I lowered the phone, preparing to retreat slowly into the dense cover of the sagebrush, when the heavy, metallic squawk of a police radio shattered the silence of the yard. It wasn't coming from Cole's cruiser. It was coming from the open door of Vance's SUV.
"Dispatch to Sheriff," a tinny voice blared out, cutting through the freezing desert air. "We just got a hit on the highway plate-reader at Mile Marker 112. That blue Ford pickup you flagged for surveillance just passed through, heading north on the gravel route."
Vance’s head snapped up. He looked directly past Cole, his eyes scanning the absolute darkness toward the perimeter fence. Toward me.
"He's here," Vance said, unholstering his weapon.
I stood frozen against the steel mesh, realizing instantly that sneaking away was no longer an option. The trap had snapped shut, but I was suddenly locked inside it with them.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"Walter, do not move," Agent Miller’s voice whispered in my earpiece, the audio crackling slightly with static over the encrypted channel. "I have a thermal drone overhead, acquiring their signatures now. Cole is moving north along the fence line, straight toward the main gate. Vance is holding near the cruiser. They do not have a visual on you yet."
I dragged my body backward, inch by agonizing inch, ignoring the sharp, jagged rocks tearing at the heavy fabric of my jacket and the deep, throbbing ache in my left knee—a lingering souvenir from a lifetime ago that always flared up in the cold. I didn't breathe. I barely blinked. I just kept my eyes fixed on the sweeping beam of light. Cole’s flashlight illuminated the exact patch of frost where I had been standing thirty seconds earlier. The beam paused, lingering on the disturbed dirt, before snapping back toward the road.
"Nothing here, Sheriff," Cole called back, his tone edged with nervous adrenaline. The sound of his heavy boots crunching on the gravel echoed loudly in the still night. "Just some fresh tire tracks by the access road. Looks like he parked out of sight and walked up to the fence."
Vance spat onto the asphalt, the sound wet and loud. "Find that truck. He’s an old man, he couldn't have walked far in this temperature. Call dispatch right now. I want a county-wide BOLO on a blue Ford F-150." Vance rattled off my license plate number entirely from memory. He had been waiting for this exact moment. "Tell dispatch the suspect is wanted in connection with an armed assault on a peace officer. Fleeing the scene. Tell them the suspect is armed and highly dangerous. Shoot to kill if he resists."
My blood ran cold, chilling me faster than the freezing mud beneath my stomach. It wasn't just a roadside shakedown anymore; Vance was leveraging the entire county law enforcement apparatus to legally hunt and silence me before I could reach the city. He was building a false narrative that would justify putting a bullet in my chest.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered into the collar of my jacket, my voice barely audible over the wind.
"I heard it," Miller replied, his voice grim and strictly professional. "Vance is using his badge to sanction a hit. If his deputies find you out there, they won't ask questions. They won't read you your rights. They'll just look at the BOLO on their screens and open fire."
Through the gaps in the sagebrush, I watched as a second patrol vehicle came tearing down the gravel road, its lightbar painting the desert landscape in chaotic flashes of red and blue. The trap was multiplying.
I had to abandon the truck. It was a deeply painful realization. That rusted blue Ford had belonged to my late wife; it was one of the few tangible things I had left of our life together. It had carried us across state lines, brought groceries back to our quiet house, and held the scent of her perfume in the upholstery for years. But right now, sitting exposed on the access road, it was a steel coffin waiting for me to climb inside. I watched helplessly as Cole grabbed a heavy steel baton from his belt and smashed the driver's side window, reaching in to unlock the door.
"Walter, you need to move south immediately," Miller instructed, cutting through my hesitation. "There's a dry creek bed about two hundred yards behind you. The embankment will provide cover from the road and their spotlights. Follow it for three miles to the old state route junction. I'll pick you up there. Can you make that walk?"
"I don't have a choice," I muttered, pushing myself up into a low, painful crouch.
The desert at night was a brutal, unforgiving place. The temperature was plummeting rapidly toward the teens, and my jacket wasn't meant for a prolonged hike through the wilderness. Every step down the steep, rocky embankment of the creek bed sent a jolt of pain up my spine. Behind me, the flashing lights of the cruisers illuminated the night sky, casting long, frantic shadows that seemed to chase me into the dark.