Page 111 of Dirty Mechanic

I sweep the space and find her gun on a shelf. The weight of it is sickening. Familiar. I check the safety, tuck it into the back of my jeans, and bolt.

My boots slip in the mud, nearly sending me flat. I recover only by following the one trail that matters—hers. It’s not fully light yet—sunrise is still half an hour away—but the first hints of dawn ghost through the clouds, dim and useless. The low light and mist make everything harder to see. Their boot prints are scattered and deep, like someone was dragged. They lead to the riverbank, swollen and snarling, the current roaring like a wounded animal.

The water’s high. Angry. A narrow path slopes along the bank, winding toward the old dock we used as kids, back when danger meant splinters and dares, not ropes and guns.

Then I hear footsteps behind me.

I spin fast, fist ready, but it’s only Misty.

She’s soaked to the bone, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Blake never came back,” she pants. “I checked the barn. Found his flashlight halfway to the river.”

Rain starts again, hard and relentless. The air smells like smoke and carries a warning.

We push forward. The path narrows, twisting through trees that claw at our sleeves. Misty stops short, pointing to broken twigs and fresh mud disturbed beneath them.

A new trail.

“He’s taking them out on the water,” I whisper, mostly to myself.

Because who the hell does that? Who takes someone onto the water in this storm, unless it’s for the last time?

We reach the bank. I rush forward, slipping on slick rock. The scent of engine fuel hits me before I spot a boat drifting in the middle of the river, twenty feet out. Low, flat-bottomed, and built for shallow runs.

A lantern sways from the bow, throwing ghostly halos over the water. And standing in the middle is Mike Bishop. His hair hangs wet across his brow. His mouth twists like he’s enjoying the theater.

Next to him: Blake and Annabelle. Blindfolded and bound at the ankles.

I wake to the taste of blood and the metallic bite of fear. For a moment, I’m weightless, drifting in that thin, gray space between nowhere and nothing. My mind claws for purchase, and then the pounding hits. My skull. My ribs. My heart.

A groan slips from my cracked lips before I even know I’m awake. Lantern light glints off dripping vines in a lean-to of saplings and rope on the riverbank. A low fire pit hisses at its center, embers sputtering in the rain’s rhythm. A few charred logs still burn, scarlet embers winking like dying stars. My head lolls to the side as water sluices at my feet.

Rain hammers the branches overhead, each drop like handfuls of gravel against the sapling roof. Thunder rumbles, distant and low. A sudden gust rattles the structure, shards of rain slicing through gaps in the lattice, drumming cold against my skin. Every thunderclap jolts the shelter like a freight train, and I know, out here, the storm is as much an adversary as the man who bound me.

A flash of lightning strikes, so bright it feels like a surgeon’s lamp, and my heart hammers in my chest—like the crash of a skid-car at Sacramento General.

The air stinks of gasoline, damp earth, and smoke. Wind scours the shelter, making poles creak like dying bones. My wrists burn where the rope bites deep—raw skin scraped until even the nerves go silent.

Derek.

Where is he? Does he know?

The thought jolts through me, but panic crashes faster when a low, triumphant chuckle cuts through thunder: Mike Bishop.

The fog lifts just enough to reveal his face.

I pull my hands apart once, hard, but the bonds don’t budge. My chest heaves.

He crouches in front of me, one knee bent, eyes gleaming like a predator savoring the slow, trembling heartbeat of its prey. A jagged bolt of lightning sears the sky again, illuminating his predatory grin for a heartbeat—then plunging us back into shadow. His breath rolls over me in a sickly wave of whiskey, cigarettes, and rot.

“Look who’s finally awake.”

My voice is shredded. “Why are you doing this?”

He chuckles. “Come on, Belle. This was never just about you.”

He pulls my journal from his coat and waves it like a trophy.

“We already know Skylar Bishop is here. My brother’s out there right now, hunting for her.”