A breadcrumb.
She was fighting back.
The trail led to a loading dock and into swirling snow. Heavy boot prints carved the powder, drag marks beside them where the girl’s feet had been pulled.
I radioed for backup, knowing minutes mattered too much to wait. When Rook’s posture shifted again, we ran toward the tree line where an old service road vanished into the forest.
He wasn’t taking her to a car.
He was taking her somewhere hidden.
We ran until a faint cry cut through the storm. We crested a ridge and saw the man hauling her toward a decaying ranger cabin half-buried in snow.
I shouted his name. He shoved the girl inside and slammed the door.
Rook hit the door seconds later, splintering wood. Inside, the cabin reeked of rot and cold earth.
Empty—until Rook clawed at a rug, revealing a trapdoor.
