The Negotiation. Tyler Snell Anne

was how, two, she knew her gut had been right to worry. She should have listened sooner. While there was an unwritten law of Southern hospitality her parents had taught her from the moment she could walk and talk, Rachel wasn’t about to give the men the benefit of the doubt. Not any longer. She’d learned the hard way that there were bad people in the world who did bad things.

      They’d taken David from her.

      She wasn’t going to let another set of them take her or the child at her side.

      And with a shock of adrenaline, Rachel realized that was what they were about to try to do.

      There was about to be running.

      There was about to be chasing.

      So Rachel decided she wanted her and Lonnie to have the head start. Holding on to her cell phone like the lifeline it might become, Rachel spun on her heel and grabbed Lonnie’s hand. “Run!”

       Chapter Two

      Dane Jones, for once, wasn’t in the office. Instead he was at the park, sitting on a bench with Chance Montgomery, trying to convince the man that there wasn’t a conspiracy about to swallow Riker County whole.

      “It’s been a helluva year—I’ll be the first to admit that,” Dane said. “But it sure does feel like you’re looking for trouble that’s not there. And we surely don’t need any more trouble here.”

      Chance, formerly a private investigator from around Huntsville, Alabama, was what Dane liked to call a pot-stirrer, among other things. He was a good man and had been a good friend over the years, but he had the nasty habit of not just getting antsy when he was bored but turning into somewhat of a lone ranger detective when the mood struck him. It occasionally reminded Dane how different he was from the man.

      Dane was contemplative. The kind of man who worked well in the quiet. Chance was brash. He spoke up, out, and didn’t think twice about the feathers he ruffled, especially when he was between jobs as he was now.

      “I’m telling you, Dane, something isn’t adding up around here,” he implored. “Last week three warehouses were unloaded in Birmingham. All weird stuff, too. Radio equipment, dog crates and enough bubble wrap to wrap an eighteen-wheeler were stolen at the same time.”

      “I’m not saying that isn’t strange,” Dane admitted. “I just don’t see why you’ve come to me with the information. We’re several hours away from Birmingham. I can’t see how I could help from here. Or why it would fall into my purview at all.”

      Chance took off his cowboy hat and put it on his knee. He came from a long line of Alabama cowboys. They didn’t just wear the hats or have the accents, they had the attitude of an old Western movie lead. Dane wouldn’t even be surprised if Chance practiced drawing his pistols back at his family farmland outside the county. The same land Chance retreated to when he had nothing else to do. Or, again, got bored. Like he must have been now if he was looking into thefts of mass amounts of bubble wrap.

      “I’m telling you because one of the vans spotted loading up the crates had a plate that traced back to a deceased Bates Hill resident.”

      That caught Dane’s attention. Bates Hill was the smallest town in Riker County, which put it square in the sheriff’s department jurisdiction. It also made Chance’s insistence that they meet make more sense. Still, he wasn’t about to jump to any conclusions.

      “Who did it trace back to?”

      Chance dug into his jeans’ pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it over but read the name out loud.

      “Tracy Markinson,” he said. “Ring a bell?”

      Dane felt like he’d jammed both feet in a bucket of ice water. His mind skidded to a halt and instead of staying in the present where it was needed, it did one hell of a job throwing itself backward.

      “Rings a loud one.” Dane looked at the paper but only saw the face of a man he’d never forget. “Tracy Markinson’s been dead for almost a decade,” he said. “Definitely not stealing bubble wrap in Birmingham.”

      Chance slid his finger around the brim of his hat and then thumped it once. “Which is why I thought I needed to take a drive out to see you.” He cast Dane a knowing look. “And why I thought talking in private might be the best move. I didn’t want to waltz into the department and just throw this at you. Thought doing it here, in the fresh air, might be better. Plus, you know how much I hate offices.”

      Dane didn’t speak for a moment. He was seeing ghosts. Ghosts of his past. Ghosts he’d created. And where there were ghosts, there was her.

      He didn’t say it, but Dane was glad Chance had told him outside the department. He prided himself on being surefooted when it came to his job. Right now? Right now he felt like he was treading air.

      “How exactly did it trace back to him?” he finally asked. Even to his ears his voice had gone low, nearing a whisper. “You said license plate?”

      “Yes, sir. It was attached to a burgundy van that left the warehouse with the dog crates. Tracy was the last person who legally owned it, but past that, I’m not sure on any more details. Once I saw the name, I thought I’d come talk to you first.”

      Dane’s gears were still moving slow. Like a cup of molasses had been poured over them. He’d worked a lot of cases since Tracy was killed. Ones that had made his blood boil. Ones that had kept him up at night. Ones that had shaken the entire sheriff’s department and county to their cores. Yet what had happened to Tracy? That was a case that had changed Dane’s entire life in the blink of an eye.

      An eye that might be looking at him now.

      “After Tracy died, his things were given to the family he had left and then the rest were donated, if I’m not mistaken. Birmingham might be far for some, but it’s definitely within driving distance. Not hard to get his van up there. It could be just a coincidence that it happened to be his old one,” Dane pointed out.

      Chance picked his cowboy hat off his leg and put it on. He looked out at the small park and the autumn leaves that had started to fall. The scene contrasted with the heat that hadn’t yet left South Alabama.

      “It could be,” he admitted. “Coincidence, maybe. Bad luck, maybe that, too. But my gut says it’s not, and I aim to find out why it’s telling me that.” Chance stood. “I’ll be at the hotel on Cherry for a few days, looking into some things. You’ve got my number. Don’t hesitate to call it. I’ll do the same if I find anything. Unless you want me to keep this one out of your hair?”

      Dane shook his head.

      “If there is a loop, keep me in it if you don’t mind,” Dane said. “And, Chance? Thanks for reaching out.”

      The cowboy gave a small nod and walked over the fallen leaves to his truck in the parking lot. Dane watched as he drove away. Riker County was nothing short of surprising, no matter the season. It might only house one large city, but the trouble that found its way into its borders never ceased to amaze Dane. If it wasn’t a new criminal organization trying to take over, it was kidnapped children, manhunts and enough gunshots traded between the bad guys and their department to last him a few lifetimes.

      Dane left the bench in an attempt to exit his current road of thought.

      Even before the recent uptick in chaos around his home, there had been only one night that had burned its way into his soul.

      The night he’d made a decision.

      The wrong one.

      Dane hopped into his truck and pointed it toward the department in the heart of Carpenter, Alabama. He had too much on his plate to fight with his past again. Now wasn’t the time.

      He turned the volume up on the radio, let a crooning song croon, and was about to write off Chance’s gut when his phone vibrated in