Page 34 of Tag
It wasn’t.
The GPS pinged her final location six hours ago—just outside Santa Fe, on a stretch of land so remote it barely showed up on satellite.
Graves’ ghost ranch.
We approached just before midnight. Tag drove. Faron rode shotgun, locked and loaded.
I sat in the back, staring out at the endless dirt road, heart thudding with every mile.
“They take her here,” I said. “Why?”
“Because this is the kind of place no one hears you scream,” Faron muttered.
Tag’s voice was quiet. “We’re going to get her out.”
I nodded. But deep down, I was already bracing for the worst.
The main gatewas rusted and chained. We left the SUV hidden in a patch of scrub and went the rest of the way on foot, cutting through the brush in silence.
Tag found the side entrance—half-buried under dirt and grass. A storm shelter.
It wasn’t locked.
We descended.
The air changed immediately.
Cold. Damp. Thick with something that smelled like mildew and bleach and blood.
Tag flicked on his flashlight and swept the corridor. The walls were cement, reinforced with metal slats. Faron moved ahead of us, his weapon raised.
We reached a door at the end of the tunnel.
It was steel.
Soundproofed.
Faron cracked it open just enough for us to slip through.
And what we saw—
I stopped breathing.
It was a basement.
No. A dungeon.
There were four cages—like kennels, but reinforced, modified, and wired with locks.
Cameras mounted in each corner.
And in the back, a girl lay on a cot.
It was Kaylie.
Naked except for a hospital gown. Sedated. Hooked to an IV.
I ran to her, heart thudding. “Kaylie? Can you hear me?”
