Page 63 of Wrangling With The Bodyguard

My boots pound dirt.

My pulse is steady.

My mind is not.

I cross the fence line at a gap and spot the corn dog cart parked crooked, abandoned like someone dropped it and ran. A teen employee stands there, shaking, staring at the ground like it betrayed him.

“Where is she?” I roar.

The kid points, eyes wide. “They— they went that way?—”

I don’t wait.

I follow the line of disturbance like it’s a neon sign.

Grass flattened. Dirt scuffed. A clear skid where boots dragged. Something shiny in the sunlight?—

Her walkie.

My throat closes.

I grab it, thumb the button. “Laney—Laney, respond.”

Static.

No voice.

No laugh.

No sharp “I’m fine, stop being dramatic.”

Nothing.

My vision narrows to a ruthless tunnel.

I scan again. Tire tracks cut across the pasture near the tree line. Fresh. Deep. The kind you make when you’re in a hurry and you don’t care who notices. The tracks angle toward the service road. The same goddamn service road that truck used the other night.

I drop to a knee and run my fingers through the dirt. Still loose. Still warm from recent compression.

Minutes.

We’re talking minutes.

I stand so fast the world tilts for half a second.

I call Gray back.

He answers immediately. “Report.”

“She’s gone,” I say. The words taste like metal. “Confirm abduction. I’ve got fresh scuffle marks and tire tracks heading to the back service road. I need a team. Now.”

Gray doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need answers to. “Any ID on the suspect?”

I glance toward the teen by the cart and motion him over with two fingers.

“Describe him,” I demand.

The kid swallows hard. “Nice shirt. Like… pressed. Fancy boots. Expensive hat. Smelled like cologne. He was— he was real calm when he threatened me. Like he didn’t care.”