“Take me there now, or I swear I’ll run there myself.” Shane glared at Jesse, shoving the man’s hand off his shoulder as he attempted to hold Shane in place.

He was halfway back to the road before Jesse’s voice called out. “Fine! But you stay in the damn car until the hostage-rescue guys clear the scene.”

“Fuck that,” Shane muttered under his breath. He’d behave for as long as it took for Jesse to get him to the cottage gate, and then all bets were off. If Shane so much as heard a scream, or fuck it, even saw a light on, then he was going to get his girl.

There shouldn’t be anyone at the farmhouse. Abandoned for years, or so the city hall records said. They’d also said the owner of the cottage and land was a man by the name of Brian Miller. Nothing remarkable about the name, nothing memorable, either. Shane had never even heard of the old guy. Both the locals and the feds had knocked on the doors of houses surrounding the area, had asked the residents if they’d seen Charlie or heard anything suspicious. The answer had always been no. But no one had been particularly interested in the abandoned farmhouse. The farmhouse that had been empty for as long as any of them could remember.

Until Jesse had run a search on the federal database and made the connection. Brian Miller was dead. He’d also been Darryl Scranton’s great-uncle.

A hard perimeter had been set up, circling two miles around the land. Everything had looked dark, but they weren’t taking any chances. He was grateful for that. In the distance, Shane could hear the quiet whop-whop-whop of helicopter blades. It was a gift from the HRT—the FBI hostage-rescue team—and equipped with a thermal-imaging camera. It had arrived earlier, along with a bunch of agents who looked more like special ops members than FBI, all ready to storm the farmhouse once they’d established Scranton was holding Charlie inside.

If only they’d fucking get on with it.

The long drone of the helicopter was driving him insane. There was little other noise. The few houses close enough to the house to potentially be at risk were already evacuated. Occasionally, he heard the whine of a tracking dog, the crack of a branch, or the low hum of an idling car, and now the crunch the wheels of Jesse’s car made on the gravel beneath Shane’s feet. Beyond that, there was nothing.

When they pulled up outside the perimeter, there was even less.

“Establishing visual contact now, sir,” an agent said to Jesse as they exited the car. Jesse worked more cases with Scott now than he did with the FBI, but he hadn’t yet formally handed in his badge, a fact Shane was going to be eternally grateful for. The foot search had been called off when they’d lost daylight, and now the man sitting across from him in a government-issued sedan was the only link he had to Charlie. Scott’s commander had ceded control of the op to the feds once the HRT had been mobilized. He’d sat in Scott’s car, Mason never leaving his side, listening in on the radio, but the elite team used a different frequency, and Shane had been cut off from any news for hours.

He peered through the darkness ahead. The internal lights in the car were off, but if he looked carefully enough, he could see the occasional dim light bobbing and weaving up ahead as operators made their way around the house. Long grasses grew up around fence poles, enough to partially hide anyone approaching. He prayed it would be enough.

The gate itself that they sat behind was warped, drooping on its rusted hinges, cyclone wire attempting to fill the gaps in a fence that had been standing too long. The house up ahead couldn’t be in much better condition. Shane strained his memory, but he couldn’t remember ever coming to a call out here, or even hearing of someone named Brian Miller. The house had likely been abandoned for at least a decade. How well could it survive an all-out assault? How well could any occupants?

Jesse didn’t say a word as the junior agent retreated, but simply leaned forward and switched the radio to a different frequency. It crackled to life.

“—light. I repeat, we have a green light.”

Another voice staticked over the top. “Victor 4-1, do you have eyes on the hostage?”

“Affirmative,” a third voice said. “Hostage is alive.”

Shane jolted in his seat and swung the car door open. A muffled “fuck” sounded behind him, followed by the quick retort of Jesse’s door slamming shut. Shane didn’t care. Wind swirled around him, chilling his skin. The whole area felt damp, the ground sinking beneath his feet as he walked and then jogged toward the house. A hand fell on his shoulder, then around his waist, and he fell to the ground as Jesse tackled him.

“For fuck’s sake, we’ll get her out! If you get yourself killed, Charlie will have my balls.”

Shane tried to smile, tried to feel any relief at all from the knowledge she was alive, but all his body was interested in was getting to her as soon as possible. All his mind would process was being there when she was freed. Holding her again and never letting go.

He stopped struggling, and the pressure on his back released. He stood and took one more step. Then the ground shook beneath his feet and the sounds of gunfire filled his ears. A scream broke through the suddenly chaotic air, shattering any reserve he had.

Shane turned and ran.