Page 4

4

CHASE

I lean against my desk, Mira Stone’s words echoing in my head. Damon Stone’s kid kidnapped? By a woman named Honor Deveraux—Damon’s mistress, no less. The story reeks of the Stoneborn Circle’s theatrics, but I’m not about to take Mira’s word for it. Trusting her outright? Not happening. If Oakley is truly missing, I’ll find out myself.

I try shoving Honor’s photo to the back of the file, but my gaze lingers on her face longer than I’d like. She’s stunning—those arresting green eyes, that hint of defiance in her expression. It’s not hard to see why Damon would keep her close. But admiration doesn’t get me anywhere, and I push the photo aside just as Ethan walks in.

He’s carrying a coffee cup and looks almost sharper than his father. The kid is polished, every inch of him a product of discipline and survival. Formerly Ethan Fulton, he carries the scars of his old gang life like a map of where he’s been. He’s Ivy Connor’s son from another partner, and though he hesitated to change his name at first, fate had other plans. Mark adopted him, pulling him out of Montana’s darkest corners. Now he’s here, part of something bigger.

Ethan drops into the chair across from me, mischief flickering across his face.

“She’s pretty,” he says, his voice light. “Stunning, in fact.”

I roll my eyes. “We’ve got a mess on our hands.” I slide Mira’s file onto the desk, forcing myself to focus. Sure, Honor Deveraux is stunning. But I’m not about to lose my head over a woman I’ve only seen in a photo. The giddy-feely nonsense? It’ll pass. It always does. Attachment and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.

He persists, “So, I take it we’re keeping Captain Freeman out of this?”

Captain Freeman from Bozeman PD.

Unlike the Red Mark team in Helena, who’ve established a solid working relationship with local authorities—thanks to Mark and Sam’s tact and persistence—our dealings with Bozeman PD are often tenuous. We’re the new guys, and they’re still territorial. We have to tread carefully. But we need them.

We’re not vigilantes; everything we do is by the book. And honestly, nothing beats proper collaboration when it comes to solving crimes. We focus on rescues while the police handle the criminals. Sure, we have the right to defend ourselves, use force when necessary, and do what it takes to keep our rescuees safe. Even so, everyone at Red Mark agrees—it’s a smarter play to let the authorities bag the bad guys.

“No. We keep the Bozeman PD out of it for now,” I say.

“Sure.” His expression carries a trace of challenge, as if daring me to reconsider—or maybe just calling me out for how long I lingered on Honor Deveraux’s photo.

Ignoring the heat rising to my neck, I add, “There won’t be any conflict of interest, got it? And here’s the deal—I’m coming clean. Ever heard of the Stoneborn Circle?”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Gangs, smuggling, trafficking—basically the underworld’s greatest hits. They’re like the Mosaic, but not as smart.”

The Mosaic. Ethan’s old world. One of Montana’s most prolific fentanyl rings—until his mom, Ivy Connor, then the state’s attorney general, took them down. Ethan knows the underbelly of crime better than anyone his age.

“What about the Stoneborn Circle?” he presses.

“I was one of them.”

His eyes widen. “No shit!”

“It’s a story for another day. Like you, I got out. Stayed too long, but I got out.”

Ethan looks at me, understanding flashing in his gaze. He’s six years younger than me but carries a wisdom I never had at his age.

“And now we’re caught in their web,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Damon Stone’s wife, Mira, claims her son’s been kidnapped by this woman.” I point to the photo, avoiding Ms. Deveraux’s devastating gaze. “But trusting Mira? That’s like letting a fox guard the henhouse.”

Ethan sits forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s the move?”

“We verify,” I say. “If Oakley Stone is missing, we’re in. If he’s not... Mira’s playing us, and I’ll deal with that later.”

Ethan nods, his mind already shifting into action. “Where do we start?”

“Schools, hospitals, social media—anywhere he might’ve been seen recently. Let’s split up the workload. You take online chatter, I’ll work the phones.”

For hours, we dig. I call schools, clinics, anyone who might’ve seen Oakley. Ethan combs through posts, comments, and anything that might offer a clue.

The sun sets, and we’ve got nothing.

“I’m coming up empty,” Ethan says, leaning back in his chair, frustration lining his face. “No posts, no sightings—nothing.”

“Same,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “Which means Mira might actually be telling the truth.”

Ethan frowns. “So, what now?”

“We talk to the people who really know Oakley outside the Circle. Someone who might’ve seen or heard something but doesn’t realize how important it is.”

Ethan raises a brow. “You mean his friends?”

“Exactly,” I say

Pride smears his face, swiveling his laptop toward me. “I’ve been scrolling through his social media. He doesn’t post much, but his friends do. One name keeps popping up—Gavin Meyer. Seems like they’re close. Photos, tags, comments—it’s all there. If anyone knows what’s really going on with Oakley, it’s him.”

I nod. “Gavin. Got it. You know where he is?”

“Yeah, looks like he checked in at a local skate park yesterday. We’ll start there.”

We head out, the afternoon sun beating down as we drive to the skate park. It’s a typical teenage hangout—ramps, graffiti, and a handful of kids scattered around. I spot Gavin almost immediately. He’s lanky, with a mop of messy blond hair, and he’s trying (and failing) to land a trick on his board.

Ethan nudges me. “That him?”

“Yep,” I say, stepping out of the car.

We approach, and Gavin notices us before we even reach him. His eyes narrow as he tucks his board under his arm.

“You Gavin Meyer?” I ask.

“Depends,” he says, his tone cautious.

“I’m Chase Samson. This is Ethan Connor. We’re looking for your friend Oakley Stone.”

Gavin’s posture stiffens, and he glances around, like he’s weighing his options. “Why? What’s going on?”

“We’re trying to help,” I say evenly. “Oakley might be in trouble, and we need to know if you’ve seen or heard from him recently.”

Gavin shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Ethan and then back to me. “I don’t know, man. I haven’t seen him.”

Ethan steps in, his tone subdued but firm. “Look, Gavin, we’re not here to get anyone in trouble. We just want to make sure Oakley’s safe. If you know anything—anything at all—it could really help.”

Gavin hesitates, his fingers gripping the edge of his skateboard tighter. “He said he couldn’t stay home anymore. Something about his dad flipping out on him.”

“When was this?” Ethan asks.

“Couple weeks ago, maybe,” Gavin says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “He didn’t drop the deets on where he was going, just that he had to ‘get away.’ You know, like... living off the land or whatever. Probably on some island if you ask me.”

“Island?” I arch a brow. “What makes you think that?”

Gavin hops onto his board, rolling it back and forth under his sneakers like he’s testing the pavement. “Dunno, maybe it was the way he said it. Or how he went all survivor mode when he was talking about, like, fishing and building huts or some crap like that. Sounded very island vibes, ya know?”

“Did he mention anyone he might’ve gone with?” Ethan asks.

Gavin shakes his head. “No.”

I pull out a photo of Honor Deveraux and hold it up for him. “Have you seen this woman?”

Gavin studies the picture. “Nope. But she’s pretty.”

Ethan and I exchange a quick glance. I believe him—he doesn’t seem to know her.

“Thanks, Gavin,” I say, fishing a card from my pocket and handing it over. “If you hear from him or remember anything else, call me.”

He nods, tucking the card into his pocket. “Yeah. Sure.”

As we head back to the car, Ethan gives me a sideways glance. “The Stone kid was probably just bragging to his friend about some survivor and island vibes nonsense. But this case? It doesn’t exactly scream kidnapping to me.”

He’s absolutely right.