Page 93 of Savage Rancher
"Emma’s gone," I call out as I run to the kitchen.
Luke frowns. “Gone?”
"For at least an hour." I move to the window. Her car is still in the driveway, parked exactly where she left it.
"The horses," Mason says, turning off the stove. “If we didn’t hear her, she maybe took a horse from the pasture.”
I pull out my phone and open the tracker app. The map loads. The bottom drops out of my stomach. “It shows her on the north ridge.”
“Fuck,” Luke says succinctly. “She went for Turner herself.”
The fury is white-hot and immediate. Shelied. She snuck out of my bed, is fuck knows where out there on the ridgealone, and riding toward a criminal operation without backup, a weapon, or telling me.
But underneath the rage is something colder, sharper.
Turner's crew could be anywhere. They could be moving product, moving people. They’d have lookouts hidden. If Emma rides up on that ridge with her camera?—
I don't finish the thought.
Mason puts his hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go bring her back.”
I'm already heading to the truck, calculating approach angles and timing. Understanding that Emma tried to protect me by putting herself in danger.
But that's unacceptable.
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EMMA
Ikeep shooting, my hands shaking now, struggling to keep the camera steady.
Another crate is loaded into the truck from the barn. This one has holes drilled in the sides—ventilation holes.
I swallow thickly. These aren't drug shipments. They're trafficking people.
Someone turns the van on and moves it, swinging it around so I have a direct shot in. I zoom in on the interior, and the image that fills my viewfinder makes bile rise in my throat.
Bodies huddled together in the darkness. I can see the outline of shoulders, heads, hands bound with zip ties. To one side, there are a couple of crates. I take a photo of a woman's face, pressed against the gap of the boards. Her eyes are wide, terrified, and pleading.
I photograph her. I photograph all of them. If I don't, no one will know they were here.
If I don't, they disappear.
The men are talking now, their voices carrying across the distance. I can't make out the words, but the tone is casual, businesslike.
This is routine for them.
One of the men lights a cigarette, and in the flare of the lighter, I see his face clearly.
Cole Turner.
He's standing near the van, supervising the loading, his expression calm and controlled.
I zoom in. His face fills my viewfinder—sharp, clear, undeniable.
I photograph him.
Click. Click. Click.
