And some more about how things had gone down over the last week that just infuriated us.

  News that made us both wish Mick was still alive, so we could kill his ass again, having to settle for returning Leland to a state of unconsciousness instead.

  More details I opted to skip past, putting my focus instead on the particulars of the weekend ahead. Things still yet to happen that could actually aid us moving forward.

  “Timeframe he gave fits with what Hattie said earlier about Sunday night.”

  Glancing over, I saw her gaze fixed on the distance. Some darkened spot above the roof of the truck that she could focus on, even as her eyes glazed over.

  “Also makes sense that they won’t tell him exactly where it’s going down until tomorrow morning. These kinds of people are paranoid as hell. They won’t want to give anybody watching the time to get the drop on them, but they still have to give the other members enough lead time to get there.”

  A few feet away, Quinn cut a quick glance my way. A sideways stare while pushing out another zeppelin of smoke.

  “Giving them twenty-four hours wouldn’t really work. Nobody is going to get a message at ten o’clock on a Saturday night and take off.

  “Depending how far they have to come, sending it out same day might not even be enough time.”

  I hadn’t seen many gatherings like what was being described in the past, but I’d seen a few. Usually, the types of people who would attend something like The Council weren’t the kind to play well with others. And even if they were, they would go to great lengths to avoid putting them all in the same room.

  Too many targets, making teams like the one I was on practically salivate at the possibilities.

  On rare occasion, though, meetings such as what was being described would happen. A gathering to negotiate a truce between warring factions. A memorial for a departed colleague.

  The beginning of a new working partnership.

  What could be going down now to bring so many together – or even exactly how many that may be - I had not a clue. Didn’t sound like Hattie did either.

  A completely new iteration, well beyond those we put away long ago, likely looking to tread on the old name. Stolen credibility that didn’t much matter, it no longer my job to track down these types of people.

  Now, all that mattered was finding my granddaughter.

  Getting her as far away from this shit as I possibly could.

  “These people,” Quinn muttered. “This Council. You were there the first time?”

  Grunting softly, I said, “I was.”

  “How bad are they?”

  Long ago, I learned that words like bad belonged on a sliding scale. A rating system that had no absolutes, but dealt in quantifying degrees.

  Based on the markets they worked in, the crimes they committed, The Council was nowhere near the worst. International traffickers of various forms who were more concerned with money than anything else.

  A business mentality that pushed violence to the back burner. Last resorts in the name of protecting their interests.

  Means steeped in efficiency, like what happened to Hattie’s family.

  “We beat them once,” I said, not daring to utter a word of what Callie might be facing to my daughter. “We’ll do it again.”

  Again, she glanced sideways at me. A lingering stare that weighted with no less than a handful of different motives, lasting several moments before she rotated her focus back to stare out past the truck.

  “So now we wait,” she muttered. A statement much more than a question.

  Words heavily laced with dread. Disbelief.

  “Just until morning,” I replied. “Five or six hours from now, we’ll either get a message telling us where the meeting is...”

  “Or we won’t, and then we’ll really go to work on the kid,” Quinn said as she snuffed out her cigarette on the top of the porch rail and cast it aside.

  A white fleck, disappearing into the darkness.

  “What about us?” I asked.

  Making a point to look anywhere but at me as she turned away from the forest, Quinn smirked.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The adage about the old requiring less rest than the young was only partially true. An expression based on observation, without actual testing or analysis. A belief that was semi-accurate, but didn’t take into account that was largely because of lifestyle changes. A decline in activity level that decreased the need for rest.

  A saying that I myself had found some limited truth in over the last couple of years, there only so many hikes and workouts one could do.

  Especially when my afternoons largely consisted of sitting on the end of the dock catching dinner.

  True as it might have been in general though, it sure as hell didn’t apply in this situation. Not after the things that my daughter and I had already been through. The mad dash across the greater Seattle area. The firefight outside of the cabin. Nabbing Leland Doone from the safe house.

  Witnessing Hattie take his own life.

  Coupling all that with the host of interviews conducted and even the hour that was fast approaching when my day usually started rather than ended, the need for sleep was very real. Exhaustion that I could feel deep in my joints, coming along with the aches of arthritis and the comedown from the assorted adrenaline surges throughout the night.

  Weariness that meant within minutes of sprawling myself across the bed in one of the upstairs rooms of the cabin, I fell into a deep sleep. A darkened abyss through which there was no rapid-eye movement. No continued mental processing about everything that had transpired, and all that surely lay ahead.

  A total disconnect, allowing me to completely black out. My body to grasp for every stray bit of replenishment it could.

  A four-hour stretch that ended abruptly with the alarm on my phone sounding out at exactly eight-fifty. An intrusive wail that only needed a single tone before I was awake, shrugging off slumber and beginning to move again.

  The start of a new day, spurred by the faintest glimmer of a working plan. A hope for how the next twelve hours or so would play out.

  Having not bothered with a blanket, or to even remove anything more than my boots the night before, getting dressed took only a few seconds. A quick swap of the plain black pullover I had been wearing for a matching one in blue from the go-bag, while leaving everything from the waist down the same. Socks and underwear there were no point in changing without a way of showering, the only water in the place being the pallets in the pantry.

  Plastic bottles that were plenty fine for brushing teeth or wetting down a washcloth to sponge away some of the stench of battle from the day before, but not enough to constitute actual bathing.

  A lack of hygiene that was far from my biggest concern, needing only to ensure that it wasn’t a public nuisance.

  A reason for someone to take special notice.

  Finishing by relieving myself in the empty toilet, I headed downstairs at exactly nine o’clock to find Leland awake. Eyes open, he stared intently out the windows lining the front of the cabin. A pointed stance meant to avoid the sight of Mick’s dead body sprawled atop the sofa across from him.

  A visual he could do his best to ignore, though there was no way to circumvent the smell. The metallic scent of blood and the caustic odor of gunpowder. The bitter ammonia tinge of Leland’s own urine.

  A potent enough combination, soon to include the slow start of desiccation. A process that would come faster as the sun grew stronger, penetrating the windows and warming the front room.

  His features illuminated by the faint glow of sun, Leland seemed unaware of my presence. Complete detachment rendering him in a trance, trying to fool himself into believing none of this had happened. He was still back in the throes of passion with the pair of young ladies the night before. Or scouring local college football games for young coeds.

  Even still back home at the family mansion with mommy.

  Places where he felt safe and important, unaccountable for his actions.

  Spots a hell of a long way from the safe house that had witnessed an untold number of people and crimes over the years. A backstory the kid could only guess at, his desires to add his own chapter being what had brought us all together now.

  Me, awake only a few minutes and already antsy to be moving. Another headlong sprint with the goal of finding my granddaughter.

  A forced stop that was fast drawing to a close, bringing with it a renewed sense of urgency.

  Him, sitting across from a man he probably grew up thinking was invincible, the better part of his brain and blood now crusted to the couch. Piss-stained clothes. Cuts lining either arm from his straining against the cords keeping him pinned to the chair.

  Upstairs, the faint sounds of Quinn rousting herself could be heard. Footsteps hitting wooden floorboards. An aging structure unused to movement, creaking and moaning under her weight.

  “Here,” I said. Twisting the top off a bottle of water, I took a step closer to Leland. Movement that he failed to register, continuing to stare out.

  The separated state of mind, trying to insulate him from reality.

  “Drink.”

  It wasn’t until the midpoint of his rotation that he even recognized I was there. A natural response to noise that had made him turn, even without active thought.

  An unexpected sight that caused him to jolt, visibly recoiling in his seat.

  “Jesus,” he muttered, glancing away and then back. “You scared me.”

  The number of things I wanted to reply were too many to list off. Comments ranging from the cliché that he doesn’t know what scared is to threats of how frightened he should be.

  How scared Cailee probably was, wherever she might be.

  “Drink,” I said once more, thrusting the bottle his way before he could get out another word. Shoving the top into his mouth, I tilted it upward, pouring water down his throat.

  A steady stream he did his best to keep up with, even as it spilled out and down his chin on either side. Overflow that grew steadily larger until his parched throat could take no more and he began to cough, sending whatever was in his mouth down the front of his tank top.

  A mess of hacking and sputtering that bent him forward. Continued coughing that expelled water droplets onto the hardwood floor as he fought for breath.

  Sounds loud enough to mask Quinn finishing upstairs and coming down to join us, allowing her to move in silence until she was just a few feet away.

  “Don’t you dare sit there and choke to death,” she muttered, pulling to a stop with her thumbs looped into the rear of jeans in my periphery. “We’re not done with you yet.”

  Dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, the only visible difference in her appearance was her hair had been let down out of the ponytail. Locks that were wavy from having been cinched up the previous days, left to form a curtain around her jawline.

  “You ready?” she asked, glancing my way.

  Retreating back a few steps, I set the water bottle down on the bar and grabbed up my jacket. Riffling into the pockets, I extracted the only three items I took from the house where I found Leland the night before.

  His wallet, a burner phone to match those carried by Hattie and Mick, and the battery I pulled out immediately upon finding it.

  A device that hadn’t exactly been a good luck charm for the latter two, likely to have the same effect for the third member of the crew as well.

  “Wha?” Leland managed. Still folded forward in his chair, water dripping from his lips, he added, “You can’t just leave me here.”

  “Don’t worry,” Quinn replied. “Like I said, we’re not done with you yet.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The name of the joint was Stumpy’s Place. A play on the thick pine forests that dotted much of the area, with the bottom foot of a tree that had been severed clean, revealing a dozen or so concentric rings, serving as the logo.

  A diner that was a good fifteen miles from the cabin, resting right on the southern cusp of the Snoqualmie National Forest. A retro spot designed in the old silver dining car style that looked to mainly serve the men and women who frequented the surrounding woods. Folks in boots and flannel that lined the row of stools across the front counter and filled most of the freestanding tables in the center.

  Large people who mostly thumbed their noses at the smaller booths across the front, making it easy for Quinn and me to commandeer a place in the corner. A vantage where I could keep my back to the wall and monitor everything going on around us.

  Tasks my daughter was content to leave me to, the bulk of her focus going to the plate of sausage gravy and biscuits before her and the cup of coffee that never left her hand.

  Her third such serving since arriving, with no sign of slowing.

  Not that I begrudged her in the slightest, already working on a refill myself. Swill that tasted like boiled pine bark, but fulfilled the two main requirements of being hot and strong.

  Liquid energy to break through the lingering soreness of the day before. Muscle pains that no amount of hiking or workouts in my basement could stave off.

  The beginnings of a tonic that I paired with the protein and carbs of the Denver omelet and wheat toast on the plate in front of me. Food that otherwise I might find excellent, going down without much taste.

  A loss of appetite brought on as my stomach tightened further with each passing minute. A slow march forward, with each second matched by my left leg bobbing up and down beneath the table.

  Surging energy resulting from the anticipation beginning to mount within.

  “What time is it?” Quinn asked through a mouthful of half-eaten biscuit.

  Not trusting the cracked plastic Coke clock above the counter, I tapped on the screen of my cellphone.

  “Nine fifty-three.”

  “What time are you going to turn it on?”

  “Five minutes,” I replied. “If anybody is trying to note locations, I want to give them as little time as possible.”

  Emitting a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a growl, Quinn returned to her food. Head down, she used the fork in her right hand and her left index finger, shoveling the remains of breakfast into a heap.

  A lead that I followed as I cut what remained of my omelet into thirds and began to fork them down. Oversized bites that I wasn’t in the mood for, making myself eat them anyway. Nourishment that I knew I would need in the day ahead, much like the sleep this morning.

  An old maxim that I heard going clear back to when I was a new sailor in the Navy, that being to always bank food and rest if possible.

  One never knew when the next chance might be.

  A mantra that served me well both there and later throughout my career, the last day bearing all the earmarks of a similar situation.

  “When was the last time you checked the number Cailee texted from?”

  “On the drive in,” Quinn answered. A vague reply I took to mean it had yielded nothing yet again. “Squeezed in between more texts from Everett asking if we knew anything.”

  Three minutes after my daughter asked me to check the time, I dropped my fork down onto an empty plate and pushed it away. Sliding my phone over onto the same warm spot where the plate had rested, I tapped on the screen a second time, checking the white numbers against a bright blue backdrop.

  Clear summer sky, giving way to vivid green pine trees, and below that the shimmering surface of water.

  A snapshot taken from the end of my dock just a couple of months before. A place that seemed so disconnected from where I now was, though I couldn’t help but wonder if ever I would look out from that spot without immediately linking it back to all of this.

  A starting point that couldn’t be dissociated.

  Especially if things were to turn out badly.

  A thought that held my attention just until the white numerals along the top ticked forward. A passing from 9:57 to 9:58, putting us exactly two minutes short of the hour.

  “Here we go,” I muttered, sliding my own phone away and replacing it with the cheap burners taken from both Mick and Leland. The former, scratched and beaten from abuse. The latter, a device so new it still had the peel-away sticker clinging to the screen.

  A protective cover I left in place as I cast the other phone aside and inserted the battery into the back. Depressing the power button along the side, I held it until the screen flickered to life between us. Plain white, followed by a quick succession of words and letters.

  Company names and model numbers I let pass as I slid my gaze up to see Quinn having assumed the same pose across from me. Her own interest in breakfast now gone as well, she stared straight ahead with her left cheek bulging outward, having not even gone the extra step of chewing and swallowing.

  Both silent, we listened to the uneven cacophony of diner sounds around us. Utensils scraping plates. The drawer on the cash register sliding open.

  Muted conversation and the low din of country music in the background. All of the expected sounds, matching the smells of bacon and maple syrup in the air.

  Noises that grew more pronounced as the clock ticked a minute past the hour. And then another.

  “Come on, dammit,” Quinn said, the words slightly garbled through the wad of food stuck in her cheek. The last of breakfast she seemed to have forgotten about, forcing it down before adding, “I swear to God, if that kid lied to us...”

  How that sentence would end, I had a few ideas myself. Notions I had entertained while listening to him share the story last night about how his scheduled meetup with Cailee on Thursday had gone. Vivid thoughts that had bordered on fantasy as I stood over his coughing ass this morning.

  Plans that would have to wait at least a bit longer, interrupted by me reaching out and snatching up the second phone. Popping the accompanying battery into it, I started the same process of booting it up that we had just endured with Leland’s phone.