Page 127 of Love Me Fierce

Zach’s eyebrows arch up.

“Let’s have a peek at the garage,” I say.

Zach eyes the NO TRESPASSING sign. “We’re pushing our luck, Ev.”

“I know.”

The gravel is so compressed by tires it’s near silent under our boots. At the big pale rock and the giant pine, we take the left fork and continue toward the garage.

There’s no window in the pull-up door. I take the right side and Zach goes left. No windows on the right side, but at the back of the garage, there’s a rectangular one just below the edge of the flat roof.

“Give me a boost,” I say, and reach for the edge of the single pane windowsill.

Zach hugs his waist. “You sure about this?”

He’s not wrong to ask. A walk around the perimeter isn’t breaking any rules, but putting my hands on a structure without permission is about as gray as it gets.

“After this, we’ll walk away until we hear from Ballard.”

He makes a step for me, and I rock upwards. Zach grunts with the strain of holding my weight. I crimp the windowsill and peek in. The glass is filmy, but it doesn’t keep me from identifying what’s parked inside.

It’s a van with 8B plates.

Ballard arrivesan hour later in a dark sedan, parking next to my rig.

Zach and I are standing on the porch, ready to bust down the door.

“You got it?” I say when he steps out in a dark suit and dress shoes.

“Yeah.” He flashes the search warrant brought straight from one of our judges. It’s limited to the van in the garage, where Walker and his crew will scope for DNA, and possible evidence inside the home that links Tisdale to his victims. Ballard thinks this is where he keeps his trophies.

What the hell are we about to see?

After we discovered that the van was registered to a Pocatello man who’s been missing for twelve years and the cabin was bought using a phony corporation we linked to Tisdale, things moved fast.

Ballard tucks the warrant into his suit pocket and draws his weapon. “Go.”

Though I was only two months into my training to become a US Marshal before Logan became my priority, we’d already covered the art of busting down doors. So it takes me only a well-aligned boot forced against the weak spot to pop the door from the frame. Weapons drawn, we fan out to sweep each room. As I move through the kitchen, the details flash through my mind: the Formica countertops scoured dull, the aged appliances, the cheap clock on the wall, the heavy curtains drawn tight. The only sounds are coming from my partners moving swiftly through the rooms, though there’s a low hum, like from a fan or maybe a heating system deeper in the house.

“Clear!” Zach calls from the other side of the wall.

“Clear!” I call out, turning the corner.

“Clear!” Ballard says from the end of the hallway.

My eyes lock on a closed door behind the kitchen. It’s the only one left. The basement.

Zach comes next to me and spins his back to the wall so he can cover me.

“Nothing so far,” Ballard says, his face tense.

My breaths echo in my throat as I turn the handle. It’s a cheap, hollow door, with a flimsy knob that shines like brass in the low light coming in from the windows. Like it’s been handled so many times, the fake antique varnish has been worn off.

Cold needles skitter across my chest.

The door opens to a dark stairway. I stand to the side and reach for the light switch, shielding my body in case the light switch triggers any booby traps aimed at the door.

But nothing happens when I flip on the light. No fire, no alarms. At least none that we can see. Though that hum I heard from earlier is louder now.

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