Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(40)

Cops drove unmarked four-door sedans. Could a county detective be watching Jake? The sheriff could have easily come to the same conclusion as Lance.

He drove past the vehicle without slowing. He continued driving for a half mile until the road curved enough that the sedan driver would not see him stop. Then he pulled the Jeep off the road, ironically tucking it into a shadow for concealment, just like the driver of the sedan had.

He killed the engine and turned off the dome light. The rain would help conceal him, but light would be too visible in the country. Lance reached behind the seat for the black watch cap he used to cover his bright-blond hair. He located his penlight in the center console, then got out of the vehicle. A large flashlight was useless when one wanted to remain invisible at night. He didn’t bother with rain gear. Nylon was noisy and cumbersome.

He estimated the cleared land of the farm to be about fifty acres. Woods surrounded the fenced area. If Lance ran within the tree line, the sedan driver would not see him. He crossed the road and jogged through the trees in a huge arc. The humid air made the eighty-degree night feel much hotter. Rain and sweat soaked his T-shirt. When he emerged from the trees, he made sure the barn was between him and the sedan.

He stood in the shadows for a few minutes, scanning the area. Nothing moved. The pastures were empty. The barn doors were rolled halfway open, probably for ventilation in the summer heat. He could hear the steady patter of rain and the occasional snort of a horse from inside the barn.

Lance crept to the first building, a large shed. He cracked the door a few inches. The dusty smell of hay and straw hit his nose. He slipped inside, his boots scraping on the concrete slab. A few high windows provided scant light. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Bales of hay and straw were stacked in neat rows. Wooden pallets kept the stacks off the floor. Something scurried in the darkness. Rats? Cats? Probably both. The bales were well organized, leaving no real spaces to hide. He used his penlight sparingly, taking care that its beam was always pointed toward the ground, and hoping it wasn’t visible to the cop on the road.

He slipped back outside into the rain. A four-bay garage stood to his right. Crouching, Lance jogged across the muddy ground to the side entrance. A heavy-duty padlock secured the door. He tried one of the four overhead rolling doors, but it didn’t budge. High windows were placed eight feet off the ground. They would provide light without compromising security. Lance walked under one, jumped, and caught the sill with his fingertips. Chinning himself, he looked inside. The space was dark, but he could make out the shape of a tractor, some other outdoor equipment, and a lot of empty concrete. What appeared to be large tools were hung on a wall, but this space was also ruthlessly organized. He saw nowhere to hide.

Lowering himself, he dropped to the ground. He picked his way across the mud to a long, rectangular building. The sliding door stood open. Lance glanced inside. Rain echoed on the metal roof. The space was open and the ceiling high. From the circular patterns of hoofprints in the soft soil, he assumed it was a small riding arena for inclement-weather training.

Which left the barn to be searched.

Lance peered around the doorframe. Horses snorted and shuffled in straw. He entered quietly. A cat wound around his ankles, purring. He walked down the aisle, pointing his penlight through the bars of each stall. The last space was an open wash stall, with a concrete floor, hoses with hot and cold taps, and a large drain. Lance went up the ladder and checked the loft, but all he saw were more bales of hay and straw. He came down and checked the stalls on the opposite side of the aisle. He saw two more cats and eleven horses but no teenage boy. He ducked into a feed room, using his penlight to look behind the bins. Empty. Then he went into a tack room. Saddles and bridles hung on racks. Two large chests stood against the opposite wall. Lance risked his penlight to check beneath the saddle racks. He turned, nearly bumping into a sink. Dark streaks in the bottom caught his eye. Was that blood?

He clicked on his penlight and was almost disappointed to see the stain was rust, not blood.

Something scuffed on the floor behind him. Lance pivoted. His hand went to his holster, his thumb sliding the safety straps out of the way. A dark shape whipped at his head. He turned and tried to block the blow. It struck him across the back of the head and shoulders. Pain ricocheted through his skull, his vision dimmed, and he pitched face-first toward the floor. The penlight flew from his hand. He landed on the wooden floor with a jaw-rattling impact that shook his gun free of the holster and sent it skittering across the floor. It disappeared under a large chest.

Lance blinked his vision clear. His attacker was standing next to him. He wore black athletic shoes and dark clothes. The darkness—and the NVGs strapped to his head so he could better see in the dark—concealed his face. Lance knew only two things. He needed to get his own night vision goggles, and his attacker wasn’t a cop. Anyone with legal authority would have arrested him. He wasn’t Steve either. The property owner would have called the police, not wrestled with him. Plus, even in the dark, Lance could see that this man wasn’t big enough to be Steve Duncan. Lance looked for a weapon, but it was too dark to see if the man was carrying a gun. He held some sort of tool in one hand. The other hand appeared empty. If he were armed, Lance hoped he wouldn’t want the sound of a gunshot to attract attention.

“Who are you?” the man asked in a low, harsh voice.

“Who are you?” Lance kicked the man’s feet out from under his body. He went down hard and landed on the floor with a grunt. Lance rolled toward him, grabbing a pant leg and pulling the man toward him. The man kicked Lance’s hand. Pain forced his fingers to release their grip.