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Kyle pulled up outside an old hunting cabin. He’d said it belonged to a friend of his uncle. From the back seat, crowded in with their gear bags, Gage glanced at the place. A sagging porch and missing roof shingles said this place had seen better days. However, it had one thing going for it: no neighbors for at least ten miles.
Spencer and Scotty headed for the trunk, grabbing the fake cop by the arms and hauling him into the cabin. Gage and Kyle followed them inside. The door hadn’t been locked, and Gage could see why.
A single, rough room served as bedroom, kitchen, and living room. No one would want to steal the plaid couch sitting in front of the stone fireplace. Two chairs—both of them with peeling paint—stood next to a kitchen table that looked as if it had to weigh a thousand pounds. It had been made of a tree stump that had been sanded and varnished. The fridge appeared to date from the 1940s, and a mounted deer’s head draped in cobwebs looked down on them from near the peaked roof.
Spencer dumped their captive on the floor and dusted off his hands. “Wow, love what you’ve done with the place,” he told Kyle. He nudged a pile of newspapers and empty beer cans that had been left on the floor.
“The maid is off this week,” Kyle said. He grabbed the fake cop’s arm. “Someone want to give me a hand?”
Scotty grabbed the guy’s other arm, and they put him into one of the kitchen chairs. Scotty pulled out more zip ties, and they cut the ties binding the guy’s legs together before securing his ankles to the chair legs instead. Spencer headed over to the fireplace, glanced up the chimney, then headed outside—presumably to find some wood.
Gage stood in front of the fake cop, feet planted wide and arms crossed.
“What now?” Scotty asked. He tilted his head. “Do we try playing nice first?”
Reaching for the gag, Kyle pulled it off. “Got a name?” he asked.
The guy—he had to be in his early twenties, barely more than a kid—glared at them. Gage smiled and pulled up the other kitchen chair. “Okay, buddy, here’s how it goes. You can talk to us and then we can take you back into town and let the cops deal with you, or we can start cutting off parts and keep going until youstarttalking. Now, me, personally, I’m all for getting down to business. That woman you took—Anna—she’s a nice person. And she’s not part of anything shady—not knowingly, anyway. Whatever info you and your buddies wanted from her, she doesn’t have to give. Which means your pals are not going to be happy to keep her around—and they might take that anger out on her. That makes me very, very upset. And very willing to takemyanger out onyou.” Gage kept his tone even, his voice flat, but he let a fraction of the frustration and rage bubbling inside him show.
The fake cop just sneered at them.
Kyle came over and pushed up the kid’s sleeve. “Look at this, guys. That’s a Navy tattoo the boy’s got on his skin. Where’d you get this, son?”
The guy shook his head. Kyle checked the man’s pockets and pulled out a phone. One number showed up on a recent dial. “Who would answer if I called this?” Gage asked.
Another shake of the head. “Try it and find out, if you want—but I don’t think you’ll like how it goes for you. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, man.”
Spencer came in with an armful of wood. He left it near the fireplace and asked, “Any luck?”
Gage stood. “Kid’s Navy, or ex-Navy, apparently. Too clueless to realize he’s in over his head.”
The kid scowled. “If you knew the kind of shit you’re in, you’d see thatyou’rethe ones in over your heads.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Kyle said.
Licking his lips, the fake cop glanced from Gage to Kyle. “You think I don’t know who you are? You’re SEAL Team Ten. Seems you had some bad luck lately, what with one of your own getting shot.”
“What would you know about that?” Kyle demanded. His voice had gone dangerously low.
“More than you, asshole. Instead of going to your own brother’s funeral, you’ve been holed up, drinking yourself stupid. Way to represent. You smell like cheap beer.”
Kyle raised his arm to backhand the kid, but Gage stopped him. “He’s trying to rile you. Don’t get distracted,” he told him quietly.
Muttering curses, Kyle stormed out of the cabin. Scotty followed him out. Gage smiled at the fake cop. “Okay, you know who we are. That means you know we always complete our mission. At this point I don’t care if we finish it over your dead body or not.” He stood and nodded to Spencer. “Start a fire. We’re going to toast him before we start cutting.”
Spencer nodded and moved to the fire. The kid cringed, though he tried to hide it and go back to sneering. Gage continued to stare at him. “Who’s paying your bills?”
“That’s above my pay grade.”
“You don’t think I know a lie when I hear it?” Gage stalked into the kitchen, rummaged in the drawers, and found a knife. He held it up, eyeing the blade, then slammed the tip into the wood table right next to the kid’s arm. He had his hunting knife in his bugout bag, of course, but he wouldn’t waste that on this POS.
That drew a gulp. Gage pulled the knife back out and started cutting the kid’s uniform shirt—slicing off buttons first, then going for the seams. He didn’t pierce the skin—but he got as close as he could, making it clear what was coming next. When he sliced through the undershirt from collar to waist, the kid let out a scream and started babbling.
“Where’s Anna?” Gage demanded.
The kid whimpered. “Look, I was just told we were taking her out…out to the woods. An old farm on the West Virginia border. Been there since before the Civil War. Place was used to hide runaway slaves.”
The fire started crackling, and Spencer straightened. Gage sat down in front of the kid. “I need a name.”
