowed, she crossed in front of it and climbed into the passenger seat without hesitation—her laugh carrying like sunlight across the street.
Scout leaned forward, every muscle coiled. Jesus, Izzy. You have no idea who you’re sitting beside. His teeth ground together, fury simmering. The man spent his nights watching that cottage, and now he’s got you smiling in his truck like it’s a damn date.
Before shifting into pursuit, Scout flipped open his battered notebook. His pen scratched across the page in blocky, deliberate strokes:
09:37 — Evan Cole, Hotel Sylva → Blue Ridge Brew. Passenger: Izzy. Fork Ridge likely.
The act steadied him. Ink on paper—clean, undeniable. No matter how fast the game moved, the record would hold.
How deep does this run? What the hell’s got these people tangled up together?
He stayed on them as they headed north, winding up the Parkway, shadows sliding long across the ridges. At Fork Ridge Overlook, the Tacoma pulled in. Tourists with cameras scattered among the fiery maples, oblivious.
Izzy hopped out, adjusting her pack as Evan pointed toward a break in the trees. Together, they slipped into the unmarked trail.
They’d been climbing for hours when the trees began to thin. Evan checked his watch—2:42. Right on schedule. He quickened his pace, the easy smile fading, eyes fixed on the ridge ahead as if the light itself were a deadline.
Scout killed his engine and swung out, the crisp air cutting through his anger. He reached into the back of his Wrangler and grabbed his own pack—rope, rappel gear, essentials he never hiked without. I don’t walk these mountains unprepared. And I sure as hell won’t let her walk them blind.
A raven croaked overhead, wings beating heavy against the thinning canopy. Scout moved after them, boots silent in the mulch of red and gold leaves, his pace patient, predatory.
He knew every inch of these ridges, every hidden trail and cut-through. Out here, the mountain was his ally. Every nerve in his body burned, every instinct sharpened. Years in the sheriff’s department had trained him to recognize a man moving wrong—and Evan Cole was moving wrong.
Scout pressed deeper into the woods, shoulders set, his presence rolling through the silence like a storm waiting to break.
He wasn’t just tailing. He was hunting.
Out here, the mountain listened.
And if it had to choose sides, he prayed it was his.