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“Grady!”
I turn. Faulk’s holding a warning hand up and gabbing into his phone.
Yeah, I know when to rein it in.
Barely.
The last thing I’m here to do is wind up arrested, though.
The sheriff’s gaze snaps to my rifle. “Awful big yule log to bring to a fire. Sure hope you’re not thinking about taking anything into your own hands. We’ve got this covered.”
“Yeah, maybe, but your SWAT unit must be running late.” I pause, rolling up my sleeve, exposing the snake and arrow inked on my arm from half a lifetime ago. “I came for backup because it looks like you boys need it.”
“Dang!” the other cop whistles. “Sharpshooter, huh? You dudes saved my butt five times in Kandahar when I did my time.”
“Iraq for me,” I tell him, and we spend a few minutes making small talk about the brushfire wars that snapped up our generation after 9/11.
It’s a welcome distraction, though I’m keenly aware every second matters, and they’re slipping by with every word of idle chatter.
Finally, Faulk walks over, phone in hand. “I have the FBI on the phone, gents. Peter Macklin just reported the kidnapping of his daughter.”
Snarling, I throw my hands in the air, and motion at the officers.
“Fuck, we’re wasting time!” Anger boils my veins, churning through me like a hot current.
It can’t end like this.
It can’t.
“This is the last place she was reported,” Faulk tells them, far more cool and collected than I could be right now. “I suggest you call in every officer you have right now.”
To hell with more waiting.
I’m not standing by for anyone as the two officers share a concerned look and slowly nod, reaching for their radios.
“Told you,” I grunt at the cops.
I sprint past them, while they’re busy, breaking into a full ground-eating run.
“Hey, mister! Get back here!” the sheriff yells.
“Grady! Hold up.” Faulk’s footsteps pound the pavement, catching up with me roughly thirty seconds later in a few big strides. “Hold up, man, we should wait for backup!”
“Bull. Shit. If that was Tory in there, would you wait around with your dick hanging out?” I flash him a scalding look that drives home how riled I am.
“Point taken,” he snaps after a minute. “Let’s get her out of there and get these assholes licked!”
For the shortest second, I raise an eyebrow, amused by the crap that comes out of his mouth through an Oklahoma filter sometimes.
We’ll laugh about it later, I hope.
Right now, we both shift into high gear, charging the entrance gate. Tall pine trees line the road, and thinking alike, we stop behind their massive trunks. They’re easy cover as we dart forward from tree to tree, only pausing to scope out any obvious dangers.
At a Y in the road, we pause.
A sign one way says Office, the other says Enclosures – Private.
Faulk looks at me.
“Enclosures,” I growl, running on pure instinct.
Staying close to the trees, we make our way to an area that has several tall sprawling cement structures crowded in with a few service buildings.
I catch movement outside a large metal shed.
A man, carrying an open laptop. Faulk sees him, too.
With a stiff nod, I let him know I’m darting left, around an adjacent wooden building.
Faulk stays near the trees, working his way toward the metal shed from the right. There are definitely pens and roaming areas for animals, far too many to count.
Lions, tigers, cougars, panthers, and other exotic cats all stare at me in silent interest when I finally stop on the backside of the wooden building adjacent to the one the tall man’s pacing around.
He’s cursing, muttering about “being in a hot fucking jam.”
I inch along the building’s outskirts and peer around the edge.
The goon’s back is turned to me, but I have no way of knowing if there’s anyone else around. He’s definitely not some run-of-the-mill groundskeeper, dressed in all black, a sidearm bulging in his waistband outlined under his shirt.
I crouch down, lifting my rifle, using the scope.
No imminent danger.
Just dozens of goddamn hiding spots, tight corners, nooks and crannies in the compound where alert guards could be lurking. If the Fosses were smart, then they brought backup for a hostile takeover—assuming this Cook guy wasn’t compromised all along.
Yeah, I could pick off my mark in one shot from here, but I don’t want to use lethal force unless absolutely necessary. Plus, there’s some risk of him keeling over and alerting others I haven’t seen.
Fuck it.
Only one way to find out.
Pushing off the wall, I flash Faulkner a thumbs-up. Then I hoist my rifle to my shoulder and charge straight at the man before he sees me coming.
Maybe it’s instinct, or the scuffing sound of my feet hitting the ground.
Either way, the prick turns half a second before I’m on him.
Too late, friend.
Arms crossed, elbows out, teeth bared, I plow into him like a six-foot-plus battering ram of solid muscle.
