Page 46 of Carnival’s Playground

I hit the fence line seconds later, scanning the dark beyond it, branches still swaying where he pushed through. My flashlight catches something pale on the ground near the base of a tree, and my stomach drops straight through the dirt.

Another photograph.

This one's not of Avery.

It's of me.

Avery's voice comes through the radio, breathless like she's running too. "Carnival, talk to me. What's happening?"

I stare at my own face staring back at me from the glossy paper, taken sometime today, close enough to see the rope coiled over my shoulder near the rigging post. I key my radio. "He's not just watching you anymore. He's watching me too."

The radio goes silent for one long, terrible second.

"Carnival," Avery finally repeats, quieter now, edged with something I haven't heard from her before. Fear. "Where are you?"

I don't answer right away, because somewhere behind me, deep in the dark beyond the fence, I hear the unmistakable rumble of an engine catching to life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AVERY

The engine rumble cuts through the cold night air, low and aggressive, somewhere beyond the west fence line. I spin toward Carnival, my heart already hammering. "That's a dirt bike."

"And it's close." He's already moving, boots pounding gravel as he keys his radio. "Renn, we've got an engine running west of the perimeter. Sounds like it's heading toward the equipment lot."

"Copy," Renn's voice cracks. "I'm two minutes out."

We take off at a dead run, cutting through the backstage corridor, past the costume racks and prop tables. My lungs burn with cold air, my boots slipping on the damp concrete as we round the corner of the equipment shed. Dutch and Petey are already standing near the west fence line, both of them staring into the dark tree line with their flashlights cutting through the fog.

"You hear that?" Dutch calls out as we close the distance.

"Heard it," Carnival answers, his voice tight. "Where's it coming from?"

"Somewhere past the drainage ditch," Petey says, pointing toward the access road. "Sounded like it was circling back toward the generator shed."

My radio crackles. Deputy Renn's voice cuts through, sharp and breathless. "Wyatt, Avery, I'm at the south drainage ditch. Fresh tire impressions in the mud near the access gate. Matches the aggressive knobby tread from the perimeter cam."

The engine revs hard, closer now, and I can hear the aggressive whine of knobby tires tearing through mud and gravel. My stomach drops. "He's moving fast," I say, breathing hard. "Too fast for someone who’s just scouting."

Carnival's jaw tightens, his hand already on his knife. "Copy that," Carnival says into his radio. "We're moving to the west fence now."

We push past Dutch and Petey, cutting across the back lot toward the west boundary. The engine noise grows louder, closer, and then I see it—a single headlight cutting through the trees, heading straight for the main generator shed.

"Shit," I breathe. "He's going for the diesels."

Carnival doesn't answer. He just runs faster, his boots tearing through the underbrush as we close the distance. I'm right on his heels, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

"If he shuts those down during the finale, the whole big top goes dark with performers in the air!" I yell.

"I know!" Carnival shouts back. "Renn, we need units at the generator shed now!"

"On our way," Renn answers.

We hit the west equipment lot at a dead run, my boots sliding hard in the damp gravel. The heavy steel gate is swinging on its hinges, the hardened padlock cleanly snipped, the cut edges still shining under the work lights.

"Son of a bitch," I spit, skidding to a stop. "He came prepared."

The dirt bike's engine cuts off somewhere behind the generator shed, and the sudden silence is worse than the noise. My skin crawls. Frank jogs up from the midway side, breathing hard, his face flushed. "He ditched the bike and ran toward the back of the shed. Carrying something in his hands… looked like a toolbox or a bag."