Deke answered and Jericho slowed for her to catch up.
“You think they fought?” Harley asked.
“Who, Gregg and the hunter?” Jericho glanced at her. “Greggis ex-military. Looked like Marine Force Recon, given the picture in their living room.”
“That’s a special unit?”
“Yeah. They’re in charge of reconnaissance and direct action ops. Tough guys. They know how to handle themselves. So, yeah, Gregg and the hunter might have fought. Over protecting his grandson? You bet.”
“Base to Team Three,” Deke’s voice came over the radio. “Air One spotted a barn. Northeast, maybe a quarter mile from your location.”
Right. They had the GPS.
“The Bridgeman place?” Harley asked.
“Could be the hunter forced them off the road, caught up with them, and they had a scuffle,” Jericho said. “With that leg injury, could be he couldn’t chase them down, maybe had to head back before the storm hit.”
“And what? Gregg didn’t want to chance going back to the car?”
“Or, he was hurt too.” Jericho met her gaze.
“Don’t say it.”
“I’m sure Daniel is okay.”
Her mouth made a grim line.
And oh, he wanted to make promises.
“The hunter might have been looking for the barn,” Harley said.
“Yeah,” Jericho said. “Storm killed the trail.”
Pine shadows cut blue stripes across the snow. Jericho tracked Orlando’s bell while his eyes swept the tree line.
Men with scars like that didn’t quit a hunt.
“Base to Team Three,” Deke’s voice crackled through static. “Air One is looking for a place to land. You’re nearly there.”
“Copy, Base,” Harley said. “Any success on grabbing the hunter? We have questions.”
Ahead, Orlando bounded out of the forest, into another field.
And through the twilight, at the far end of the expanse, Jericho spotted a small homestead. Gray, with a weathered barn, log home. Abandoned but...
Orlando took off through the field, and Jericho ran after him. Sweat burned through him, coated his body.
He climbed a fence that Orlando easily slid under, then turned.
Harley grimaced but let him help her too.
Good grief, the woman got shot two days ago. Yeah, she was tough.
The barn rose, wearing fifty winters of storms. The door gaped open, snow building a drift across the threshold. A rusted hay trolley hung from the peak, its chain swaying in the wind.
Orlando circled outside the door, his bell wild. As Jericho came up, he darted to him, then spun to the door. Barked.
Then he sat, tail wagging.