by Maggie Wells
“We’re going to get there, and she’s going to be fine,” Ben assured him.
“We haven’t even talked about what this thing is,” Simon said quietly.
Ben leaned in. “What thing?”
“Lori and me. This thing between us.” He murmured the last part, unable to work the words past the lump rising in his throat. Propping his elbow on the door, he ran his forefinger over his lip, wiping away the fine sheen of perspiration. “I mean, I can’t even name it, and she might not—”
“She does,” Ben stated flatly. When Simon glanced over at him, the sheriff shrugged. “When you work closely with someone, you get a gut feeling when something’s going on with them. She’s still grieving, though. Both for her family and for Jeff Masters. It’s made her question a lot of her choices. No doubt she’s questioning her feelings for you. You’ll just have to be patient and let her find her way back to herself. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Yes, I can do that.” Ben’s plainspoken words were a balm. Simon leaned forward in the seat, the nylon restraint tightening against his chest. “I just... She was right all along. About Coulter. About me. If something happens to her because of Coulter—”
“If something happens to her, it would be because she’s doing her job. A job she’s damn good at, I might add.” The two men shared a glance, and Ben refocused on the road. “She’s essentially been a cop since she was nineteen years old. Her job is her life, which is what makes her so good at it.”
Ben let up on the accelerator and they cruised up a rise in the road. They crested the hill. Below, flashes of blue light cut through the smoke filling the late-afternoon sky.
“She’s going in after the girls, right?”
Ben nodded. “The Feds will handle the search and seizure on any drugs found on the premises. Lori has strict instructions to get in there, check the barracks at the back of the lot to see if there are any young women being held in there and get them out without interfering with the rest of the operation.”
“I hate that she’s going in there alone,” Simon muttered.
Ben ran a hand over his forehead, then spoke gruffly. “I do too. She was going to try to round up Deputy Wasson from Prescott County to see if he’d back her up.”
Simon tightened his grip on the handle. “Has anyone heard from her?”
The sheriff shrugged. “She’s not going to stop and make a phone call in the middle of an operation.”
“What about the radio?” Simon asked, gesturing to the unit mounted into the dash.
“I explained about the police band thing earlier.”
“Yeah, but the thing’s in motion now. Shouldn’t y’all be in communication?”
Simon saw the corner of the sheriff’s mouth tighten. It was a tell. Ben was worried too. They should’ve heard something by now.
The sheriff let up on the gas. “Why are you slowing down?”
“Red lights.” He pointed to the rearview mirror, and Simon twisted in his seat. Sure enough, two trucks from the volunteer fire department zoomed past.
“We’re never going to get there,” Simon complained.
Ben snorted and peeled away from the shoulder with a spray of gravel. “Keep your pants on. I’m not going to let you go in there after her,” he pointed out.
“But—”
“No buts. You are a civilian, Counselor. The only reason I brought you on this ride-along is because you’d probably try to hitch a skateboard to my back bumper if I didn’t. I need you to stay in the car.”
Simon was about to protest, but a sudden crackle of static burst from the radio. He stared at the dashboard, willing it to come to life again.
Ben applied the brakes once more, and this time he hooked a sharp right into the field used as a parking lot. Police and other emergency services vehicles sat parked in a haphazard fashion. Ben pressed the lock button and held it. With his other hand, he cut the engine. “Am I gonna have to put you in the back seat to keep you safe?”
Simon simply stared back at him. “No. I know my place here.”
Ben nodded and reached for the door handle. “Sit tight. I’ll get you an update as soon as I can.”
Simon waited until Ben disappeared into a small knot of people gathered at the side of a black van. The moment the sight line was broken, he opened the car door and slipped out. The flattened grass muffled his footsteps as he headed away from Ben and the other law enforcement types. He had one mission in mind—get to Lori and help however he could.
Chapter Sixteen
Lori signaled to Deputy Steve Wasson of Prescott County to follow her. To his credit, the older man did so without hesitation. When she filled Steve in on the plan to get in and get whatever girls Coulter might have stashed on the property out, the Prescott County deputy had been all for it. The discovery of Kaylin Bowers on Samuel Coulter’s property had helped them form a bond over a common enemy.
They’d entered the woods far away from the commotion the federal agents made at the front entrance. Instead, they hopped the fence that ran along the side of the property. Staying low, she wound her way through the trees and scrubby underbrush, following the main footpath but staying off it in case she came across any resistance. Her mission was technically to secure and collect any of Coulter’s employees, but she wanted to get to the building undetected first. In case there were people trapped there who might need help.
Bella Nunes had told her she’d stayed in a sort of dormitory at the far end of the grounds, and that other young women were staying there too. Kaylin Bowers’s parents claimed their daughter had been tight-lipped and belligerent since her return home, but she had agreed to talk to Lori. Briefly. Kaylin confirmed the existence of such a building and mentioned there were a few other girls staying there at the time she’d been there. She claimed they locked the door from the outside at night to prevent people from wandering the park and to keep the female members of the staff “safe.”
Making her way through the wooded area, Lori carefully moved aside branches and pointed out fallen tree trunks to Wasson. Though she had her service weapon holstered at her hip, Lori was more comforted by the rifle in her hand. These woods were her home. This was her backyard.
The path widened beside her, and she slowed her steps. The canopy of leaves and needles trapped the worst of the smoke from the nearby fires. She moved in a crouch. The trunks of the young pines were inadequate cover, but since she was dressed in her tactical gear, someone would have to be looking hard to find her.
When they’d studied the aerial shots of Coulter’s property, Lori had been the one to point out the large Quonset hut–style building at the rear of the property. She had to give Special Agent Simmons credit. She didn’t bat an eye when Lori told her she wanted to run straight into the remote area of the compound. Nor did the special agent try to stand in her way.
Less than a quarter mile up the fire road, the roof of the building came into sight. They slowed, creeping toward the low barracks on silent feet. About fifty yards out, still hidden in the cover of the tree line, Lori held up a hand signaling Wasson to stop.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “Masters County Sheriff’s Department. Is anyone in there?”
When there was no reply, she faced the other deputy. “I’m gonna need you to circle around to the end and cover the other door, but let me try to get them out on this end. They may respond better to a female voice.” Wasson simply nodded. “We need to get into the building without fuss or firepower. Get me?”
“I’m with you.”
“If my intel is right, there are likely teenage girls in there. I figure they are unarmed and definitely freaking out. We need to proceed with extreme caution.”
“Got you,” Wasson replied.
“Radio check,” she whispered into her mic. When she heard his clipped response of “Check,” they split up.
Moving in a wide
circle, Lori approached the door on the far end from behind the hinges. If someone came bursting out, she could use the door as cover. She settled into position against the building’s wall. Inspecting the door on their side, she spotted the padlock holding a large metal hasp closed.
“Crud,” she muttered. Then she whispered into her mic. “Far door padlocked.”
The reply from Wasson came through the earpiece. “Same.” There was a crackle of static. Then he asked, “Shoot it off?”
She scoffed, then keyed the mic. “Negative. That only works in movies.” She eyed the padlock, then continued. “Stay put. I’m going to bust it off. No shooting unless someone shoots at us first.”
She sprang forward and used the butt end of her rifle to pound the hasp three times in rapid succession. A cacophony of high-pitched screams came from inside the building, and Lori dropped to the ground, waiting to see if anyone inside attempted to fire on her.
From her low vantage point, she could see the screws securing the hasp to the ancient building were giving way, but the lock held.
Then a trembling voice pleaded, “Help us.”
Lori sprang to her feet and slammed the stock down on the rusted metal again. On her second blow, one side popped loose. “Hang on,” she called to them.
Using her bare hands, she peeled the whole thing back enough to open the door, then stepped aside for cover. “Sheriff’s department,” she shouted again. “We have the building surrounded. Drop your weapons!”
“We don’t have any weapons,” a young woman cried. “I swear!”
Lori took a deep breath and swung the door open wide, praying the occupants were telling the truth. Lori squatted low and tipped her head around the edge of the door to sneak a peek.
Three girls who appeared to be in their midteens huddled together on one of the narrow beds at the center of the room, their arms wrapped tightly around one another. Exhaling heavily, Lori let the relief wash over her.
“Come out now. Keep your hands high where we can see them.” When the girls failed to move, she barked, “Now!”
They untangled themselves in a flurry of long, coltish limbs. Sobbing and staggering, the girls stumbled toward the door, their hands held high.
“Coming out on my end,” she said into the radio.
“Ten-four,” came Wasson’s reply.
Her breathing returned to something approximating normal when Wasson came trotting around the side of the building, weapon raised and ready.
“They’re unarmed,” Lori called to him.
“We should secure them,” he said, his voice pitched low. “As a precaution. At least until they’ve cleared all the personnel from the grounds.”
The impulse to argue was strong, but the man was right. Until they had these girls processed, there was no way to know if and how they were involved in Coulter’s operations. Reluctantly, she and Wasson started to zip-tie the sobbing girls’ wrists to one another, all the while trying to reassure them that they were just being careful.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The breathless demand shot up Lori’s spine. Wasson pivoted in the blink of an eye, his sidearm unholstered and aimed directly at Simon Wingate.
Lori exhaled in a whoosh, then placed a calming hand on the deputy’s arm. “Ease up. He’s one of the good guys.”
At least, she thought he was.
He stood there with his arms raised in surrender. She saw his suit jacket was torn at the shoulder, his matching pin-striped pants were covered in dust and grime, and his polished shoes were caked with mud and leaves.
“I’m going to turn that question back on you, Counselor. What do you think you’re doing here?”
“Helping you,” he replied, still a little out of breath but unapologetic. “I thought you came up here alone.”
Lori shook her head, then gestured to the man beside her. “Deputy Steve Wasson, Prescott County, meet Samuel Coulter’s attorney, Simon Wingate.”
“Former attorney,” Simon corrected quickly. “Samuel Coulter’s former attorney.”
“They have him in custody?” They wouldn’t have gotten the go-ahead on the compound if they didn’t, so it was more a statement than a question, but Lori craved the eyewitness confirmation. Particularly from this particular witness.
“Yes. He’s in custody.” Simon flashed her a shaky but reassuring smile. “But why are you cuffing these young ladies? They haven’t done anything wrong, have they?”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Deputy Wasson replied. “But we don’t believe so,” he added, raising his voice to be heard over the fresh round of sobs rising around him.
“We’re just securing them until we can be sure everything has gone off as expected.” She craned her neck and looked up at the fog of smoke trapped in the treetops. “What’s on fire?”
Simon shrugged. “From what I can gather, random structures.”
“Literally a smoke screen,” Lori murmured. Glancing over her shoulder at the three girls strapped hand to hand, she gave them as reassuring a smile as she could muster. “Deputy Wasson is going to take you down to base via the fire lane,” she told them. “There will be officers there to take your statements.” She picked up the rifle she’d set against the building. “Mr. Wingate will go with you. He’s an attorney, and no doubt looking for some new clients.”
“Hey,” Simon objected.
She heard the injury in his tone and softened a little. “A joke,” she said, raising a hand.
“Where are you going?” he asked as she shooed them away.
“I’m going back through the woods. I want to make sure none of Coulter’s guys go slithering off under cover of smoke.”
“But—”
Ignoring the fleeting impulse to hurl herself at him and thank him for caring enough to come after her, she lifted her rifle into ready position, then jerked her chin toward Wasson. “But nothing. Go with him.”
“Lori, I—”
“Simon, I appreciate your concern, but this is what I am trained for. This is what I do. And I can’t do what I need to do and cover you too. Go. We’ll talk when I get down there.”
To her relief, he clamped his mouth shut, took the arm of the girl closest to him, and they started walking from the far end of the Quonset hut to the dirt road beyond the tree line. Lori watched until they were out of sight, then pulled her own disappearing act.
The woods were eerily quiet. There was no birdsong or chirruping of insects. No doubt the smoke from the fires and commotion down below had sent all the wildlife to ground. Which meant the only creatures stirring in these woods would be up to no good.
The trail she’d been following spilled into a single-lane gravel road. She crept closer, crouching low and scanning the length of the road until she spotted a prefabricated building near where the road intersected with the fire lane.
Lori frowned, trying to recall whether she’d seen the road on the aerial photographs the DEA had provided. Probably not. A car was backed up to the door. The late-afternoon sun blazed off the windshield. Lifting her rifle, she peered through the scope for a better look. It was a dull gray Toyota, more primer than paint, with a large wing attached to its open trunk. This was Rick Dale’s car. Seeing the ridiculous spoiler attached to the compact car made her think of Simon.
“Wasson, hold up,” she whispered into the mic. “Take cover for a minute.”
A second later, the reply came. “Ten-four.”
Raising the rifle, she used the scope to scan the area. The car was backed in close to the building. The rear bumper nearly touched the door. A light shone from the inside, slicing out into the smoky haze settling over the area. She hunched down and watched. A thin, tattooed man in a black concert T-shirt carried two duffel bags from the building and deposited them into the open trunk.
Opening her mic, she called for the spe
cial agent heading up the ground operations. “Ruggalo?” she whispered into her mic.
Special Agent Mark Ruggalo, a man nicknamed Hulk and who could have been used for a recruiting poster, answered. “I read you.”
“Do you have eyes on Rick Dale?”
A second later, his gruff “Negative” came through her earpiece.
“I do.”
“What’s your twenty?”
“There’s a metal building on the fire lane that runs the east side of the property. Closer to the rear than front.”
“Stick a pin in him if he moves. We’re coming.”
Lori watched as the guy disappeared back into the building. Then she lowered the muzzle of her rifle. She keyed the switch on her radio again. “Wasson, hold your cover. I’m going to take out his tires, try to slow him down.”
Without waiting for any response, she aimed her rifle at the left front tire and put a bullet clean through the sidewall. If Dale heard the crack of her rifle, it didn’t deter him from his mission. He appeared again, seemingly oblivious to the deflating tire. She watched him load two more bags into the trunk, then hustle back into the building. Shifting her position, she took aim at the other front tire and put a bullet-sized hole in it too.
Opening her mic, she said, “Flat front tires should hobble him, but you’ll want backup, Ruggalo. He’s loading something out of here, and I’m betting it’s what you’re hunting.”
The monitor in her ear hissed and crackled. “Ten-four. Almost there,” Ruggalo replied.
Lori held her breath, watching Dale’s every move and hoping she didn’t have to take a shot at him, as well. She’d do it if she had to, but she much preferred not to.
A rustle in the leaves behind her alerted her to someone’s approach. Rolling to her side, she drew her sidearm in case there was a close-range confrontation. She’d barely had a chance to aim when Simon Wingate dropped onto the leafy mulch beside her.
“What are you doing? I almost shot you,” she hissed.
“Wasson and the girls are hunkered down right over there.” He pointed slightly up the slope and to the east. “I saw the sun glint off your scope when you were calling things in.”
