Blood Trail

by Matt Query, Harrison Query

Genres: Horror; Military Thrillers; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

A poacher-turned-game-warden is on the hunt for a bloodthirsty cult in this unnerving thriller from the authors of the “artful chiller” (Lincoln Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author) Wilderness Reform.

Clark Rickert was once the most prolific big game poacher throughout the Rocky Mountain west but when he lost both his son and his wife, he turned away from hunting. Now a game warden working for the very law enforcement officers that once pursued him so aggressively, Clark is overwhelmingly successful at his job.

So, when there’s a string of disappearances in rural Montana, Clark is selected to join a task force on an operation targeting a mysterious, violent cult in the area. As he works to uncover the truth, Clark begins to be plagued by visions and starts to realize that there is a deeper purpose to his assignment and the cult might up to something far more terrifying than anyone could have guessed.

From two authors who “set themselves apart with sterling prose” (Publishers Weekly), Blood Trail is an eerie and suspenseful horror novel that will sink its teeth in you.

Release date: April 7, 2026

Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1
DEPRESSION.

It’s the fourth stage of grief, at least according to the 1969 Kübler-Ross model. The stage of lonely, hopeless, sad, and despairing reflection as an individual comes to realize the magnitude of their loss.

It was visible in the eyes and posture of almost everyone in the room, and audible from the few who’d begun to softly cry or mutter prayers. They weren’t dealing with the death of a loved one, but they’d all just witnessed the death of something equally precious: their grasp on the natural order of the world.

Their conceptions of what fell within the realm of reality, and what was supposed to be relegated to the leagues of fiction, fable, and fantastical impossibility. This understanding had been there for them all since they were children, hearts pounding in their little ears as they fought the dread of what might dwell under their beds, or charge from a dark basement as soon as they turned their backs on it. These were inveterate, foundational notions of understanding everyone developed, honed, and relied upon throughout an entire lifetime. The nameless program within everyone’s mind that ran the profoundly important yet simple calculation: what’s real, what’s not, what’s possible, what’s impossible.

This conception, understanding, program, whatever it was, was something almost everyone filling the Situation Room in the West Wing of the White House had taken for granted, and now they knew it. None of them had realized how important and precious it was until they’d just watched it die.

They’d watched it murdered, kicking and writhing as its face was held into the mud. And they grieved its death like they’d grieve an older sibling.

They’d torn through the first three stages of grief pretty quickly.

Denial, the first stage, really only lasted a minute or so. The distant, confirming expressions on the faces of several in the room—the president, the secretary of defense, the director of national intelligence, the director and deputy director for operations of the CIA, and officers from the CIA’s Special Activities Center—told them all that denial was futile.

Anger came next, demands to know why the hell they hadn’t been briefed on this situation until now, or how the hell those few who’d known didn’t understand it better.

Then came the negotiation phase. This is when things started getting a bit hysterical. The president’s advisers, members of his cabinet, Joint Chiefs of Staff, a few senior legislators, they all began shouting over one another. Suggestions flew with unfounded confidence, growing in both volume and absurdity.

We need the British Royal Household, the Israelis, and the Vatican on the phone immediately. We should nuke the threat. No, we should reason with it, cut a deal. No, let’s find it and sink it to the bottom of the ocean in a titanium cage or send it into space.

Malcolm Thorn, the man who’d just shattered all these people’s minds, stared at the president sitting at the far end of the massive mahogany table. Thorn had spent the last twenty-one years playing this moment over in his mind: who’d be here, what they’d say, and how they’d react when it all really began.

Between the retirement of the man who’d been on duty during the last event in 1909 and Thorn’s first day on the job ninety-four years later, six other men had held Thorn’s title and position. Five of those had gone through their entire careers fully aware of how unlikely it would be for them to be activated to carry out the duties of their position, almost certain they’d never be in this situation. They’d each held their post with faithful dedication all the same, marshaling information and resources to improve the effectiveness of their successor, and all who’d follow. The sixth of those men, however, Thorn’s predecessor, thought he might be on the clock when it all went down. Toward the end of his career, however, Thorn’s predecessor had confidence that his successor would certainly be on station when it happened. As such, he’d recruited, trained, and advised his replacement with that in mind, and had done well.

Standing here, now, staring at the president, Thorn thought about those men. He wondered how they’d critique his execution of the job thus far. He barely heard one of the president’s senior advisers shouting about the Navy’s direct energy weapons and surface warfare lasers, or the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs’ insistence that martial law be declared and the DHS and FCC shut down the internet immediately. Thorn tuned it all out and just watched the president. He saw the large man’s jaw and fists clench and assumed, correctly, this meant that his deep well of patience and control had finally run dry.

The president launched up from his chair and slammed a heavy briefing binder onto the table. A shock wave of pens, papers, tablets, mugs, glasses, coffee, and water jumped, clattered, and spilled away from the binder’s impact. He paid zero attention to the yelps and gasps as everyone flinched away from the crash. He just slowly planted his massive fists into the mess he’d made, leaned forward, and cast his gaze down the long table. He did not look at the CIA director, but locked eyes with the head of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, DDO David Benson. He asked his question in the salty, calm, and threatening timbre he was so famous for.

“Benson, ETA on standing up a task force and workup for your direct-action operation?”

Benson responded immediately.

“Five days.”

The president flicked his eyes onto the man sitting next to Benson, chief of the Special Operations Group, Harry Jacobson. The SOG element of the CIA’s Special Activities Center was the most terrifyingly effective direct-action paramilitary force within the Directorate of Operations, or, arguably, within all of humanity’s history. Jacobson had started running the SOG three presidents earlier.

“Your assets ready for that kind of turnaround, Harry? You good with this?”

Jacobson held the president’s gaze as he took a deep, long breath. He knew well that the president, his old friend, was asking him for far more than a simple yes or no in this moment.

“Yes. Most of my Ground Branch operators, aviation personnel, and tech and surveillance teams are stateside. All REDCON-1 and combat ready. When it comes to workup, we don’t have much time, or much need. We’ve only got one target location flagged with any confidence. All we know about enemy force profile is that it’s increasing by the second, so no matter what, we’re going into this with an incomplete target package, and with speed of action as our top priority. Assignment of additional JSOC elements to the task force will only take a day, and with how patchy and thin our intel is, unless we stumble upon a gold mine of information, I can’t see how targeting and mission prep could take more than five days.”

Jacobson leaned forward, glancing at his deputy chief, Charlotte Bishop, as he rested his elbows on the table. Each saw the thoughts of the other in that glance. Charlotte had been his deputy at the SAC for over six years. They’d both grown fluent in the kind of silent, professional, shorthand language only born from long hours, profound stress, and extreme consequences. Harry looked back up at the president with narrow eyes as he answered the silent question he knew had actually been asked.

“This isn’t going to be like anything we’ve ever done, for more than the obvious reasons. There’s no playbook here, and no time. We know little about this enemy, but enough to clarify a few mission parameters I need to make clear, right now. The first has to do with risk tolerance. To do our job—to interrupt and get inside this particular enemy’s decision loop—we’ll need to move, pivot, act, and react faster than we’ve ever had to. Targeting, op planning, intel collection, we have to do it all ad hoc, make calls on a dime and on the fly, while already engaged. As such, straight out the gate we need to accept a baseline of elevated risk of fuckups that we have never considered acceptable. The second parameter has to do with loss tolerance. The monumental severity of this threat, by itself, imposes a new rule of gameplay. A new minimum standard of uncompromising dedication to mission success, one that will frighten us all. A condition that we accept certain… utilitarian tenets. I’m not talking about running probability models or acknowledging potential for collateral damage, incidental loss, or spilling American blood in American streets. I’m talking about making a commitment, right now, that no matter what kind of bump we feel under the tires, we cannot, we must not, hit the brakes and look in the rearview mirror until this is done.”

The president held his old friend’s gaze. He saw the warning it carried. A few, those who grasped what Jacobson had just said, stared blankly at the table. All the others looked between the president and Jacobson, fear and concern growing in their eyes. After several long moments, the president looked across the table to Vice Admiral Francis Rourke, commander of Joint Special Operations Command.

“Admiral?”

The head of JSOC nodded at the president then gestured toward Jacobson.

“I’ve already re-tasked elements from CAG, DEVGRU, 24th STS, the 160th, and army ISI to high-ready standby for assignment, and set all special operations assets in JSOC’s stable to critical readiness posture. So far as I’m concerned, until this operation’s over, the entirety of JSOC will effectively serve as their QRF, or on standby for direct action, as needed. Day or night, Benson and Jacobson get whoever and whatever they need.”

The president looked back at DDO Benson.

“What’s cover and concealment strategy, Dave? What’s OpSec look like for this?”

Benson, again, responded immediately.

“Special Activities Center’s in full swing. Political Action Group’s propo, media, and covert influence teams will have a full report for operational security, cover and concealment plans, and contingencies done by this evening. I’ll sit down with AG Cooper here when we’re done to make sure we’ve got full cover at the DOJ. Also, as usual, the PAG and the SAC at large are ready to activate the full suite of joint-op capabilities with our counterparts at the NSA, DHS, FCC, and the rest. I also have a list of names of those at the state and private level who I’d suggest we read into this operation, as well as a list of our own officers and assets embedded in those and other private institutions. Obviously, keeping this operation under wraps from the public and media will depend on flash and volume of kinetic engagements: what happens, where, and who’s around when it does. As Harry said, we’ll be doing it all live. From what little we know, the target seems keen on staying isolated in rural places, which should make things easy once we brief the governor, but only so long as it stays rural. If we end up going loud and banging it out in downtown Bozeman, we’ll have to adapt.”

Benson moved forward in his chair and linked his fingers on top of the table.

“To be frank, Mr. President, the spectrum of consequences of this operation becoming public grow quite insignificant when compared to the… cataclysmic nature of the threat we’re facing. OpSec and containment will certainly remain a critical priority, but we’re going to be on the ground, rather noisily turning over stones. Harry’s spot-on in this being something completely new on the ground side, so we’re going to have to move and shoot with respect to OpSec, as well. The nature of this operation necessitates OpSec and concealment taking a second chair, given how little time we’ll have to be preemptive with such efforts. As Harry said, we simply don’t have the luxury of hesitation or taking our eyes off the road on this one, so I just want to be clear that we’ll be sweeping our tracks as we go here. All that being said, for now, every OpSec duck I’ve got is already in a row on this.”

The president nodded, then looked down the row of Joint Chiefs on the right side of the table.

“I want all assets in the western eleven states, the Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas standing at FPCON Delta within the hour. I want Alaska, Hawaii, and all other CONUS assets, personnel, and facilities in critical readiness posture. This will obviously leak, so, Benson, get the PAG on it. Blame it on a terrorist threat, whatever you think’s best. Get with Hammond and get him set up to hold a presser on whatever story you cook up.”

Benson, FBI Director Chris Hammond, and all the Joint Chiefs nodded gravely in response, the weight and historic significance of what had just been ordered clear on their faces.

After a long moment the president hung his large, shaved head and stared down at his fists, planted into the tabletop, knuckles still sporting scars from boxing at the Naval Academy, and other much nastier fights that had followed. Of those few sitting close enough to actually hear some of what the president whispered to himself, only one had sufficient acuity and familiarity with the Bible to place it somewhere toward the top of Chapter 3, Second Thessalonians.

This is right around when the depression stage of most of their grief kicked in.

The attorney general had swiveled his chair away from the table to stare blankly at the ground, elbows on his knees. The director of national intelligence pointed at some spot above the table with a pen in his hand, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as though preparing to speak, but he hadn’t moved in two minutes.

The secretary of state cupped a palm over her mouth and wept softly. Several others did the same. No one would hold it against them. Not now.

Many would never reach the fifth and final stage. Acceptance.

For most in the room, acceptance—coming to terms with the loss of what was now their dead, bloated, and rotting conception of what was real and what was fantasy—would never be achieved. At least not in a way that involved moving past the fourth stage. Under these circumstances, the best most of those present in this infamous, hallowed room could hope for was a state of depressing, hopeless acceptance.

Some of those present, however—those who’d never put much faith in what the world told them was real or impossible, or those who just didn’t really give a shit—would move on, accepting these new conditions in stride. The president had a bit of both these qualities, as well as an immovable resolve that intimidated allies and adversaries alike across the world. He looked up at Thorn and found the short, pudgy older man staring back at him with no discernible emotion.

He’d only met this strange little man once before. In this very room, in fact, a few days after his inauguration. About a year and a half earlier in a prescheduled briefing only including himself, the secretary of defense, the director of national intelligence, his national security adviser, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Thorn had introduced himself, told them his classified title and position within the government, and then briefed them on this situation and what it was he did.

They’d all thought it was a joke. Thorn had anticipated this.

He’d pointed to a remote on the table and then toward the array of large digital monitors on the wall behind him. Looking at Thorn now, the president recalled the apologetic, almost parental sympathy in his face as he’d done so. He’d told the president that there were several people standing by on a secure video connection to corroborate the validity of what he’d just told them. The president turned on the monitors, and to all their surprise—and bone-chilling dread—those people were two former American presidents, the prime minister of Israel, the president of France, the king of England, and the pope. He’d also given the president an envelope for his eyes only, which described a secret location within the White House where he later found several letters from former presidents, addressed to their successors, on this particular issue. He’d read them all several times, but had read those from Jefferson, Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt dozens of times over the last eighteen months in his rare moments of privacy.

He’d come close to calling Thorn on several occasions to order him to return and provide more information, but never had. It had been a profoundly busy time, one that’d flown by, so he’d just prayed to never look into Thorn’s calm, calculating eyes ever again.

The president, and those four other men who’d been at the initial briefing, were also the only people who’d been read in on the details of Thorn’s other duty, the duty that came after confirming the event was beginning, informing them immediately, and briefing them on what it all meant. Thorn had just met with those same five men in the Oval Office an hour before this briefing began, and assured them he was well underway in carrying out this other duty, even going so far as to claim that he was very close to completing it.

The president, to his own surprise and without any real basis, felt confidence and faith that Thorn would succeed.

Perhaps it wasn’t confidence, but just hope. The president, unlike most other living humans, actually knew how important it was for Thorn to succeed in this other duty, and how desperately all those others depended on it now.