My neighbor called me at work: “Your daughter slipped a note under my door and said you needed it immediately.” It read, “I forgot my red shoes.” That was our SOS code. I called 911 and drove straight from base.

I evaluated the tactical layout from my position behind the fern bank.

Hoyt was positioned between Sophie and the open trail, his back partially shielded by the Caterpillar's rusted tread. He had the pry bar, but his right hand drifted repeatedly toward the deep front pocket of his Carhartt coat. That meant a concealed handgun—likely a snub-nosed revolver or a pocket auto, given the profile of the bulge.

Daniel was incapacitated, half-delirious from what looked like a dislocated shoulder and a severe beating delivered by his own brother. He was not a combatant; he was an obstacle.

Sophie was eight yards from Hoyt. If I took a shot at Hoyt with the shotgun from this range, the spread of double-ought buckshot in the heavy rain was too unpredictable. A stray pellet could shatter the Caterpillar’s cab window and hit Sophie.

I had to close the distance to fifteen feet or less.

The rain was my ally. The roar of the water sheeting off the quarry bluffs masked the sound of my movement as I slid on my stomach through the mud, dragging the weighted Pelican case behind me with my left hand, the shotgun cradled across my forearms.

*Crack.*

A branch snapped behind me on the main trail.

Hoyt spun around instantly, the pry bar coming up, his left hand diving into his coat pocket. He pulled out a black semi-automatic pistol—an old Beretta 92FS. He racked the slide with a wet, metallic snap.

“Claire?” he shouted into the dark. “That you out there, soldier girl?”

Silence answered him, save for the rain.

It wasn't me who made the noise. It was Vance’s tactical team or the MP detachment, pushing too hard through the brush along the ridgeline. They were closing the net, but they were doing it too fast, too loud.

“Danny, get the kid,” Hoyt ordered, his eyes darting toward the timber.

“Hoyt, don't—”

Hoyt swung the flat of the Beretta’s slide across Daniel’s already broken face. The impact was sickeningly loud, like a melon being struck with a two-by-four. Daniel collapsed off the crate, groaning in the mud, his limbs twitching.

Hoyt turned toward the tractor cab. “Get out here, you little brat.”

Sophie didn't move. She pressed herself deeper into the rusted steel corner, her small hands bracing against the dashboard.

Hoyt lunged into the cab, grabbing her by the collar of her yellow hoodie and yanking her out onto the gravel like a sack of laundry. Sophie hit the stone on her knees, crying out through the duct tape across her mouth.

My heart spiked into my throat. The red haze of pure, maternal rage threatened to blind my vision, but I held the breath in my diaphragm, forcing my heart rate down to seventy beats per minute. *Center mass. Target acquisition. Clear line of sight.*

I stood up from the darkness of the brush, stepping into the edge of the lantern’s yellow halo.