Where It Ends

| 17 | White Horse

I regain consciousness between the beds, blood caked around my eye. I don't think it's the eye itself, but rather a scalp wound nearby, judging by the throbbing sting a few inches behind it.

Despite the discomfort everywhere—I sure as hell didn't land well—I push off the floor and force down the nausea with pure rage. Even with the ring in their possession, they took her. They broke her phone. They left her suitcase here. Her purse and everything in it, including her wallet, are still sitting on the bed.

Make sure he doesn't follow us...

Was that some kind of joke? Maybe some reverse psychology? They should have killed me. Because they're about to regret that they didn't.

With that in heart and mind, I start darting around, throwing things back in the suitcases, seeing what I still have. Even if it's just in the underwear I'm wearing, I'd find a way to find her.

They must have taken my phone. It's not smashed anywhere. Taryn's is cracked but not dead. I can't get into it, though. They took my gun, badge, and all my cash, about a hundred dollars-worth, but they left my license and credit cards. I can legally drive and get gas or a rental.

I don't see my key fob, but then I spot my hat in the corner behind the table. Last night, when I tossed my hat there, it landed on top of the keys and they both slid to the edge. It's possible they both fell to the floor during the fray. They were monsters, but if they were in a hurry, they may have been careless ones.

Sure enough, when I pick up my hat, there's a glint of silver. Except for the tip of one house key, they slipped beneath the radiator.

I remember Taryn's stepfather's name. Keith Hill. Her mother would be Annette Hill or Annette Abernathy Hill. And I think Taryn plugged an Idaho address into my GPS already. It's what we've been using since Albuquerque.

Who's the dumbass now, Clown-face?

I don't know how much time I lost, but in less than ten minutes, I'm dressed and jogging to my truck with two hastily packed suitcases.

I'd like to crush the GPS-tag beneath my tire when I find it, which isn't even that hard. It was duct-taped to the underside of the back bumper. But I find the good sense to stick it on the car next to mine. It should be enough to confuse them for a while.

Then I resume the old route on the GPS, easy as that. I still have blood dripping into my eye, but it doesn't matter. I'm still coming for them. At the speed I intend to go, I may even catch them.

<<<>>>

The eleven long hours go by. It's getting dark and it makes finding this place more difficult.

GPS has been glitchy in this region. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I am in the middle of nowhere.

I lost some time backtracking, but, by process of elimination, I'm pretty sure I'm in the right place now. Assuming this dirt road is the one I've been looking for, it would put Taryn and her captors about an hour ahead of me, assuming they kept the stops to a minimum.

When I hit a roadblock, I'm questioning everything again. But then a man appears with an assault rifle. He makes it seem like this is routine, though. I give him my real name and ask for Keith Hill. He communicates the information via walkie-talkie, frisks me, has two other armed men search my truck, and then, another surprise, they let me through. "Keith" is expecting me.

As I roll closer, I'm thrown off by the scale of this operation. It's not a house; it's a compound. There are families, dogs barking, animals in pens, crude cabins. They have guards on duty. They're toting around assault rifles like it's the end of the world. I've seen some crazy shit in Texas, but this is a whole other level. It's no wonder they let me in. I'm not getting out of this place unless they let me.