Page 3

Three

Stephanie

“Vallard.”

I’m annoyed when my stomach gives a little twist hearing his voice. Taking in a deep breath, I get right down to business.

“Ben, it’s Stephanie. I just got your message.”

I don’t tell him that irrational anxiety had me staring at the little red dot marking the voicemail icon on my phone half the morning, before I finally listened to it. That unknown Michigan number had been his, but I never checked my phone until early this morning while I was once again waiting for the sun to rise.

Another rough night.

Dinner had been amazing, and I’d enjoyed the human interaction. The conversation was laid-back, I even had a good chuckle at Janey’s description of her new intern’s first encounter with the back end of a pregnant donkey. JD also shared some funny anecdotes of life at the ranch in his calm voice. I didn’t have to talk much and just listened, appreciating the fact I didn’t feel I needed to work hard at being social. They didn’t ask questions, didn’t probe me about work, or how I was doing, and instead simply let me be.

Yeah, I’d really enjoyed the evening. That is, until Jackson walked into the house with that friendly pooch.

Not that he did anything wrong—he was just being friendly—but I could feel the keen scrutiny from those serious, brown eyes. Like earlier yesterday morning, he looked at me in a way that made me feel exposed to the core, leaving me with no place to hide.

So, I ran, for the second time in one day.

All that to say, I had a restless night, my mind rarely still long enough to get some decent sleep, and that strange Michigan number was all but forgotten until I saw the evidence of a message on my screen this morning.

Ben Vallard .

He didn’t need to introduce himself, even though he did so on the message. I don’t think I could forget the slightly raspy quality of his voice if I wanted to. It’s actually the first thing that drew me to him all those years ago when I was a rookie agent, walking into the Traverse City, Michigan office for the first time.

God, I’d been so green. So excited I’d been assigned to the office where my father spent most of his career. This was every dream coming true…until I fucked it up.

“Hey, Steph, how the hell are ya?”

Well, if that isn’t an empty question. If there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s Ben has no interest whatsoever in knowing how I am.

“Fine.” I brush him off, not bothering to return the interest. “Why are you calling me, Ben? All you say in your message is that you need help on a case.”

His chuckle grates on me, and so do the words that follow.

“I see we’re getting right down to business. No catching up on old times?”

I close my eyes against the rush of anger, and breathe in through the nose and out through my mouth in an attempt to curb my temper.

“What do you need, Ben? And how did you get this number?”

This is my personal cell. I handed over my Bureau-issued phone along with my badge and service weapon to SAC Bellinger when he put me on leave.

“Come on…give me some credit,” he taunts. “It took me five minutes to find after someone at your office told me you were on hiatus. What does that even mean?” he adds.

I glance out at the creek. The water looks higher than it did yesterday, and I’m pretty sure it’s flowing faster. It must be the start of the winter runoff now the days are getting warmer.

Whatever he thinks he needs me for, he’ll have to find another way. The building volume of water in the creek functions as a visual reminder of the rising blood pressure in my veins that got me here in the first place. Already I can feel my heart pumping harder.

“What it means is you’ll need to find someone else to help you on your case,” I tell him with determination.

“Ah, but I have a feeling you would want to be in on this one. I’m sure you remember Mitchel Laine?”

Damn right I remember him. My first collar twelve years ago. I was twenty-four and feeling pretty damn good about bringing down the man who had robbed a series of bank branches in smaller towns across several states. He’d repeatedly and brutally pistol-whipped an elderly teller at a bank in Manistee, Michigan, when she couldn’t get the vault open, leaving her with a shattered jaw and a fractured skull. Almost two years after I caught up with him, that miserable punk was sentenced to fifteen years in jail. I didn’t think it was enough at the time.

“What about him? He should be safely behind bars for at least another five years or so.”

“Sadly, no. He was released on good behavior three months ago. Overcrowding and a turn to Jesus granted him early parole.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me?”

It’s a slap in the face to law enforcement who spill sweat, blood, and tears catching these animals, only to have them released because of administrative inadequacies or limited capacity. Especially since in a lot of these cases, we have to spill more sweat, blood, and tears to get those same assholes back behind bars when they offend again, which a lot of them do.

“Not even a little,” Vallard returns, sounding grim. “He was released and never even showed up for the first visit with his parole officer. I’m pretty sure he’s responsible for a couple of bank heists; one in Monmouth, Illinois, one in Fort Dodge, Iowa. Similar MO; small branches, same kind of language used, ball cap, facial hair which is likely fake.”

I remember that’s what threw off investigators for so long last time, he’d change his appearance just enough. He’d go from a black mustache and goatee with a beanie, to a full beard and ball cap between robberies. He also traveled, crossing state lines and never hitting the same region twice. It took a while to pick up a pattern with the crimes taking place in different jurisdictions.

“Bigger towns though. He used to stick to populations under ten thousand. The ones you mentioned are well over.”

The theory had been, he picked the small towns, hoping for a more inexperienced and perhaps understaffed sheriff’s department or police force. Not that he ever copped to that, he never admitted to anything.

“He’s escalating. Two days ago, a Great Plains Bank branch near the Aberdeen airport in South Dakota was hit,” Ben relays in a serious tone. “Two civilians and an off-duty police officer were shot. The police officer is still in critical condition. Suspect took off running through a back door. His fake beard, ball cap, and navy hoodie were found in a dumpster in an alley on the next block over.”

“ Jesus ,” I hiss.

If this is Mitchel Laine’s doing, he definitely has escalated.

Despite my earlier determination, I feel myself getting sucked in, and I hate myself for asking, “What makes you so sure it’s him?”

“For the past five years, Laine has been corresponding with a woman named Tracy Elliston. She’s a twenty-nine-year-old hairdresser from Troy, Montana,” he explains.

I see now why he contacted me; Kalispell would be the closest FBI office to Troy, which also happens to be only thirty miles or so from where I am now. Although Ben doesn’t need to know that.

“You think he’s on his way to meet up with this woman.”

“All you have to do is draw a line on the map to see that’s where he’s heading,” Vallard points out. “Unless he’s already there.”

It does appear that way.

Dammit, this is hard. Every instinct in me wants to take this on, but I’ve had to hand in my badge and weapon, and I don’t think Bellinger would be too happy if I defied his orders.

If I started messing around in an active investigation without the necessary credentials, I could risk losing my badge altogether.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

Before he can get a word in edgewise, I end the call and power down my phone.

* * *

Jackson

“Got a call from the game warden’s office.”

Dan, Fletch, JD, Bo, Wolff, and I were working around the ranch when Jonas put out a call for everyone to meet him at the ranch house. I guess because of the size of the group, we ended up gathering in the kitchen, where Ama already had a fresh pot of coffee on the go.

Jonas waited for all of us to be present before getting into the reason for this impromptu meeting.

“A hunter radioed in from up on Quartz Mountain. He and a friend were on the trail of a bear when he stopped to take a whiz, while his hunting buddy had gone ahead. When he tried to catch up with his friend, he couldn’t find him. The guy had disappeared. He’d been looking for over an hour before calling it in. He thinks his buddy—the name is Juan Pérez—may have tried to cross a stream of runoff water in their path, slipped, and got swept away. According to Buck, it’s probably one of the tributaries feeding into West Fork Quartz Creek which is currently near cresting its banks with all the snowmelt coming down from the mountains.”

“Yeah, I heard a few areas on the north side of town are already dealing with some flooding,” Fletch contributes.

Spring flooding is not uncommon but, with the rapid temperature rise these past few days, it’s shaping up to be a particularly bad year.

I shake my head when Ama comes by with the coffeepot for refills. These days even that first cup of coffee makes my gut hurt. I don’t know if I’m getting old at thirty-eight, or whether drugs burned a hole in my stomach. I don’t take them anymore—some of those medications I was prescribed while I was recovering were pretty heavy duty—but the damage could already have been done.

Whatever the case may be, I’m not in the mood to examine either possibility too closely at the moment. Sounds like we have more important things on the go.

“Yeah, the rivers and creeks in the valley are starting to crest as well. It’ll likely be a bad year for flooding,” Jonas echoes my earlier thoughts. “At any rate, the guy could be halfway down to the Kootenay River by now. Adams wants us to meet him at the cutoff to forestry road NF-4654,” he gets us back on track. “Fletch, if you don’t mind covering the ranch?”

Fletch nods in acknowledgement. He’s been dealing with arthritis for a few years now, making it difficult to be effective on these potentially long searches. Even on a healthy body, a couple of hours in the saddle can be a challenge. The man knows his limitations, the last thing he wants to do is risk slowing down or holding up a search when time is often of the essence.

Sully limits himself to operating the drone and manning base camp communications. Not even Jonas himself goes out much anymore. James and Bo are the only ones of the old guard who still regularly make up part of the tracking team.

Bo is in pretty good shape for his age, plus he’s our field medic, which often comes in handy. As for James, not only is he still the best tracker we have—although JD is a close second to his father—but I suspect we’ll have to pry him off his horse when he dies in the saddle.

It’s mostly up to the younger guard these days, which Jonas confirms when he continues assigning tasks.

“JD, Bo, Dan, and Wolff, gear up; you guys are going out there. Pack the gear, and load up the horses.” Then he turns to me. “Son, I’ll need you to fly the Matrice and run communications. Sully and James should be back from their run to Missoula by tonight, so if we haven’t found him yet, we’ll switch things up a bit for tomorrow.”

Of course I’d prefer to be in the field with the others, but I’m learning to accept every part of an operation is important. Arguably, managing communications and providing intel gathered with the drone to the men in the field could be considered crucial to the team.

I’m good on horseback, my stamina is at par with the others. However, when working in this rugged terrain, there are plenty of times the team has to dismount and lead their horses through some rough spots. That’s where my limitations come in, because traversing rough terrain on my prosthetic leg is tough, and as much as I’d like to claim my equality to the others, the simple truth is I’m not. Not when it comes to agility.

Hence, I’m not surprised I was assigned to man base camp, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting a little.

“I’m gonna help you set up, but then I have to get back here. I promised your mother I’d take her to that new Brazilian barbecue restaurant in town for our anniversary,” Jonas announces, clapping his hand on my shoulder as we walk down the porch steps. “Personally, I don’t know what’s so special about Brazilian barbecue versus good old American barbecue. As far as I can tell, a good piece of meat is tasty no matter what flag they fly over the grill they cook it on.”

I don’t think I’ll share I heard they have a couple of guys walking around Gaucho—the name of the new restaurant—with a guitar and an accordion, serenading the guests. Ma would kill me if I spoiled her fun.

“Congrats on the anniversary,” I tell him instead. “How long has it been?”

“Fourteen years married and almost fifteen together, Son. Best fifteen years of my life, bar none.”

I remember having had some apprehension at first. I was twenty-three at the time and pretty protective of my mother. Or maybe I was a bit protective of my role as the man in her life. Either way, I had my reservations about Jonas initially but that didn’t last long. Even for me, the man had been hard to resist.

First of all, it was obvious how deeply he cared about my mother, even in the early days of their relationship. Secondly, he was straight-up with me from the start as to what his intentions were. And, of course, last and definitely not least, he was former special ops which—at the time—was the dream career I’d been afraid to talk to my mother about. I didn’t think she’d be receptive to the added risk since she’d already sacrificed a husband to the military.

It had taken her a while to adjust when I first enlisted, following in my father’s footsteps, but at least she knew where I was at any given time. That wouldn’t be the case if I was part of a special ops team and we ended up getting sent off on some assignment.

I’d been able to talk to Jonas about those concerns, and he’d been helpful in dealing with Ma when I broke the news to her.

At the time, I didn’t think I needed or even wanted another father figure, but nevertheless, I’m grateful for the role he’s played in my life since. He was a rock for my mother, and for me, in some of our darkest times. He was pivotal in dragging my ass back from the brink two years ago when I was drowning in what I perceived as the insurmountable magnitude of the loss my missing leg represented. He assured me the worth of a man was not the sum of his limbs, but the weight of his actions…and then showed me the way to becoming that man.

For the past fifteen years, he’s been a great father to me without receiving any credit. It’s about time he did.

I’m a step behind him when we reach the shed where we store the equipment.

“I’m happy for you both, Dad.”

I know he heard me when he abruptly stops, but he doesn’t turn around. A moment later he expels a deep breath before he disappears into the shadows of the shed.

Taking a second longer to collect myself, I follow him inside.