Page 143 of The Deadly Shallows

“Good. Brooke and I are heading to Leavenworth to interview Scott. Em found two likely farm locations, and I need you and Mason out at one of them as soon as you can make it. She can give you the details.”

“Roger that.”

Noah disconnected his call and less than a minute later picked up Em’s. “Whatcha got for us?”

“Okay, it was a little tricky. Nothing worked for tonight, but I’ve got you on an 0700 flight tomorrow morning. It’ll get you on the ground by 1030, and then I’ve arranged a rental car for the half-hour drive to the disciplinary barracks at Leavenworth.”

“Thanks, Em. I spoke with Caleb, and he’s good for the farm. He’ll be calling you to get the details.”

“Sounds good.”

“Since Brooke and I aren’t leaving until morning, let’s have a Zoom case board this evening after they return from checking out the farms. I need to update you all on what Brooke and I learned from John Mirch, and I want to hear the follow-up on both the farms and Caldwell’s death.”

“I’ll set it for 1800,” she said.

“Great. I’ll log in then.” He started to disconnect the call, then paused. “And Em?”

“Yes?”

“Good work.”

Disconnecting the call, he looked at Brooke. “Guess we’re going to need to find a hotel for the night.” Truth be told, he was happy to have Brooke out of Wilmington as this powder keg felt ready to blow.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Taking a steadying breath from his position on the wooded hill, Caleb looked through his binoculars at the farm near Skipper’s Corner. He spotted a man patrolling the northeast perimeter line of the fenced property—an AR-15 in his grip.

A ten-foot chain-link fence surrounded what he could see of the property, though at thirty-two acres, it was a vast piece of land. Surely the entire property wasn’t fenced—at least not with a high chain-link fence all the way around. Or . . . He spotted a second man patrolling with the same AR. Maybe it was.

He traded his binoculars for his camera with a scope lens, clicking images of the fence and guards.

Mason had taken the southwest side of the property, and Caleb was anxious to learn if he was seeing much of the same.

His muscles grew taut as he continued taking pictures of the farm that had been transformed into a compound.

There was a vast shooting range in the distance with close to a dozen men firing on it. Three red barns stood between the fence and the range. A large metal barn stood out—far newer than the wooden ones.

He slowed his breath, easing his focus. His rifle was strapped over his shoulder, the weapon resting along his back. The temp was dropping with the sun, and soon darkness would overtake the farm.

Caleb spotted what appeared to be two large bunkhouses, and on the edge of a rolling hill sat an old farmhouse with faded green siding, a white porch with peeling paint, and an old wooden rocking chair.

If he had to guess, there had to be at least twenty people on the compound, and that was just based on the acreage he could see from his vantage point.

He hiked back more than a mile through the woods to his Forester, which he’d left hidden down an old dirt drive.

Placing the rifle in its case in the rear, he moved around to the door and climbed in, his Glock still in his waist holster. He started the ignition and paused for a minute, scanning the area. Finding it empty, he eased down the dirt driveway and onto the winding country road—headed to retrieve his teammate.

Caleb knocked on Logan’s door as Austin wrapped her coat tighter around herself. The blistering wind was swirling, kicking up her skirt, and she was ready for the warmth of Logan’s home—and anxious to see the inside, as it was her first time visiting. Deciding they all needed a break, Logan had invited her, Caleb, and Emmy to dinner to celebrate closing the chemical dumping case.

“Hey, guys,” Logan said as he propped the storm door open for them to pass through.

Emmy stood up from the velvet sofa. It was a cloudy gray with slate undertones that matched the wall, which held a large stone fireplace with flames dancing inside and the homey sound of crackling wood.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Logan said. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’ll take a root beer,” Caleb said. He turned to her. “Logan ships in the best handcrafted root beer—Dominion.”

“Would you like one too, Austin?” Logan asked.