Time to play.
Except as Jericho stood there, his breath knifing through him, the creak of the wind, the aloneness of the place, the lack of prints leading into the barn—
It stirred up the past, hit his gut and buzzed through him.
Ambush.
“Team Three to Base,” Harley said, breathing hard. “Found the barn. Recent—”
“Help!” A child’s voice cut through the cold. “Help. Please!”
Harley stilled, glanced at the open door.
“Harley, wait”—he took a step toward her, grabbed her arm.
Because what if, well, what if “Keith Smith” had friends, just lying in wait for them?
Harley looked at him. “Jericho, calm down. You’re not the only one who knows how to breach a building.”
He took a breath.Right.He was trying to trust her. He let her arm go.
She scooted inside.
He was just a step behind.
Light pierced the broken roof, painting silver stripes across weathered beams. The wind moaned through gaps in the walls.
Orlando shot past him, bell ringing.
Harley had slowed, hands up, approaching a small boy huddled against a mound of horse blankets, his breath making ghosts in the cold.
“Daniel,” she said.
He looked like his kindergarten picture—round face, big brown eyes—yeah, he was definitely Gabe’s kid, although he saw traces of Harley in the boy’s features.
The boy nodded.
Brave, although frozen tears tracked his cheeks.
“We’re here to help,” Harley said. “Your mommy sent us.” She crouched now and Jericho gave her points for not grabbing the kid up and scaring him.
Then Jericho spotted Gregg, curled in the hay, beneath another horse blanket. Blood had frozen black on his temple. His chest hitched with each shallow breath.
Jericho headed over to him.
Orlando had wiggled up to Daniel, whining.
“He’s a good dog,” Harley said. She seemed to be checking Daniel over. “You can pet him.”
She turned when Jericho reached Gregg. “I’ll call it in.”
Jericho leaned over Gregg. A sturdy man, he opened his eyes, just barely, when Jericho called his name.
“Is he okay?” The voice emerged broken.
And Jericho knew. “Daniel. Yes. He seems...” He glanced at the boy.
The five-year-old had his arms around Orlando, his face buried in his fur. For his part, Orlando had switched into comfort mode, not moving.