Dusk (Dangerous Web #1) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,64
visible license plate, on the rear of the truck. No matter what we did to the picture, we couldn’t make it out. Since there was no front plate, we could assume that the truck came from one of the states that only required rear plates.
At this moment in time, there were nineteen such states.
None were west of Montana.
We had the make and model.
The sheer number of F-250 black Ford trucks made in 2010 made that information useless. Finding the one truck that had driven onto the ranch was like a needle in a haystack. Even when we limited the number to the nineteen states that didn’t require a front license plate, the number was astronomical.
And then it occurred to me. The truck left the property headed west, the same direction as the helicopter. We began running programs accessing traffic cameras cross-referenced with towns, cities, and other landmarks accessible to the west. I started with the smaller towns.
Not all of them had traffic cameras.
However, due to the vast expanse of Montana’s highways, the state had recently added cameras and call booths along the long stretches of interstate. There were also cameras when entering and exiting state and national parks and forests. The larger cities such as Butte and Missoula were much easier.
Thankfully, we had a time stamp to follow.
The truck left the property Saturday morning at 8:23 a.m. headed west.
Early this morning, nearly twenty-four hours after Araneae had been left, we found what we believe was the same truck. It traveled through Butte and beyond. We could now see that the man was Caucasian with black hair. Again, that was too broad, the images too grainy for any kind of recognition. The truck then disappeared from Interstate 90 north of Highway 1.
Mason immediately dispatched two of the Sparrow capos toward Anaconda. Outside of the city—also the county seat—the land was rugged. The elevations made for excellent snow skiing when the weather cooled. The terrain was covered in untamed forestlands and dotted with lakes.
Our progress had brought to life budding optimism tempered by reality. Our haystack was smaller, but the needle was still fucking small.
All of our wives willingly wore trackers sewn into all of their handbags and shoes. Each was a GPS transmitter equipped for one purpose: to transmit the location.
We’d determined the ladies hadn’t had time to take their purses, but they did leave with our failsafe alternative—shoes—because who wouldn’t always have their shoes? As soon as we reached the ranch, I began running a program to locate their transmission.
Unfortunately, as soon as it was found, it was determined that it had stopped relaying rather quickly after their kidnapping. The last transmission was still within the bounds of the ranch. Since the only way to stop the transmission was to contain the transmitter—shoes—in a box lined with a special polymer, we’d assumed the shoes had been destroyed.
I’d forgotten about that program, leaving it running in the background. It had been useless and well, my mind was in a million places.
The program dinged Sunday evening at exactly 8:07 p.m.
The tracers were reactivated.
“What the fuck?” Mason said, hitting keys and bringing the GPS to one of the screens. “It’s Lorna’s and Araneae’s trackers. They’re broadcasting from the same spot.”
I stepped closer. “Where?”
Mason enlarged the map. “Elevation eight thousand feet. West-southwest of Anaconda.”
“I’m calling Christian.” Christian was the Sparrow capo in charge of the search party we’d deployed that direction earlier in the day. Once I completed my call, I stared back at the map. “They’re less than an hour out.”
Mason shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would the trackers suddenly start to transmit?”
“I don’t know why they stopped.”
The strain of the last few days showed on my brother-in-law’s face. “Unless the kidnappers knew what polymer was needed.”
“Very few would—”
“The Order would.”
The muscles in my neck and back tightened. We could take down a warring outfit, cartel, or bratva. We had. The more signs pointing toward the Order, the more worried for my wife I became.
Mason’s green gaze came to me. “I don’t like it. It’s a trap.”
He was probably right. Unless he wasn’t.
“So what? We don’t go after our first real clue to save Lorna?”
“No, of course we do.”
I emphasized each phrase. “Her shoes are there. I’m not leaving this stone unturned. My wife could still be there.”
“If she ever was,” Mason stood and paced the length of the office. His colorful arms flexed as his long legs moved step by step and his boots clipped the hard-surface floor.
“I fucking