She texted back right away.
Be Safe. I hope you find the bad guys.
So did he.
He’d never thought of himself as a violent man, but the image of Naomi lying in the dirt, semi-conscious, blood-spattered and in pain, made him want to take these bastards apart. Men who hurt women didn’t deserve to keep their balls.
McBride emerged, wearing black BDUs, a black T-shirt, and black body armor that saidU.S. Marshals Servicein big white letters on the back. He had a mean-looking M4 in one hand and a spare set of body armor in the other. “This is for you.”
He tossed the body armor to Chaska.
“Are you serious?” It was heavier than it looked.
“Dead serious. The perps are armed. Need help getting it on?”
He hoped not. “I’m a mechanical engineer.”
A minute later, the vest was in place and the Velcro secure.
“Let’s go.”
Chaska followed McBride to his Ford SUV, climbed into the front passenger seat, and buckled his seatbelt. “Where are your FBI buddies?”
“They’re off with a sheriff’s deputy to question the victim.” McBride kicked the vehicle into drive and headed out of the parking lot.
Chaska’s rush of irritation was instantaneous. “Couldn’t they wait?”
McBride shook his head. “We need to find these assholes before they kill or assault anyone else. You don’t like the FBI.”
It was a statement, not a question—and it was true.
“I don’t trust feds. My grandfather helped occupy Alcatraz in 1969 and Wounded Knee in 1973.”
McBride nodded, apparently needing no further explanation. “I had the sheriff’s department cordon off Ms. Archer’s campsite to preserve whatever sign they hadn’t already trampled.”
“Good call.”
They arrived at the campground twenty minutes later to find it evacuated and a handful of squad cars parked near Naomi’s campsite, including a K-9 unit. Deputy Marcs waited by the yellow tape with five other deputies, one holding the leash of a big bloodhound. They all wore body armor and carried rifles. Chaska recognized most of them from his work with the Team.
Deputy Marcs smiled. “You let him rope you into this, Belcourt?”
“I want to find these guys so they can get what’s coming to them.”
McBride introduced himself then outlined the plan. “We had rain last night, and I don’t want to risk losing these bastards’ trail. I watched Belcourt track a couple of years back. He found the real trail while the tracking dog was misled and followed the scent in rainwater in the wrong direction. Thanks to Belcourt, we were able to save a young woman’s life.”
It had been fortunate for the asshole who’d drugged Winona and abducted Lexi that he’d been dead by the time they’d found him. Chaska would have ended him.
McBride motioned toward the campsite. “Belcourt, it’s all yours.”
Chaska ducked below the yellow crime-scene tape, his gaze on the ground. Deputies had trampled the hell out of the place, but as he walked carefully through the site, what had happened here was slowly spelled out in dirt and duff.
He crouched near the fire pit, her account of the story written in sign all around him. “Naomi said she tossed burning embers on one of them. These bits of charcoal scattered here would be consistent with that. Over there, you can see that someone was knocked to the ground and struggled to get up. That’s a palm mark. These two depressions are probably knees or the tips of his boots. There’s the piece of firewood she hit him with. Part of it is charred, which is consistent with her story. And these dark spots on the dirt—blood. His nose or forehead must have been bleeding.”
McBride knelt beside him. “I wonder if the dogs can get a scent off that.”
“It’s worth a try.”
McBride motioned for the bloodhound to be brought up. While McBride spoke to the officer with the dog, Chaska followed the men’s footprints toward the forest.