Chapter 3 - BLACKWOOD CREEK
The armored Dodge Ram cut through the blinding wall of fog like a blunt iron wedge. Ronan drove without headlights, relying entirely on night-vision goggles linked to the truck’s infrared bumper cameras. The road was a treacherous shelf of wet rock and ice, dropping three hundred feet down into the roaring waters of Blackwood Creek.
In the back seat, Gray kept his left hand rested on Sera’s neck. The dog was completely still, her nose pointed toward the cracked passenger window, catching the scents carried by the freezing wind.
"Two miles to the ranger station," Ronan reported, his voice steady over the hum of the diesel engine. "Thermal cameras show two vehicles parked under the pine canopy. Marcus’s men."
"How many?"
"Four outside. Probably two inside."
"They haven't found her yet," Gray said, checking his weapon's magazine. "If they had, the vehicles would be heading back toward Cheyenne. They’re holding a perimeter, waiting for daylight to do a cabin-by-cabin search."
Ronan pulled the truck into a thick stand of aspen trees half a mile upwind. The engine died, and the sudden silence of the mountain descended upon them—thick, cold, and absolute.
"We go on foot," Gray ordered.
Sera slipped out of the side door without a sound. Her huge paws sank into the wet snow, leaving silent depressions as she immediately oriented toward the creek bed. She moved not like a domestic pet, but like an apex predator returning to her hunting grounds.
Gray and Ronan followed thirty yards behind, using the shadow of the granite boulders for cover. The shoulder injury flared with every step, sending sharp lightning bolts of agony down Gray’s spine, but he locked his jaw and kept moving. He had lived with physical pain for years; it was the quiet empty space in his heart that had been unbearable until tonight.
They reached the crest of the hill overlooking the ranger station—a decaying log structure surrounded by tall Douglas firs. Down below, two men in black tactical jackets stood near a campfire, drinking coffee from metal mugs while automatic rifles hung from their shoulders.
Sera stopped at the edge of the tree line. Her ears flattened against her massive head. She turned her amber eyes toward Gray, then slowly dipped her head toward a half-collapsed ice cellar fifty yards to the left of the main cabin.
"She’s in the root cellar," Gray whispered to Ronan. "Smart girl. It’s reinforced with stacked limestone. A grenade wouldn't blow through it."
Suddenly, a harsh voice rang out across the clearing.
"Check the cellar door again!" a man shouted from the cabin porch. It was Vance’s rogue lieutenant, a scar-faced enforcer named Keller. "Marcus just called from the highway. He’s ten minutes out with the heavy hardware. He wants her brought out alive, but if she resists, break her legs."
Gray felt a cold fire ignite in his blood. He looked down at Sera.
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"Go find your mother," Gray whispered into her ear.
The mastiff didn't bark. She blurred into the darkness like a mountain lion.
