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Noah followed the procession on the interstate toward Rocky Mount. When the SUV pulled off at the exit, he expected them to head to the federal building. But, instead of turning east, they went north. The lack of streetlights made Noah uneasy, and the minivan’s headlights couldn’t be turned off. If they were paying attention, they would know someone followed with the lack of heavy traffic. Fortunately, they were not the only people on the road. Large transport trailers and the occasional car were heading south. However, as he slowly increased the distance, he realized it also worked in his favor. Half a mile back, Noah followed the red lights through long stretches of open country road surrounded by farmland.
Ahead lay a small community called Enfield, but the SUV turned west on Highway 481, three miles before downtown. Noah passed a few homes and a small school for the rural town, but they quickly gave way to farms and large tracks of woods. At eleven o’clock, the streets were empty, and most lights were off. In the small farming community, most were up early.
After ten minutes, the vehicles turned north, and Noah pulled over on the shoulder and turned off the minivan.
Despite the cloud cover, the quarter moon was bright enough to turn the farmer’s field into a blanket of shifting grays and shadows. Noah didn’t know what the crop was, but he could see over it when he stood beside the driver’s seat.
Five hundred yards across the field, lights came on in the farmhouse as the SUV and ambulance pulled up. It was too far away to see what was going on, but Noah didn’t have to imagine. They were bringing Leslie Taylor inside.
Whatever agency involved that tracked him through the cell phone had enough time to lay an ambush. Right now, Noah doubted the small federal building was the place where Joe Taylor had gone. This place, however, fit the bill quite nicely—a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. They would have an unobstructed view of anyone approaching for miles during daylight hours. The driveway was over three hundred yards long, and no doubt was monitored by cameras.
Noah made a fist and knocked on the Toyota’s roof. There would be no going back. There had been times when he placed his career on the line, but this situation was different. He wasn’t going up against a killer or mafia goon. He wasn’t sure which branch of the government was operating behind the scenes, but they had anticipated his moves. Unless there was a satellite tracking him, he was off the radar. The rental van was a base model without the upgraded GPS and navigation systems.
Eighteen years ago, a little girl went missing, and after seventy-two hours, the worst was assumed. And after all that time, answers were within reach. He couldn’t walk away. Some things were more important.
As to how far he was willing to go, Noah was about to find out.
It took seconds to turn the vehicle around and find a dirt laneway down the road. Noah backed into the tree line, rummaged through the equipment, and stuffed a small backpack. The dark nylon jacket and jeans blended into the night as he climbed over the waist-height fence. The Glock was thrust into a zippered pocket and two spare magazines in another.
The fall weather had a crisp, refreshing chill to the air once the sun had set and small plumes of breath were visible. He was glad of the jacket as Noah found himself walking through a field filled with corn stalks. The dried plants were knee to waist height or fallen over and crunched underfoot. He slowed the pace and tried to walk between the rows. Thankfully, the soil was also dried out, and while uneven, he wasn’t sinking into any mud.
The farmhouse lights acted as a beacon. He didn’t head toward it. Instead he turned north. He needed to get closer, but Noah didn’t want to chance being seen with the county road as a backdrop. The approach from the fields felt safer with the night as a cloak.
Noah pulled out the binoculars and studied the property two hundred yards north of the farmhouse. While not perfect, enough details came into focus that he had to adjust his plan.
The two-story home, at first glance, appeared normal—an eighty-year-old farmhouse. However, the interior lights on the main floor revealed bars across the windows. There was movement near the front door, but the posts blocked his line of sight, so he moved twenty feet away on an angle. Noah waited when the lights in the front yard and porch turned off. A glowing red dot flared, then arced out into the yard. A bald man rose from a chair, and the front porch light came back on before going inside. The lights stayed on for ten minutes before shutting off—a security motion sensor.
Blinds were drawn on the main-floor windows, but enough light escaped around the edges to show the bars. The immediate area around the house was devoid of trees or shrubs. However, across the driveway were three forty-two-foot shipping containers.
Noah slowly lowered to the ground when the porch light came to life again and wasn’t worried about being spotted. One of the paramedics came out and got in the ambulance. After a three-point turn, he backed the vehicle between two shipping containers, out of sight.
Once the slim man entered the home, Noah stowed the binoculars away as he glanced at his watch. When the light turned off, he nodded. Nine minutes.
Noah had the plan, and soon it would be time to pull the trigger. Answers lay within that farmhouse, and before the sun rose in the east, he would have answers. One way or another.