Chapter 2 - Into the Blackwood Pines
By 2:00 AM, the Florida State Police, local sheriff’s deputies, and an FBI Tactical Operations unit had established a staging area two miles off Mile Marker 42.
Rain continued to pour in sheets, turning the dense pine forest into a swampy labyrinth. High-powered searchlights cut through the mist, illuminating dozens of armed tactical officers putting on body armor and checking their night-vision gear.
Daniel stood by the mobile command center van, studying a topographic map laid out on the hood of a cruiser.
Special Agent Marcus Vance, a stern man with graying temples and sharp eyes, leaned over the map.
"The Blackwood Pines cover nearly thirty thousand acres of dense marsh and timberland," Vance said, tracing a finger across a thick patch of green on the map. "There are dozens of illegal hunting shacks and old logging cabins out there that don't appear on any municipal registry. Without exact coordinates, we could be searching for days."
"Eli gave us a clue," Daniel said, pointing to a small, hand-drawn mark on the back of Sarah Bennett's note. "Look at the corner of the paper. She drew a stylized pine tree next to two intersecting diagonal lines."
Vance squinted at the drawing. "An 'X'?"
"No," Daniel replied, leaning closer. "It’s a railroad crossbuck. The old CSX freight line used to cut through the eastern ridge before it was decommissioned fifteen years ago. There’s only one spot where the old tracks intersect a red structure."
Vance looked at the map, his eyes widening slightly. "The old fire lookout station at Mill Creek."
"That’s where she is," Daniel said grimly. "And if Travis realized Eli escaped and met the police, he’s heading straight back there to erase the evidence."
"We move now," Vance called out to his squad. "Silent approach. No sirens, no light bars. We park half a mile out and trek in on foot."
Daniel strapped on a heavy tactical vest and checked his flashlight. He wasn't part of the SWAT team, but Agent Vance knew Daniel was the only one who had spoken to the boy, the only one who held the key, and the one who had made a promise to Eli before leaving the hospital.
“Bring my mommy home,” the little boy had begged as Daniel left the room.
The convoy of dark SUVs rolled out into the dark, rain-soaked highway.
The ride was silent. As they turned off the paved road onto a hidden, rutted dirt trail, the forest seemed to swallow them whole. Spanish moss hung from ancient oak trees like tangled webs, swaying violently in the gale-force wind.
When the vehicles could travel no further into the mud, the team dismounted.
The rain drummed against Daniel’s helmet as he walked alongside six tactical officers through knee-deep mud and thick underbrush. The smell of damp pine, decay, and ozone filled the air.
After twenty minutes of brutal hiking, the lead officer signaled a halt.
Through the thick canopy of trees, fifty yards ahead, stood a lone, dilapidated structure.
It was an old wooden cabin, painted a faded, peeling crimson. Blackened windows stared into the woods like empty eye sockets. A thick tin roof rattled under the heavy downpour.
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And parked right beside the front porch, partially hidden under a camo tarp, was the dark blue pickup truck.
Travis Cole was already inside.
