Nate leaned more toward the hogs and deer for his killing preference. Most people who enjoyed deer hunting loved it for the serenity of a chilly fall morning in a tree stand, the thrill of spotting their quarry and getting off the perfect shot. Some, Nate heard, looked at it in an almost spiritual way, the way the Indigenous Tribes did long ago.
Not Nate.
His enjoyment of hunting deer derived from taking the life of something innocent and pure. But with every kill, he wanted more. On one occasion, he'd managed to kill several in a single outing, far more than was permitted by the authorities. He recalled seeing the bodies strewn out on the leaves in a forest, and how that sight had given him so much satisfaction—but hardly slaked his lust for bloodshed.
He flipped the steak again and once more the sizzle sparkled through the room.
Hogs were a joy to slaughter for other reasons. They were wild, untamed, much like the deer, but they were also capable of aggression. Dirty, vile beasts, Nate enjoyed the thrill of killing them at closer range with his father's .45 revolver. The danger of being gouged by a boar's tusks only heightened the thrill.
There had been a particularly dangerous hog on one of his hunts. The animal bore long tusks and weighed at least two hundred pounds. The hog charged at Nate, fully intending to defend its turf and rip the young man apart. Nate stood his ground, watching coolly with a pistol dangling in his hand by his right hip. He'd waited, staring into the eyes of the beast as it roared toward him, grunting with every breath.
At the last moment, Nate raised the weapon like a gunslinger from the Old West. He pulled the trigger and sent the round through the animal's skull. The boar's legs buckled under it and the creature skidded to a dead stop mere feet away from where Nate stood.
He stared into the lifeless, vapid eyes of the creature with eyes that mirrored them. He grinned, then emptied the revolver, pulling the trigger over and over until the beast's body was a mangled, bloody mess.
Nate recalled that hunt with satisfaction as he took the steak from the skillet and turned off the stove. He set the meat down on a white plate and let it rest while he bent down and took the potato he'd been baking for the last 45 minutes out of the oven.
He set the foil-wrapped tuber onto the plate next to his steak and walked over to the front room to look out the window. The forest beyond the cornfield still loitered in shadows, and he grinned with satisfaction at the plan he'd laid out.
He recalled reading fictional stories in school about strange islands where madmen hunted humans. Those hunters weren't madmen to him. They were pioneers forging a path to a forbidden and newfound ecstasy.
Nate had tried to satisfy that need, that deep-rooted desire, by joining the military. There, he thought, he could hunt other people and get paid to do it. While he'd had his share and more of confirmed kills, with every life he took he still felt something was missing.
He realized what it was when he recalled reading Lord of the Flies when he was in high school. Those young boys had taken on the characteristics of both the deer and the boar he so loved to hunt. They were innocent, yet untamed. They were clever, organized, and resourceful.
Those boys were the perfect quarry, Nate thought. And he'd felt that confirmation when he slaughtered the extremists in that room in Iraq. That day, the plan began formulating in the back of his mind. When he and his team stumbled onto the treasure in the mountains of Iraq, he knew that vision could become a reality. He could buy his own farm with more acreage than he ever dreamed—his own private hunting ground. And with the property next to a heavily visited park, he would have an unlimited supply of game.
He took in a deep breath and sighed with satisfaction, then returned to the kitchen, set down the plate on a table, and began slicing through the steak with the knife he'd sharpened so carefully earlier.
Tomorrow, he thought, the hunt begins.
Five
Brown’s Ferry
Dak rolled by the police department building in Browns Ferry and let out a sigh. Two squad cars sat off to the side of the tiny brick building. The structure looked like a glorified shed. There was one door on the front with a window on either side. Faux white columns braced the overhanging triangular roof, but the place looked anything but dignified or authoritative.
There was probably one or two holding tanks inside, but if any real crimes were committed, the prisoners were likely transferred as soon as possible to a more secure county facility. Dak doubted any major crimes plagued the sleepy little town, save for the ones he was investigating.
He stepped on the gas and accelerated down the road.
Going in and talking to the local cops would be a waste of time. Not because they were inept or corrupt—although that could be the case—but Dak made certain not to judge people he'd never met.
The real reason for circumventing the police was that they had processes, protocols, methods, all of which slowed things down during an investigation. Dak had no doubts the women and men in that building or out in their patrol cars were doing everything in their power to find the eight missing boys, but unfortunately, their power was limited.
Dak briefly considered going in there and telling them he believed he'd found the location of the boys and the man who'd taken them, but he knew how that interaction would go.
The cops would file a report, take down his information—the fake stuff Will had conjured—and maybe have a look into Collier's new farm at some point in the next month, if that. They would need a warrant to search the place and going on some stranger's wild theory would hardly suffice for even probable cause, much less a legitimate warrant.
Then there was the issue of them seeing his face. Keeping a low profile was paramount.
He slowed down as he entered the Main Street square of town. A variety of shops lined the sidewalks that wrapped around the square. From parking spots along the inner portion of the street, sidewalks angled in from each corner, stopping in the center of a grassy lawn where a statue stood. The figure looked like a pioneer, with a raccoon cap and a musket in one hand. Dak figured it was either the Brown the town was named after, or possibly—and more likely—a tribute to Daniel Boone, who was a legend in this part of the country.
Dak slowly cruised through the square, noting the people and businesses along the way. Barely a minute after entering the center of town, he was through and on the other side, heading toward a motel a quarter mile down the street.
When he saw the big yellow sign with black letters—complete with the neon "vacancy" sign below it—he slowed and turned on his blinker. A few cars occupied parking spots in the crumbling asphalt lot. Two were more than a decade old and Dak assumed that one of them had to belong to the manager. The third vehicle was newer—an SUV parked next to a camper on the far right side of the L-shaped building.
Dak swung into a vacant parking spot and let the engine idle for a minute as he considered his next move.
He knew the McDowells were in the unit on the end, but approaching a couple of parents about the issue with their sons couldn't have been a more delicate matter. He had to have all the right words at the right times, or they would get suspicious and not only that, he could upset them further. Dak and their sons couldn't afford that.
He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the SUV, still wondering if he'd made the right decision in coming here. He stiffened his spine as he strode toward the door, doing his best to look confident in a rare moment of mind-racking doubt. When he stopped at the door, he paused and hesitated. After a couple of deep breaths, Dak rapped on the door and took a step back.
A woman's voice—muted by the door—reverberated from inside. After a few seconds, Dak heard it again, giving a description of him to someone else inside the room. Dak knew Martha McDowell was giving her husband Timothy the details, but at the moment those were the only definitive bits he could cling to.
The deadbolt unlocked, and the door cracked open with the chain still hanging on the rod in the frame. A tired-looking wo
man peered out from the dimly lit motel room.
Dark circles hung under her bloodshot eyes, and her hair dangled in haphazard strands. "Yes?"
"Mrs. McDowell?"
"Who are you?" she asked, her tone as exhausted as her features. "Another reporter? I'm done giving interviews."
"No, ma'am. I'm not a reporter. And I'm not a cop." The moment of truth built up a knot of tension inside Dak unlike anything he'd ever felt before. This woman's sons were being held by a man he'd served with, and there was simply no easy way to tell her that. "I'm here to help you find your sons."
Six
Brown’s Ferry
At first, Martha didn't know what to say. She merely stood there with a worn look of confusion at the statement. Then she sighed and collected her thoughts. "Is this some kind of joke?" she managed.
"No, ma'am. I wouldn't joke about something like this. I'm serious. And I believe I can find them, but we need to hurry. I don't know how much more time we have."
She puzzled over his statement, then looked him up and down. "Who are you?"
The blunt question didn't catch Dak off guard. "Let's just say I'm a private investigator and leave it at that."
"Doesn't exactly give me much of a reason to trust you now, does it?" She started to ease the door shut.
"Please," he said. "I was in the army with the guy I believe took your boys. I'd give you my name, but I don't want you to get pulled into my mess. But I will tell you this, the man who took your sons… he's as sinister as they come. I served with him a long time, and I know what he's capable of."
Tears started brimming in her tired eyes.
"But I also know how to get to him. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. That's all. I promise I won't bother you again."
"Martha?" Tim asked from somewhere inside the motel room. "What's going on?"
The man appeared behind her. His haggard face displayed the same exhaustion as his wife's, but with a hint of anger.
"This man says he is here to help us find the boys." She looked to her husband, gazing into his eyes as if her stare might pry answers from them.
He could only stare back blankly for a breath before turning to Dak. "Leave us alone. The police are doing what they can. And we've had enough fake leads for the last thirty-six hours."
He started to shut the door, but Dak set his foot in the way and blocked it, leaving nothing but the thinnest sliver between the door and frame.
"I'm not a fake lead," Dak said. "And the cops can't help your boys. I'm sure they're doing all they can, but there isn't time for red tape and bureaucracy."
"Martha," Tim said, ignoring Dak, "call the police."
She let go of the door and retreated into the room, disappearing behind the wall.
"If you call them, you will never get your boys back," Dak said. "All I ask is you give me five minutes of your time. Five minutes. I know you have no reason to trust me. But I'm going to find the man who took your sons, one way or the other. If you help me, I might be able to save them. If you don't, I could get there too late."
He could see through the crack that Tim was considering the offer. The man's eyes betrayed desperation littered among the red blood vessels streaking the whites. He was a man at his wits' end, not ready to give up the search, but with hope dangling by the most frayed of threads.
"Martha?" he said, lowering his head dejectedly. "Hold on."
Dak felt the push on the door ease and then heard the chain unhinge from the clasp. A second later, the door swung open. The room reeked of body odor and pizza. It took less than two seconds for Dak to survey the interior. He noted the source of the second smell, two unopened pizza boxes on a desk in the corner to the left. An empty bottle of Four Roses bourbon sat next to the television, with a second half-full one nearby.
"Who are you?" Tim asked. "Some kind of private investigator?"
"Something like that," Dak said. "But I can't give you my name. I can give you a fake one if you want. I will, however, give you as much information about myself as I can, if that will help."
"A man with no name and a mysterious past?" Tim shook his head. Then he swore under his breath. "Come on in. If you're here to kill us, you'd be doing us a favor."
"Timothy," Martha protested. "For all we know, he could be the one who took—" Her voice faltered before she could finish the sentence.
Dak stepped inside the darkened room and shook his head. "No, ma'am. I didn't take your boys." He eased the door shut behind him. "But I know who did."
A weak cough escaped her lips. Tim's eyelids tightened as he searched the visitor for the truth.
"What do you mean, you know who did?" Tim begged. "Why haven't you called the police?"
Dak turned and faced the man with a calm, disarming stare. "The police are good at their jobs, Mr. McDowell. But they have to play by too many rules. I don't. If I told them who I believe took your sons, it would be days before they could get a proper warrant—if they ever did. They can't do much on hearsay or conjecture. And then there's the little issue of me not wanting them to know who I am."
"Why's that?" Martha asked bravely.
Dak twisted his head toward her. "Because the man who took your sons tried to kill me when we were in Iraq. He and the rest of my team betrayed me and left me for dead in a cave in the Hamrin Mountains. You won't see it on any news channel or website, so don't bother looking. I've been hiding out, lying low while I track their whereabouts."
"So you can kill them?" Tim guessed.
Dak didn't look over at him this time. "That's right. But right now, my revenge story takes a back seat to what's going on with your sons."
"And you think… one of the soldiers you served with took them?" Martha asked.
"I do. His name is Nathan Collier. He was spec ops and I'll leave it at that." Dak pulled a small tablet from his jacket and pressed the button to activate it. He turned the screen toward Tim and indicated the man look at it. "This is a map," he said, pointing out the obvious. "Where exactly were you camping the day your boys disappeared?"
"What?"
Dak sighed and forced patience into his mind. "The Daniel Boone National Forest is an enormous place. Lots of ways to get lost in there. But your boys didn't get lost. They were taken. That's how I'm looking at this. If that is the case, then I need to get an idea of where they were."
He didn't tell them he believed he'd already located the farm where their boys were being held. Doing so might incite them to call the police. The best-case scenario for that would be cops showing up at Collier's and making him paranoid. People who get spooked do erratic things. He might skip town, and worse, dispose of the boys before leaving.
"What makes you think you have information the cops don't?" Tim argued. "They've checked with every house within a ten mile radius of where the boys went missing. That search turned up nothing."
"I'm sure they did. Except that I have no intention of knocking on doors. My plan is to knock them down. I just need you to confirm the location of where you were camping and about where your boys disappeared. Can you point that out on the map to me?"
Tim exhaled. The breath, laden with despair and impatience, flapped his lips as he took the tablet from the visitor and zoomed in on the area where he believed Jamie and Oliver were taken. "Not sure why you have to come here like this," he commented as he inspected the map. "The news outlets have been showing this nonstop the last few days."
"I don't exactly trust the media," Dak said. "Sometimes they get information wrong. I had to be sure."
Tim looked up from the tablet, gauging the visitor's face. Then he nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. One local paper spelled Oliver's name Olivier."
Dak snorted, and the tension in the room eased.
"Here is the spot," Tim said, indicating an area by the creek on the map with his finger. "That's where they—" he stopped.
"I understand."
"What do you think," Martha faltered, "what do you think this Collier is going to
do to our boys?"
"I don't know, ma'am. But I'm not going to let it happen, whatever he has planned. I'll take care of him before he can harm your sons."
There was no way Dak could know that. They might already be dead. But he had to give the mother some sense of hope, even if it was false.
He turned to leave. Tim stopped him.
"That's it? You're leaving?"
Dak paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Yep. You confirmed my suspicions. That's all I needed to know. You two stay here. And please, I don't think I need to tell you not to mention my presence to the cops. That would complicate things, and I prefer to keep it simple. Understand?" It wasn't a threat, but if they took it that way Dak didn't mind.
They both nodded nervously in agreement.
"Good. See you soon."
He opened the door and stepped outside, closing it again without looking back.
His intel had been spot on. The boys disappeared within a few miles of Nate's new farm. There was no telling what his ex-teammate was up to. All Dak knew for now was that it couldn't be good. He'd have to move fast to recon the property. Luckily, he had the right tools for the job.
Seven
Brown’s Ferry
The lights in the basement flickered on, casting a dim glow into the cell Jamie and Oliver shared.
"Breakfast, runts," their captor growled.
The smell of sausage and oatmeal filled the room and immediately caused Jamie's stomach to rumble hungrily.
The man holding them prisoner had been feeding them regularly since they arrived, but he had never spoken to them—not even in a demeaning tone. The fact the man decided to speak today gave Jamie a cold chill that pebbled his skin.
He could hear their warden issuing plates to the other prisoners. Jamie had already counted once before, but he did it every time they were fed just to make sure none of the other captives had… he didn't want to consider it.
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