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Booth got out and walked around the construction dumpster. Much of the front of the building had been demolished over the last few days, clearing out the charred remains of the structure so it could be built anew.
Funny, considering that’s what he needed to do with his life.
He was ready for a fresh start. Booth wanted to see where things went with Nova, if she’d give him another shot. First, he had to rip out the charred remains of his old life once and for all. He could decide how to rebuild from there.
Go back to work in Homeland? Leave behind Jude County and smokejumping? Risk losing Nova forever? It was all too much to think about now.
The burner phone rang and Booth answered. “Talk.”
“Bring Henry Snow to me,” the man said.
“I keep trying to tell you, I don’t know where he is,” Booth said, walking inside. How would he know where his boss had been all these years?
“You’re lyin’. You and Crispin are here to protect him. How about this? You bring Snow to me, and I’ll think about lettin’ you live.” He horked a coughing laugh.
Booth started to deny the accusation, but it could work in his favor. Pretend to exchange Crispin for Snow.
He ducked under the restricted tape and ran to the ready room. “Look, I’ll bring Snow, but I’m not doing anything until I know Crispin is okay.”
The call disconnected.
Booth stopped by his locker and stared at the phone. Had he made a mistake? Pushed too hard?
The phone chimed with an incoming text.
Booth clicked it and saw a blurry photo of Crispin lying on a bare mattress on the floor. The bandage wrapped around his shoulder showed dried blood spots. Crispin’s eyes were closed, his good arm handcuffed to the leg of a cast-iron wood stove.
When the phone rang, Booth answered it. “Not good enough. He could be dead in that picture.”
The caller growled. “What do you suggest?”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you.”
There was silence on the other end. Finally, he said, “Give me ten minutes. I’ll text the location. Bring Snow or Crispin will die.”
“It’s going to take some time.”
The call ended.
Booth shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled a small metal box out of his locker. He put his hand in the grooves and waited for the fingerprint scanner to read his prints. There was a whirring sound as the mechanical lock released.
The lid squeaked open and he found his weapon there in a paddle holster. He clipped it inside his waistband and concealed it with his shirt. The cold weight of an extra magazine settled in his leg pocket.
Booth was sprinting for the airplane hangar, where he kept his motorcycle, when his burner phone chimed again.
A text with an address popped up.
He’d expected to be sent deep into the state forest, but the location was just north of Ember.
He cranked up the motorcycle and backed out of the hangar. His back tire kicked up gravel and he sped off.
Twenty minutes later, he turned off the rural route onto the narrow dirt road crowded with towering pines that needed to be cut back.
He rolled to a stop, cut the engine, and pushed his bike into the trees. Some brush coverage meant it wouldn’t be seen from the road.
Booth weaved his way through the woods on foot, boots crunching on dead pine needles. Each step crackled as loud as gunfire in his ears. He ducked between the weathered trunks, seeking, searching. Crispin was here somewhere, being held against his will.
Or worse.
