Chapter One
Two Days Ago
The hijacking case was a good one—the largest so far for Arturo Felix’s burgeoning one-man detective agency. A retired SEAL with a resume like his deserved meaty cases—so when a shipping firm asked him to investigate a series of tractor-trailer hijackings, he couldn’t say yes fast enough.
He researched the types of cargo and found they all contained chemicals of one kind or another. He picked a future shipment that fit the profile and built a custom hiding compartment beneath that truck’s cargo area where he could hide.
Genius.
After several uncomfortable, sweaty hours, the driver stopped at a diner for a long midnight snack. As Arturo had instructed, he left the keys in the truck.
He made it easy for the hijackers.
They took the bait.
Arturo felt the truck rattle back onto the road as the driver called to report he was no longer the guy at the wheel.
Score.
Another couple of sweaty hours later, the truck stopped, and Arturo listened as the men unloaded the cargo. When things quieted, he dropped from his secret hideaway and scurried into a clump of trees. Just in time, too—a minute later, a guy walked out of a rustic cabin on the property and drove the truck off to ditch it.
Arturo considered his options. He hadn’t planned this part. He didn’t feel great about a full frontal assault. He didn’t know what awaited him inside the hijacker’s cabin.
He could call the FBI, report the hideout, and step away, but the Feds would take his glory—and blame him if no one important was inside.
Arturo wanted to crack the whole ring.
His new plan would take a little time.
He had time.
Arturo researched the area on his phone, took a nap, and, the following day, rented the vacation cabin next door.
Again, genius.
After a shower to wash the smell of trees and diesel from his body, he jogged into town. He rented a pickup truck, shopped for a few days worth of food, and returned to base to scarf down half a turkey sub.
Feeling reenergized, he hiked around Lake Sorpresa to get a lay of the land before nightfall. From a small park on the opposite side of the lake, he used his binoculars to monitor the back of the hijackers’ cabin.
He watched men walk around, trying to get a feel for the comings and goings of the people inside the thieves’ lair. A man emerged shirtless to smoke and stare at the view from the back porch. Tattooed, skeletal fingers reached around the man’s neck as if they were trying to choke him.
Something about those fingers...
When the man turned, Arturo saw the rest of the tattoo.
The sight made him gasp.
It can’t be.
Only one man had a tattoo like that.
Torrance Frost.
A fellow SEAL, Frost had been captured during a mission, only to reappear months later with a terrible scar on his back. Some said he’d taken shrapnel. Others insisted he’d been tortured.
Frost wouldn’t say. He had the twisting scar tattooed with the image of a tree, ice dripping where leaves should be. The trunk started above his left hip and crawled up his back like a dark spider, rough scarring giving the gruesome tree texture. Gnarled branches followed the intricate network of his damage, gripping his torso—as if Frost himself was the demonic tree’s puppet.
From afar, the dark veins of the tattoo made it look as if Frost were cracking to pieces. From everything Arturo heard about the man, he was. The guy wasn’t the same after his capture, and it wasn’t long before the Navy dishonorably discharged him. Arturo didn’t remember why exactly. There were too many stories—none of them good.
Arturo hadn’t thought about Frost in over a decade, but no one else had that tattoo.
It had to be him.
He lowered the binoculars.
Shit.
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