Page 138 of Shadow

A lever-action Winchester 1894 rifle, polished to a dull shine, rested on the top hooks. Beneath it, a pump Remington 870 shotgun leaned against the wall beside boxes of mixed 12-gauge shells, each one labeled in careful marker—buck, bird, slug.

On the opposite rack sat a bolt-action Savage model 110 rifle with a long scope, a strip of masking tape across the stock reading Coyote Zero in faded letters. A Colt 45 “Peacemaker” revolver rested in a cracked leather holster, and beside it sat a small tin of .45 Colt cartridges,

Yes, that would do.

She grabbed the Winchester rifle and the Colt .45, and found a half a box of .243 Winchester soft-points. Someone—probably Asher—had written 75 grains, clean zero @ 200 yds in fading pen across the flap.

She slung the rifle over her shoulder, tucked the Colt at her back, and then dropped the cartridge and soft-point boxes into a faded ammo bag.

Then she moved to the front door. Out onto the porch.

The morning was bright. Cold. Beautiful. Mountains standing guard. Creek rushing over rocks. The smell of pine and sage and cold air.

And the driveway—empty. Just tire tracks in the dirt. Leading away. Down the ranch road.

Daphne ran toward the barn. “Duke! Are you here?”

He appeared from behind the barn. Rifle in hand. Face grim. His flannel shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his boots dusty.

“I was down at the cabin. I saw them leave,” he said without preamble. “Saw them take Asher.”

“Where?”

“They went down the access road. Toward the old quarry.”

The old quarry. Sounded like the kind of place where you could kill someone and no one would find the body for years.

He pointed down the road.

“Call for backup!” Daphne said.

“You should wait for help!”

And probably it was foolish and would get her killed, but yeah, she absolutely understood her father as she took off down the road.

Fourteen

Of course he was digging his own grave. That seemed terribly, metaphorically right.

He’d gotten himself into this mess. And apparently, he wasn’t getting himself out.

But how could he have been so very wrong about Destiny?

Not frail, elderly Destiny, who’d completely bamboozled him, but…the Destiny now standing over him, watching.

Draven sat in the driver’s seat in the open door of his SUV. “Get moving, Morrison. We don’t have all day.”

Nearby, Roger smoked a cigarette.

The shovel bit into earth. Rocky. Hard. Colorado soil that didn’t give easily. Hot blisters rose on his hands.

Buy time. The longer he took, the more time Daphne had to figure out how to escape. Stay alive.

The old quarry on the edge of his property stretched around them—abandoned rock face, scattered equipment rusting in the weather, scrub brush clinging to slopes.

Yeah, they’d never find him.

“Deeper,” Destiny said. “You’re a tall man, Agent Morrison. We need at least six feet.”