Chapter 24

TWENTY-FOUR

Dawn unfolded in muted grays, the aftermath of the storm painting the world in damp, tired hues. Hatch's feet pounded against gravel, each step a deliberate rhythm to shake off the night's frustration. Her sharp eyes swept the landscape at the mountain's edge, searching for any sign, any hint of what she might’ve missed. But there was nothing. Just the soaked earth, and the secrets it swallowed.

Back at the motel, the air was stale. Her clothes, still damp from the night before, hung in the bathroom, dripping in time with her steady breath. Hatch stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water carve away the tension knotting her muscles. Her mind, though, stayed sharp.

The phone buzzed from the counter. She wiped the steam from the mirror with a towel and answered, barely glancing at the screen.

“Tracy,” she said, her voice crisp.

Tracy’s tone crackled with impatience. “What’ve you got?”

Hatch leaned against the wall, eyes narrowing at the fogged mirror. “Blood trail. Looks like Bishop’s injured. There was a steep drop-off—he’s hurting, but mobile. The rain killed Rufus’s nose, but Tuck and I are picking up the hunt again this morning.”

"Blood’s better than breadcrumbs."

"Only if it leads somewhere useful."

The silence on the other end stretched a little too long. Her instincts flared. “Tracy?”

His voice lowered. “We’ve got more on Bishop.”

The faintest click echoed through the line. Banyan, joining the call.

"Line secure?" Tracy asked.

“Now it is,” Banyan confirmed, voice calm and measured.

Hatch's grip on the towel tightened. "Since when do we worry about that?"

“Since always.” Tracy’s voice dipped lower. "Just not always from our own."

“Alright, give it to me straight,” Hatch said. “What did you find?”

“Bishop isn’t your average hired gun. He’s been doing high-level wetwork for Talon for a while. The kind of guy they call when high-value targets need to disappear, both stateside and abroad. He’s taken out some big fish.”

Hatch’s jaw set. “How big?”

“Remember Uzbekistan’s defense secretary? The one who supposedly dropped dead from a ‘heart attack’ during peace talks last year?”

She remembered the news coverage. “That was Bishop?”

“Yeah,” Banyan said. “Official story was natural causes, but unofficially? The guy was stonewalling a billion-dollar arms deal. Too many powerful people wanted him out of the way. It needed to be done in such a way as to avert a major upheaval. That’s where Bishop came in. One shot, no witnesses, no traces. The autopsy didn’t raise a single red flag.”

Hatch narrowed her eyes. “And they just... buried it?”

“Buried it so deep you’d need a backhoe to find it. That’s Bishop’s specialty. He makes the impossible hits look like accidents or acts of God. The bigger the target, the cleaner his work. He’s the guy they bring in when subtle isn’t an option but deniability still is.”

Hatch ran a hand through her hair. “So, in short, he’s no slouch.”

“Understatement of the year. This isn’t some rogue operator we’re chasing. Bishop’s not just a trigger man—he’s an asset. And he’s been untouchable for a reason.”

“And now he’s in the wind working for the highest bidder?”

“That’s the catch,” Tracy said, voice just above a whisper. “Banyan’s been digging. Looks like he might not be as off the books as we thought.”

“You’re telling me this is a Talon sanctioned operation?”

“Looks that way, but we still haven’t been able to confirm for certain.”

“There’s something else,” Banyan said. “Looks like you were right about Sawyer being the target.”

“How do you figure?”

“Still firing blanks as to why. When we figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.” Banyan paused. “We don’t know who gave the order, but it wasn’t from outside. This one’s in the shadows. Deep.”

A knot twisted in Hatch’s gut. “So I’m chasing a ghost on a mission they didn’t want us to know about.”

“Exactly,” Tracy said. “And you’re the one tasked with burying it.”

“What’s the play, then?” she asked.

“Keep hunting,” Tracy said. “We’ll keep peeling back the layers here.”

“There’s one more thing,” Banyan said. “You asked me to see what I could dig up on the name Maggie.”

Hatch straightened. “And?”

“Looks like the best guess is Maggie Trent,” Banyan said. “She goes by Maggie Pierce now. Local girl who moved out of town. She’s a reporter. I sent her details to your phone.”

“You think Sawyer was a whistleblower? Or blackmailing the senator?” Hatch asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Banyan replied. “Find her, and we might figure out the bigger picture here.”

A familiar rumble broke through the conversation—Tuck’s SUV pulling up outside the motel, headlights cutting through the mist.

“Tuck’s here,” Hatch said, her focus shifting to the task ahead.

“Watch your six,” Tracy warned.

“It’s my best skill.”

Hatch slid into the passenger seat of Sheriff Roy Tuck's brown SUV, the distinctive Pinewoods logo emblazoned on the side door catching a fleeting glint of early morning light. The interior smelled like fresh coffee, cutting through the faint scent of leather and worn upholstery. She closed the door with a soft thud and glanced over at Tuck, who was already offering her a cup from a local diner.

"Grabbed us both a coffee on the way," he said, his voice gruff but friendly, the warmth of the cup passing into Hatch's chilled fingers.

"Appreciate it," she murmured, taking a sip. The strong, bitter taste hit the back of her throat, jolting her awake a bit more. "How long have you been up?"

Tuck shrugged, pulling his seatbelt across his chest. "Been checking all morning. No reports, no sightings. Not a single thing."

"I went back to the trail. Came up empty too." She took another swig of coffee, the warmth slowly thawing her from the inside out. "He’s good, I’ll give him that."

"That he is." Tuck scanned the quiet street as he reversed out of the motel parking lot. "But we’ll find him. No one just disappears."

There was a shared silence, both of them acknowledging the weight of the task ahead. Hatch was about to press Tuck, see if he had any leads on Maggie—if he was holding back something useful—when the police radio crackled to life.

"Dispatch to Sheriff Tuck, come in."

Tuck clicked the radio on, his brow furrowing. "Tuck here. Go ahead."

"Vet clinic's reporting a break-in. Dr. Hensley’s on-site. Blood and broken glass. Deputy Harris en route."

Hatch straightened in her seat, eyes narrowing. "Blood?"

Tuck shot her a glance, a resigned sigh escaping him. "Sounds like it."

Hatch tapped her fingers against her thigh. "Could be unrelated. A hell of a coincidence, though."

"Yeah, well"—Tuck gripped the wheel tighter—"I'm not much for coincidences these days."

“The vet clinic,” she said, her voice steady despite the churn of her thoughts. “It’s a logical move if he’s injured. Supplies. Shelter. But if he’s been there, he has either moved fast or left a trail.”

Tuck nodded, his eyes locked on the road. “We’ll know soon enough.”

As they neared the clinic, the small building came into view. Its normally serene facade was marred by shattered glass strewn across the pavement. Tuck slowed down, parking just behind another patrol car. The siren cut off and lights flashed silently, casting a faint red glow on the walls of the clinic.

Tuck killed the engine, and Hatch’s eyes swept over the scene, taking in every detail.

Tuck wasted no time, his voice a calm demand for answers. "What’ve we got?"

The deputy beside a rattled Dr. Hensley straightened. "Blood inside, but nothing seems to be missing. No signs of forced entry anywhere. Doesn’t make sense."

"Doc, when’d you close up last night?"

Hensley fidgeted, tugging at the collar of his white coat, his voice strained. "I didn’t. Evelyn Hartwell handled it. My mother had a fall. I had to leave."

Tuck’s face tightened. "Have you been able to reach Ms. Hartwell?"

A quick shake of the head, eyes dark with concern. "No. Straight to voicemail. That’s not like her."

Hatch and Tuck exchanged a sharp look. They turned and sprinted back to the Tahoe, the air around them crackling with urgency.

Hatch swung into the passenger seat, buckling in as Tuck started the engine. "How far’s her place?"

Tuck gripped the wheel, his jaw clenched. "Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. It’s outside of town, isolated. Like most places around here."

"Perfect spot to hole up," Hatch muttered.

Her mind churned, ticking through the possibilities. If Bishop’s injured, he’d need time to patch himself up. An isolated house would give him cover, and if Hartwell’s there ... The thought trailed off, replaced by a more unsettling possibility. She might’ve walked in on him. Or worse, he could’ve already been waiting.

Life had taught Hatch many lessons. One resonated now. Desperation makes people unpredictable. It also made them careless. Maybe something to capitalize on. The scenarios kept stacking up, each one darker than the last. Worst case: Bishop’s holed up at Hartwell’s place, using her as leverage. Or bait.

Hatch’s hand brushed the grip of her Glock. She ran through tactical responses in her head. Assess the house. Secure the perimeter. Force him out if necessary—but Hartwell complicates things. Civilian in play means this won’t be clean.

The Tahoe roared down the winding road, the pines whipping past.