Page 17 of A Mile of Ocean (Pelican Pointe #19)

T he night enveloped them like a thick veil as they fanned out across the ranch, each team moving with precision and caution. Trent and Savannah rode with purpose as they headed east.

Trent studied the horizon as if searching for answers among the rolling hills. “I wish I had more to go on than a bunch of images from a drone. There has to be something we overlooked.”

“Sometimes the smallest detail can be the most crucial and the one thing that’s missed.”

“I saw a few places on the drone video that he might be hiding, places that the drone couldn’t possibly pick up if someone had been trying to evade detection.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We spend tonight staking them out. Wait for any sign of him. If he doesn’t show up, we move on to the next location.”

Savannah sucked in a skeptical reply, biting her tongue. Instead of voicing her concerns, she heard herself say, “Okay, lead on.”

The moment hung between them, thick with unspoken fears and apprehension.

The precocious June breeze whispered its secrets, drifting and swirling, fanning hot embers of doubt. The rhythmic sound of their horses’ hooves on the dusty ground proved a distraction, a soothing backdrop so they wouldn’t spend too much time on what lay ahead.

In the distance, a lone coyote howled into the night, its mournful cry echoing through the darkness. Trent’s grip on the reins tightened, his jaw set as he guided them through the rugged terrain, wondering if he was leading them into dangerous quicksand.

They reached the first location, nothing more than an old open-air cowshed that used to be a feeding station. “Back in the 1950s, the former owner of this patch used to allow his cattle access to Sweetwater Creek. That’s it off to the right of the hillside.”

“Yuck. That can’t be good for the water supply.”

“It wasn’t. It’s a breeding ground for biological contamination, the wrong sediment buildup, and fecal material, and it contributes to excess nutrients like phosphorous and nitrogen that lead to harmful ecological problems down the road. Needless to say, we don’t do that anymore. Instead, we pump water up land to troughs away from the water supply.”

“You really would’ve made a great farmer. Is that why this area isn’t used for cattle?”

“Exactly. We use the northern pastureland exclusively for that while encouraging them to drink from the stream that comes naturally to them. It’s more like a brook, actually. But we don’t want them to linger for long periods in it. Truth be told, they only spend about five percent of their day standing in the water. Besides, we don’t use it for a water supply.”

“Like Sweetwater Creek. Does the brook have a name?”

“As a kid, my dad nicknamed it the Rio Verde.”

“Because there isn’t a river anywhere else on the property. Am I right?”

He grinned. “Exactly. You’re observant. How did you know that?”

“Your granddad mentioned it in January when I asked to see the river green. Hence, Rio Verde. He said the ranch name had something to do with how he got into ranching in the first place. You touched on it during the eulogy.”

“Green River back in Wyoming,” Trent said. “It’s a small town where he worked on the Triple C in the 1960s. It’s where he and Duchess first got together. It’s where my dad was born. Look, I don’t think we should hang around here much longer. The cowshed is too out in the open for him. There’s nowhere to hide. Let’s move on to my second suspicious spot.”

They rode until they came to an old, dilapidated shack hidden behind a row of brittle scrub brush. Its weathered walls had wide cracks so big they could see moonlight filtering through to the other side. The place could barely stand against a stiff wind but could have offered their suspect dry shelter out of the rain.

Her heart raced as she watched Trent dismount, his hand on his .45. When he motioned for her to do the same, she realized this was for real. She swung out of the saddle and removed the shotgun from its scabbard. She took out her six-inch mini-Maglite.

Together, they crept closer to the shed, their eyes searching every corner for any sign of anyone. As they reached the entrance, decay and dust filled their nostrils.

With a signal from Trent, they split up to search the interior, him entering through the front and her going around to the back.

As soon as he stepped inside, the wooden floorboards creaked under his weight. She heard the eerie footsteps from the back door. Shining her light around, she found the way was clear to enter and took her first tentative step into the darkness.

Pieces of broken furniture were strewn about, including a wobbly chair and a piece of lumber someone had used for a tabletop held up by two wobbly sawhorses.

Trent held up a flashlight, the beam illuminating the trash on the floor: empty wrappers from an assortment of candy, chocolate, and protein bars, as well as empty tin cans of peaches and tuna. He checked behind a pile of wood, his gun aimed at whatever popped out.

Their breathing enveloped the space as Trent’s gaze darted around the one-room shack, searching for any clue that might lead them to their target. His heart thudded in his chest as he moved deeper into the place, every step causing the floorboards to groan under his weight.

His mouth went dry when he explored a webby corner stacked high with wooden crates and realized they were full of homemade pipe bombs.

Across the room, Savannah moved slowly. Her fingers on one hand gripped the flashlight while the other wrapped tightly around the shotgun. She inched her way through the darkness with the faint beam of the flashlight guiding her.

He motioned toward the crates.

Her eyes widened as she realized what they’d found and that this place could blow up at any moment. “We need to leave. Now,” she mouthed.

He nodded, but then his eyes picked up a glint of something on the floor. He bent down and gingerly picked up a pocket-sized spiral notebook by the plastic ring at the top. The covering was wet from the rain and well-worn around the edges as if it had been read repeatedly.

“What is that?” she whispered.

He placed the notebook on the rickety tabletop and took out his pocketknife to delicately lift each page without ripping them. “Some of the pages are stuck together, almost illegible, but I can make out some notes about the ranch.”

“What kind of notes?”

“Here’s a hand-drawn map. It’s small, but it’s detailed correctly. The whole layout of the ranch is laid out over several pages. Our names are written down next to what kind of vehicles we drive. Everybody’s work schedule is mentioned before we started the patrols.”

“Why wasn’t this place searched earlier?”

“It was, early on. He must’ve circled back to this spot later. There’s no telling how long he’s been living here.”

“From the looks of things, he’s been here longer than a week. He could be watching us right now,” Savannah murmured, her voice barely audible.

Trent’s jaw clenched at the thought, his mind racing through the implications of their discovery. “This can’t wait until morning. We need to get this back to the house. Trish might be able to get fingerprints off of it. But I’m wondering if we should use the radio. Maybe he’s been monitoring us on the same frequency.”

“That would explain things.”

“Yeah. But we should message Tate and Blake to let them know we’re entering their grid. Otherwise, we could get shot. I hope I remember enough Morse code from earning my Signs, Signals, and Codes merit badge .”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“Hey, are you kidding? I wore out my Official Scout Signal Set.”

She sputtered with laughter, breaking the tension. “You really are a nerd, aren’t you?”

“It’s been my experience that nerds get things done.” Carefully tucking the notebook into the inside pocket of his jacket, he formulated a plan. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll ride into the next sector, where Tate and Blake are. We’ll do a relay until we get this to Trish Vosberg.”

He led the way out of the shack, his movements deliberate and calculated as they made their way back to their horses. The night seemed even darker now, heavy with the weight of their discovery. Each step felt like a countdown to something ominous, and Trent couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. At the halfway point, he took out the radio. Using Morse code, he notified Tate to switch to a secondary channel so they could talk. He had to repeat the message several times before Tate picked up on the change and acknowledged it.

“Painted Heart to East Unit. What’s up? Over,” Tate relayed.

“This is East Unit to Painted Heart. We found the shack he’s been living in,” Trent explained. “He has enough explosives, specifically pipe bombs, to blow up Pelican Pointe. We found a notebook listing all kinds of information about the ranch and everyone on it. I’m hoping we get fingerprints. But right now, we need the bomb squad out here to take possession of the explosives. We’re entering your grid. Over.”

“Painted Heart to East Unit. Show us on the map when you get here. I’ll send Blake to secure the area. You get to Base Camp with the notebook. Over and out.”

The ride to Painted Heart was tense. Every shadow seemed to hold a hidden threat.

Tate met them at the outer rim. “I couldn’t believe anyone was using Morse code. That threw me. Took me a while to remember you knew it by heart.”

“Took me a while to send it,” Trent responded. “From what we saw, it looks like there’s only one subject doing this. But he’s methodical and calculating. He must’ve observed us for quite a while before he moved that Friday night on Granddad. That means he’s patient and willing to wait for the right opportunity. Has everyone switched to the secondary channel?”

“Everyone except Woody and Monty in the south. They’re due to check in any minute.”

“Where’s Blake?”

“Gone to keep an eye on the shack.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Tate. We need to get him back here or send more men in to back him up until the cops get here.”

“I’ll go,” Tate volunteered. “You and Savannah take what you found to Trish.”

“Look, we don’t have a location on this guy. He could be anywhere. We paired up for a reason.”

“I can handle myself. Blake is there to see if he returns, then take him by surprise if he does. We can keep an eye on the place while waiting for the cops to arrive. You’re wasting time arguing with me.”

“You have to trust her, Trent,” Savannah urged. “Or, if you want to go back, I’ll take the notebook to Trish myself.”

“Go. I’ll be fine,” Tate said to her brother. “Blake knows to use the secondary channel.”

“But does he know not to approach that shed? Don’t get within fifty yards of the place.”

“I’ll tell him. Okay?”

“Fine. But keep me posted every ten minutes. I want to know you’re both safe.”

Tate nodded and pulled her hat tighter on her head before nudging Mermaid into a run. She rode east toward the shack while Trent and Savannah turned their horses west toward Base Camp. Anxiety battled fear as they rode. Each passing minute felt like an eternity.

Finally arriving at Base Camp, Trish met them in the downstairs entryway, her expression grim. “Bomb squad is on its way. But they’re making the trip from Santa Cruz. Their ETA is still forty-five minutes to that shack you pinpointed.”

“Tate and Blake are staking it out now. It’s dangerous for them to be out there. Not only could he return at any minute, but the thing could blow up with that many explosives. We need to send a backup team to fortify their presence. Make sure they understand to keep their distance.”

“With Birk and Beckett still on the roof, they can protect the house. We should send Drum and Hawk or Lincoln and Cecil.”

“Drum and Hawk are too far away,” Trent decided as he picked up the radio. “Lincoln and Cecil are closer.”

“What’s this about a notebook?” Trish asked, handing him a pair of latex gloves.

After communicating the location of the shack to Lincoln and Cecil, Trent handed the radio to Savannah and slipped on the gloves to remove the still-damp notebook from his jacket. He passed it over to Trish. “Be careful turning the pages. Some of them got wet and aren’t easy to read.”

With gloved hands, Trish flipped through the little notebook, her brow furrowed in concern. “This individual was absolutely serious about his mission. This shows motive. Revenge. Premeditation. Did you see these entries about your grandmother?”

“Where?”

Trish pointed to several pages dedicated to the Duchess Callum. “He’s got a bone to pick with her for sure. Look, I need to get this to forensics to see if they can lift any prints.”

She immediately radioed the station so that Theo could pick up the notebook.

But when a crackle came over the radio, it was Tate reporting in. “We’ve got movement near the shack,” Tate whispered, looking through her night goggles. “The man is a White male, six feet tall, approximately thirty-five, weighing two hundred pounds or so. He’s wearing all-black. And he’s here to move the crates with the bombs onto a quad. There’s something strange about the wheels, though. He’s used some kind of tape to cover the tread.”

“No matter what he does, do not approach him,” Savannah cautioned. “Lincoln and Cecil should be coming up on your left flank in about three minutes to provide support.”

“We can’t just let him leave with those pipe bombs,” Tate pointed out.

Trent took the radio from Savannah. His jaw was clenched in worry. He knew Tate was right, but the thought of confronting the man with explosives sent a shiver down his spine. “Listen to me, Tate. Keep your distance and stay hidden. We can’t risk anyone else getting hurt. Just give us updates on his movements until the others get there,” he directed, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

As they waited for Lincoln and Cecil, they stood by anxiously, listening to Tate’s reports on the radio.

“Jeez, how many pipe bombs were in there?” Tate wondered as she watched their suspect keep carrying out more wooden crates. “He’s gone back inside again. Wait a second. I hear horses coming in fast. It has to be Cecil and Lincoln. Yep, they’re here. Uh-oh, I think the guy heard it, too. He stepped outside but went back in again. Don’t get any closer, Blake—” she warned. Before Tate could finish that sentence, a sudden explosion rocked the ground. The earth shook in a magnitude on the Richter scale that felt like a 6.5 quake.

The deafening blast echoed through the night, sending shockwaves of panic through the rest of the team listening in. Dust and debris filled the air, obscuring their vision. Tate’s heart pounded as she desperately tried to peer through the chaos to assess the situation. The explosion had originated from the direction of the shack where their suspect had been handling the crates of explosives.

Tate could make out shapes moving in the distance through the settling dust. She called out for Blake, who eventually appeared at her side.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I thought you were dead,” she said, coughing from the smoke.

“Not yet.”

A few feet away, Cecil and Lincoln were scrambling to their feet, shaken but unharmed.

“The radio,” Tate muttered, pointing to the device where Blake had heard Trent yelling.

“She’s okay,” Blake told Trent. “We’re all okay, except the guy in that shack. He’s gotta be blown to bits.”