Special Agent Amy Larson, FDLE, was missing, presumed taken by the same people who had already murdered at least three women.
Hunter had Roger pull the van over. He needed to think. They were near the woods where the forensic team had found the unidentified remains of those killed years before.
“They’re not close,” he told Roger. “They have spies who watch, I’m certain. That’s how Phin nearly got the jump on Amy the other day, except that Amy was too quick for him. They know that the bodies have been found. The woods in this area are dangerous. Besides, they wouldn’t bury their dead that close to where they kill.”
“Hunter, I don’t have any idea—but I will go anywhere, do anything. You tell me,” Roger said, waiting. “You know these people, maybe not personally, but you knew Morrison’s father—and Morrison himself. Yeah, he was a kid back then. But he’s clearly taken a lot for his playbook from Brother William. And he seems to be a creature of habit—he’s looked for small communities where there isn’t much traffic. He used an old hunter’s shed, deep in the Everglades.”
“That’s it,” Hunter said.
“What?”
“A cabin. There’s a cabin somewhere. Not here—too close to the old remains, as I said. But there’s got to be a shack in the woods.”
“Where? Give it some thought, Hunter. Give it careful thought.”
He didn’t have time for careful thought.
And yet they certainly didn’t have the time to go through acre upon acre of rural and forest land in and near Maclamara.
He forced himself to pause, close his eyes, breathe, think.
“The biker bar.”
“Hunter, I don’t think they have her in a public place. They’ll know we’d check that out immediately.”
“No, not in the bar. And they’ll know that we’ll be watching the park. But they’re going to be near the biker bar. That’s where everyone is gathering. I think that this is supposed to be a major public sacrifice—referring to their public, the community, Morrison’s followers.”
“All right, how far do we drive in?” Roger asked.
“A distance from the parking lot, though they may not know your van. Unless Casey Colby is involved—she would recognize it. I’m going to ask Garza that he makes sure any agents he sends in are aware that they need to stay hidden, not to engage until we find out where Amy is—and get her out before the cult realizes that they’re under attack in any way.”
Roger looked at him and nodded gravely. “No one questioned you,” he said. “She’s been missing a little more than an hour, but no one questioned your certainty that she’s been taken.”
“Amy is...an agent,” Hunter said. “My partner. I know that I’d hear from her if she was able to reach me. I know I’m right.”
“Yes. And they trust you, Hunter. They trust your instinct in this. That’s a damned good thing.”
“I have Garza on speed dial. We don’t have time to set up communications. We have to find where they’re keeping her.”
“All right. Remember that they seem to keep their victims awhile before they kill them.”
“But the previous victims were women who didn’t have anyone looking for them. Amy is different. They know they have a tiger by the tail.”
“Fine. We’ll get to Maclamara. Stash the car. And look for a needle in a haystack.”
Hunter’s phone buzzed. He looked down at it and then over at Roger and grinned. “Not quite.”
“No?”
“The forensics team used drones to get pictures of the woods—that’s how they found the clearings where the bones were buried. They went a step further, taking some infrared images. There are scattered cabins and shacks, which they’d identified on the satellite imagery, but only a few cross-referenced with any heat signatures. And one is about a tenth of a mile behind the biker bar.”
Roger nodded approvingly. “You just got that info?”
“Yeah,” Hunter said. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
It wasn’t easy, Amy thought, trying to save someone who was a pathetic ball of fear when she needed that very person to help her first. She had to save herself in order to save anyone else.
Amy wasn’t going to be able to do anything more than loosen the ropes that held her; they’d been tied tight and well.
But she could twist and see that Billie had a single loop around her wrists and that loop was barely secured to a hook against the wall.
Billie’s legs weren’t bound; she was in a crumpled sitting position, managing that only because of the way her wrists were bound and looped over the hook.
But Amy had determined that she wasn’t going to die. She wasn’t going to let a chauvinistic, supremacist elitist steal her life. Not happening.
Nor was she going to let him kill Billie.
And so, she had to reason with and calm Billie.
“Listen to me, please, por favor, Billie. You must listen to me!”
“I—I’m listening. Chica, I am listening.”
Amy smiled. Good. Billie sounded a little better. She had a trace of hope in her voice.
“They did a horrible job tying you up. They know that they’ve had you twice now and that you’re terrified. You learned your way around the south, but you don’t know your way around here. They’re not afraid of you. If you stand up, you can slip the rope holding you from that hook. Can you do that? Can you stand up for me?”
“What will happen if they come back?”
“Billie, they plan on killing us—what else can they do?”
Torture was a possibility, but she didn’t voice it to Billie.
“I am so weak,” Billie said.
“You’re not. You’re strong. You made it this far. You’re still alive and I need you. I need you to help me, so that we can escape.”
“Yes.”
“Billie, stand up.”
Billie was obviously undernourished, exhausted and almost beaten; she struggled first to get to her knees.
“Excellent. Great, Billie, you’re doing it!” Amy applauded.
The encouragement helped. Billie struggled again; she probably needed her hands to push up her weight in her weakened state.
“You can do it, you can, I know it,” Amy said. “Our lives depend on it.”
Billie wavered, and then she made it to her feet, falling against the wall, but still standing.