I heard it on the county scanner."" ""They couldn't drive out without being seen by the highway crew clearing it."" ""There's an old logging camp about a mile through those woods."" ""Abandoned."" ""No cell service."" ""No road access unless you know the trail."" Evelyn removed her ruined heels with shaking hands. ""Then we go."" Briggs stepped in front of her. ""Ma'am, stay with the vehicles."" Evelyn picked up a tire iron from the G Wagon's rear compartment. Her eyes were wild but steady. ""My daughter is in those woods."" Caleb thought of Leo in his classroom, probably drawing dinosaurs while his father stood at the edge of danger. A part of him wanted to call police. Wait. Be sensible.
But the forest ahead swallowed time. And time was one thing a stolen child never had enough of. He looked at Briggs. ""Follow me."" Then he climbed over the guardrail and slid down into the mud. The forest closed around them quickly. Wet pine branches slapped Caleb's face.
Mud pulled at his boots. Fog drifted between trunks, turning distance into ghosts. Briggs moved behind him with quiet precision, one hand near his concealed weapon. Evelyn followed barefoot, bleeding from one heel, gripping the tire iron like a promise. Caleb tracked the prints through ferns, over slick roots, around a washed-out ditch.
He knew these woods from childhood. His father used to bring him up here when the logging road still carried trucks and the camp still had men shouting over diesel engines. Back then, Mitchell & Son Auto repaired half the rigs in the county. Back then, Caleb believed the shop would always smell like work and sawdust and his father's aftershave. Now, it smelled like debt.
He pushed that thought away. Not now. After 30 hard minutes, a different smell cut through the wet pine. Diesel. Caleb raised a fist and dropped behind a rotting cedar stump.
Through the brush, a rusted tin roof appeared in the fog. The old logging camp. One cabin, one broken shed, three fuel drums, a generator. A man in a tactical jacket stood outside the door smoking a cigarette, rifle slung over his shoulder. Evelyn's breath caught.
Briggs leaned close. "One visible." "Likely more inside." "We need distraction." Caleb studied the generator near the fuel drums.
Old model. Manual choke. Bad wiring even when new. "I can make that thing sound like it's exploding." Briggs looked at him.
"Do it." "When he moves, I take him." "You stay back." Caleb almost smiled. "Stay back."
As if men like him ever got that luxury. He crawled through wet ferns, belly against cold mud, keeping low until he reached the generator. The metal casing was rusted, but familiar. He opened the panel, found the safety relay, stripped two wires with his pocketknife, and flooded the intake. His hands moved with the calm of a man who had fixed broken machines his whole life.
Some machines needed patience. Some needed shock. He touched the wires together. The generator backfired with a deafening bang, belching black smoke into the fog. The sentry spun, raising his rifle, and rushed toward the sound.