Flames licked high into the inky black night sky.
Storm Weatherly crouched down, cradling the crying child close. His heart thumped against her chest. His sobs ripped her in two.
“Shhh! It’s all right, Timmy. I’m here. We’re safe.” For now.
Heat fanned out from the fire consuming the house they’d just escaped. The crackling of burning wood snapped and popped. The smoke-filled air stung her nose. Her eyes watered.
Taking one last look, Storm vowed she’d find her family. The kidnapper had taken them and left her and Timmy to die, locked in a closet.
With her feet still throbbing from kicking out the door, she turned and fled.
The sling Timmy was in shifted as he squirmed.
Grasping him tighter, she said, “Playtime. Treasure hunt.”
His hands, greedy for her, opened and closed. His little nails scratched her neck. “Pla…play?”
The light from the fire spread, guiding her way. She picked out the familiar landmarks. The route Murphy had her memorize nearly two years ago rushed back to her now.
He’d planned for this day.
She just never thought it would happen.
“First the weapons,” she whispered in a soothing voice. “The crank flashlight sits with them. Yards to go. To the left. To the right.”
It worked. The little one calmed down.
The farther she jogged, the dark closed in, swallowing them up. And the chilly air seeped into her thin blouse.
Blocking out the brutal rugged course of dirt, rocks, hills and valleys, Storm pressed on. If she was lucky, she might cover the four grueling miles by sunrise.
Then where would she go?
“Next the buried canteens. Then the MREs. You and me. Some money for my honey. That’s you. Gas and a motorcycle for us to go, go, go.” She made it into a little song.
Timmy giggled. It struck a chord; he sounded so much like her twin, Echo, when they were babies.
“I’m going to find her and Murph. Oh, yes I am,” she cooed.
And then I’m going to kill the son-of-a-bitch who took my family.
She knew exactly who could help her search for them, too.
But would he even talk to her after what she’d done to him?