Page 7

7

CHASE

I pin Dr. Jones near the nurse’s station at Great Falls Hospital. He’s a slender man with glasses perched low on his nose, and he looks like he’s already regretting agreeing to meet us.

“I told you, I can’t just hand out patient information,” Dr. Jones says. “There are protocols.”

“We’re not asking for much,” I insist, leaning slightly closer. “Just confirmation she was here. That’s all.”

When his expression hardens, I shift tactics. “Ethan, could you give us a minute?”

Surprise flashes in his eyes before he smooths it over. “Sure.” He steps away.

Lowering my voice, I try again. “Look, Doc, this isn’t about snooping. Honor’s safety is on the line. She’s in trouble, and I’m trying to protect her.”

Dr. Jones adjusts his glasses. “And you think I haven’t heard that excuse before?”

“This time, it’s the truth,” I press. “I introduced myself as an agent from Red Mark Rescue to get your attention. But the truth is… she’s carrying my—” The words choke in my throat. “She has severe anxiety. If something happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself.”

I pull out the photo Mira showed me first—the one of Honor looking down, caught in an unguarded, candid moment. Holding it out to the doctor, I muster my best act. “I took this picture. She was so happy when she found out she was pregnant. We both were. But her anxiety—” I trail off. “She kept leaving home, and I kept trying to protect her. This time, though... I really screwed up.”

Silence stretches between us, my thoughts spiraling into the gamble I’ve just taken—white lie or reckless move?

Dr. Jones pinches the bridge of his nose. “All right,” he mutters. “But if anyone asks, this conversation didn’t happen.”

Relief floods me as I nod. “Understood.”

“She was here about a week ago,” he says. “Healthy, as far as I could tell.”

“Healthy. That’s good to hear. She’s due any day now. I haven’t forgotten.”

A trace of sympathy breaks through the doctor’s expression. “She did seem anxious,” he admits.

“Did she leave anything? An address, maybe?”

He hesitates before pulling a notepad from his pocket. “She listed this address for follow-up care. No guarantees she’s still there.”

He tears off a sheet, handing it to me. I scan the scribbled address and tuck it into my pocket. “Thanks, Doc. You’ve done more than you know.”

Ethan rejoins me as we leave. I unfold the paper again, staring at the address. It’s close—a short drive.

“What did you say to him?” Ethan asks.

“Just something persuasive.”

“You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t pretend?—”

“Pretend what?” I smirk, unlocking the car. “That I’m the father? Of course not.”

Ethan narrows his eyes. “Then what did you do?”

I shrug, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I was just… ambiguously convincing.”

He shakes his head. “Of all people—Chase Samson.”

The drive to the address feels longer than it should, even though the GPS says it’s only ten minutes away. The closer we get, the more I brace for whatever we’re about to find.

“What the fuck…” I mumble.

The house at the address is not just empty, it’s abandoned. Shutters hang off their hinges, the yard’s a jungle of weeds, and the front door is padlocked, looking like it hasn’t been opened in years.

I stalk up to the porch, rattling the rusty lock. “This is what she gave him? A ghost house?”

Ethan stands at the curb. “She really didn’t want to be found.”

“She’s running in circles, and now so are we,” I snap, pacing back to the car. “Damn it, Ethan. We’re wasting time!”

“Then let’s take a minute,” he says evenly, like he hasn’t heard the edge in my voice. “Get some food. Clear our heads.”

I glance at him, about to argue, but my stomach picks that moment to grumble. Ethan quirks an eyebrow, and I let out a breath. “Fine. But if I hear one word about taking it easy, I swear…”

“No lectures. Just food,” he promises, climbing into the car. “There’s a takeout place up the road.”

The scent of grilled meat and fried onions hits me as we walk into the tiny takeout joint, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and a menu board missing half its letters. Ethan orders for both of us—burgers and fries, no argument—and we find a seat by the window while we wait.

“She wouldn’t have given a fake address unless she had somewhere else to go,” I reason aloud.

“So, it’s really that hard to find a pregnant woman traveling with a teenage boy?” His tone is light, but it grates. Why do I feel like he’s mocking me?

“Not now, Ethan,” I bite out.

A guy behind the counter overhears, a twenty-something with shaggy hair and a name tag that says Colt. “You looking for someone?” he asks, leaning on the counter.

“Yeah,” I say, standing up. “You seen a woman—long auburn hair, pregnant? Maybe with a kid? Young teenage boy?”

Colt scratches his chin, thinking. “Can’t say about a woman like that, but there was this guy—young, kinda scruffy. Came in a few times, ordered enough food for two. Real polite. Definitely not from Great Falls. I’ve worked here five years, and I only noticed him about two weeks back. He wasn’t alone, though I couldn’t make out who was with him. Drove an old truck.”

My pulse kicks up. “What kind of truck?”

“RAM,” he says. “Beat to hell. Used to be black, but it’s mostly gray now. Rust on the wheel wells. I think they live nearby. The boy comes often.”

“Must’ve loved the food.”

“We’re the best, man! Though haven’t seen him lately.”

“Got cameras here?” Ethan asks, nodding at the shopfront.

“Nah. It’s a quiet neighborhood. Never any trouble.”

I hand Colt a twenty. “If he comes back, call me.” I scribble my number on a napkin and slide it across the counter.

Mira Stone’s voice crackles through the phone just as we step onto the street. Perfect. Because clearly, the universe thinks I haven’t had enough crap to deal with today.

“Chase Samson,” she begins, her tone unforgiving. “Any update? I thought you were supposed to be the best. It’s been weeks, and all I’m seeing is zero progress.”

I take a measured breath before answering. There’s something off about her tone—not desperate, like she’s more interested in control than concern. My gut says there’s more to this story than a worried mother. And where’s Damon in all of this? Wouldn’t shock me if he still doesn’t know. Maybe he’s out of town. He’s not the kind of guy who checks in with his wife to say ‘I love you.’ He only calls when he needs something. If he does know Oakley’s missing, he’s avoiding me on purpose.

“We’re working on it, Mrs. Stone,” I say. “You’ll hear from me if there’s anything concrete.”

“I want results, Chase, or you’re out,” she warns. “She’s almost due—has to be! Hospitals, Chase. That’s where you should be looking. I’m a woman. I know these things. Consider that a little help from your client.”

Well, I’m a man, and I know that too. But I bite back the retort because, honestly, I’m nowhere near my best right now.

“Mrs. Stone?—”

“You’re welcome!” She interrupts. “Now get to work.”

With the silence of the disconnect, I shift my focus back to the task at hand.

After driving through the neighborhoods near the takeout joint and asking around, we finally pull up to a condo complex. It’s unassuming, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it, but something about it feels like the closest we’ve been to a real lead all day.

We hit the first house, a guy in plaid pajamas and slippers. Mr. Pratt, he says. He squints at us like we’ve interrupted his favorite show.

“Can I help you?”

I keep my tone steady. “We’re looking for a pregnant woman and a teenage boy. Have you seen them?”

He scratches his head, his expression blank. “Nah. Didn’t notice anything. Kept to myself.”

I nod, stepping back without wasting any more time. “Thanks.”

Next door, Mrs. Dawes opens up, a toddler wrapped around her leg and a baby balanced on her hip. She’s frazzled but quick to respond.

“Pregnant woman? You mean, the one from next door? Oh, yeah, she looks like she’s about to pop. I’ve had seven myself. I can tell,” she says, gesturing with her free hand.

Ethan checks out the house next door, peeping in, then giving me a shake of the head.

“They left,” she says.

My pulse picks up. “They? So she was with someone and you saw them leave?”

“Yeah. She got in a little beat-up car with her older boy and took off. That boy must’ve been twelve or thirteen. She’s gotta have had him when she was real young.”

So they interact like Honor Deveraux and Oakley Stone are mother and son. A potential clue that supports our theory—it’s not a kidnapping after all.

“When was this Mrs. Dawes?” Ethan asks.

“Day before yesterday,” she says, shifting the baby on her hip. “She was holding her belly, looked like she was in pain. They packed up fast.”

“Which way?” Ethan chimes in.

She points toward the road. “South, from here. But of course, her destination could be anywhere.”

I nod my thanks and rush back to the car.

“She’s almost full term now,” I say to Ethan, starting the engine. “She can’t be far from a hospital. It’s not optional at this point. If she’s not in Great Falls, where else could she be?”

Drained and teetering on the edge of frustration, we call it a night and check into a nearby motel. I wish I had the full resources of the Helena command center at my fingertips. But for now, I have Cora-Lee, Red Mark’s tech genius. We call her, looping her into the search.

She starts scanning hospital records and surveillance footage, hunting for any trace of Honor or Ethan—or that faded black RAM with its telltale gray undertones.

My eyes are gritty from the long hours, but I dive into the CCTV footage anyway. Frame by frame, I scan the grainy video, until something familiar freezes me.

“There he is.” My voice cuts through the quiet.

Ethan leans over my shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “That’s Oakley?”

“Yep,” I say, adrenaline spiking. “Standing outside a pharmacy in—Downtown Bozeman.”

“We drive there first thing in the morning.”

The pieces finally start to come together.

* * *

We head straight to Bozeman, quickly combing the neighborhood around the pharmacy where Oakley was spotted. It doesn’t take long before I catch sight of it—a familiar RAM truck parked outside a motel.

I pull into the lot, cutting the engine with a sharp click. “This is it.”

He leans forward, squinting through the windshield. “Yeah, they’re here. Has to be.”

And this time, they’re not running any farther.

We step out and start knocking on doors near the truck, moving with purpose but careful not to draw attention. The first door opens to a grumpy couple with matching scowls. The next, an elderly man who seems more annoyed by our interruption than concerned.

Finally, we reach the last door in the row. I glance at Ethan, and he nods, his jaw set. I raise my fist and knock.

“Oakley Stone?”

The curtain shifts, a fleeting motion that’s followed by muffled footsteps. Whoever’s inside is trying to be careful, but the faint creak of the floor gives them away.

“Oakley Stone,” I call again, keeping my tone steady. “We just want to talk.”

Ethan exchanges a glance with me, his hand already moving to work the lock. His precision is quick but quiet, the click barely audible.

The door swings open, revealing a dimly lit room—and chaos waiting to happen.

“Not a step closer!” The boy appears, standing his ground in front of us.

“Oakley, take it easy,” I say, gesturing at a blade glinting in his hand. His eyes, though young, hold the kind of defiance that says he’s prepared to use it.

It’s not uncommon for a kidnapping victim to resist rescue—often a result of the kidnapper’s manipulation. While all signs suggest this isn’t the case here, we can’t afford to make assumptions.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I continue. “My name is Chase Samson, and this is my partner Ethan Connor. We’re from Red Mark Rescue & Protect. Your mother sent us.”

“Stay where you are!” Oakley says. Like that, I can see Damon in him. But he’s scared, and he doesn’t relent in protecting whoever is in the bathroom.

I put down my gun, holstering it. “I’m unarmed.” I raise my hands. “Can I come in?”

“Chase…” Ethan whispers, reluctant to do the same as I walk toward Oakley.

“Back off, Ethan. I’ve got this,” I say.

I hate guns. They’re necessary evil. I grew up with them, I served the country as a SEAL with them. But now, as a civilian who rescues young people, I loathe them. “Oakley, you’ve got to come with us. Your mother is worried about you.”

“I am with my mother!”

“No, Oakley. Honor Deveraux isn’t your mother.” My eyes shift briefly to the closed door behind him.

The door flies open, and a figure bursts out. “Leave him alone!” the woman commands. “Get out while you can!”

Honor Deveraux. It’s not the weapon in her hand that nearly throws me—it’s her gaze.