Page 22 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Marley

I should’ve turned back.

Found a safe house. Regrouped. Waited for backup.

But I didn’t.

Because the second I stopped moving, I’d have to face the fear clawing its way through my chest. And if I let it take hold—if I let it win—I’d never forgive myself.

So I kept walking.

A mile from the failed meet, I found an old junkyard that matched a location from Reina’s original message. It looked abandoned, but the gate had fresh tire tracks in the dirt. Someone had been here recently.

I slipped through a gap in the fence, crouched low between a rusted-out El Camino and a mountain of busted refrigerators.

The air smelled like oil and sunbaked metal.

There were no cameras—none I could see, anyway—but a single storage building stood near the back with a light glowing beneath the door.

Voices.

Men. Spanish. Low and clipped.

I crept closer, heart hammering.

One of them said something about “shipments.” Another mentioned a date and a route number.

I didn’t need a translator. I knew the code. They were moving kids.

I pulled my phone out and started recording.

Then the door creaked open.

Footsteps.

I turned to run—and slammed straight into someone.

Big. Hard. Unforgiving.

Hands grabbed me.

“?Eh, qué haces aquí?!”

I understood that. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

I twisted, kicking wildly. My foot connected with something solid and the man let out a grunt. I bolted sideways—but not fast enough.

Pain exploded in my side as something cracked into my ribs.

I went down hard, face-first into gravel, breath gone, limbs screaming.

The man cursed and backed off, maybe startled by how fast I’d dropped.

I rolled under a nearby wrecked car and bit down on a cry as pain lanced through my ribs.

Definitely cracked. Maybe worse.

My phone was still in my hand, the recording still running. I hit stop and crawled deeper under the chassis, blood dripping from my elbow.

They were shouting now. Flashlights swept across the yard. Boots crunched closer.

I couldn’t outrun them this time.

So I stayed still. Silent.

Prayed they’d give up.

A minute passed. Then five.

Eventually, the footsteps moved away. A car engine started. Then another.

Gone.

But I stayed put, my side throbbing, breath coming in short gasps.

When I finally crawled out, my hands were shaking.

The phone in my palm felt like gold. It had their voices. The location. Proof.

But I wouldn’t make it far on my own, not like this.

I leaned against a rusted bumper, clutched my side, and did the thing I swore I wouldn’t.

I called Frasier.

He answered on the first ring.

“Marley?”

“I found them,” I whispered. “They’re moving kids out of Tucson. I have proof.”

A pause. Then—“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Marley.”

“…Cracked ribs. Maybe worse. But I’m okay.”

“Where are you?”

I dropped a pin to my directions and whispered, “Please don’t yell at me.”

“I’m not gonna yell,” he said, his voice tight with something that wasn’t anger.

“What then?”

“I’m gonna tear the sky open until I find you.”