Chapter 22 Yellow Jacket

Chapter 22 Yellow Jacket
I push the sagging door shut behind me and the building exhales the rotten, stale air like it’s relieved to be rid of me. The sky is low now. No sign of an helicopter. No familiar staccato of Marcus’ boots. That means I’ll have to find Liora myself before he even gets here. She’s all that matters now.

I click my tongue, a small, pointless noise. They drugged me. They hauled me off from the inn, from under my wife’s nose. They thought they could play at being dangerous. They chose the wrong target.

I start walking down the uneven path, keeping my eyes open, watching for anyone who looks out of place. But truth is, everyone here looks out of place.

A small shape soon catches my eye. A boy, maybe seven or eight, perched on a balcony like a gargoyle, legs swinging. He’s a bright blot of color against the town’s dullness, wearing a jacket too large for him. He looks bored, maybe on the lookout for something interesting to break the day. 

I walk to him. Up close, I see a smear of dried mud across his cheek and a gap where a front tooth should be. He straightens when he notices me, eyes sharpening. 

“Boy,” I say, my voice casual. “Where’s the inn from here?”

He swallows, then points with the heel of his hand down the lane to my right. 

“Down there, mister. Past the well. Big sign. ‘Inn for Locals.’”

“Did you see anyone carrying a woman? Anyone running, looking scared?” I add.

He frowns, shaking his head. “No, sir. Nobody like that. People don’t usually come out much after dark. My mama says the night here isn’t safe.”

I lift my gaze to the sky. It’s already dark. The moon hides behind the clouds, offering barely enough light to see by. I don’t know how long I was out, but it must’ve been hours. Long enough for something to go wrong. Long enough for them to get to Liora.

A muscle jumps in my jaw as I exhale slowly. 

“The night isn’t safe, huh?” I murmur under my breath. The boy only stares, his wide eyes. I give him one last look. “Go inside, kid. Lock your door.”

He nods quickly and disappears behind the wooden frame, leaving me alone with nothing but silence.

I turn toward the path he mentioned and start walking. Every passing second feels like an eternity as my thoughts circle back to the same unbearable question. What if she’s hurt?

After about five minutes, maybe less, maybe more, the inn finally comes into view. The old wooden door gives way under my push, and I’m inside before the hinges can even finish creaking.

The place is quiet. My chest tightens, and I head straight for room six.

When I reach the door, I stop. My hand hovers over the handle, but for a second, I can’t move. My heart, usually steady even in the worst of situations falters. It’s unusual. 

“What are you doing to me, Liora?” I mutter under my breath, leaning against the wood for half a second before forcing myself to move. I can’t afford hesitation now.

I twist the handle and push the door open.

The air inside is filled with the scent of blood. My eyes sweep across the room, taking in every detail. The bed is untouched. The lamp still flickers weakly. My eyes catch something near the foot of the bed.

A dark patch. Blood.

My blood runs cold. I take a step forward, every muscle tightening, my jaw clenching hard. 

“Liora,” I breathe out.

She’s gone.

Gone.

Rage hits me like a physical thing. I don’t think. I can't. My fist cracks against the wall and dust trickles from the seam. Whoever took her took something that was mine to protect. That will not stand.

A helicopter thumps in the distance. I tap the band at my wrist. The device chirps and Marcus’s voice snaps into my ear a second later. “Sir?”

“Find the inn,” I say.

“On my way,” Marcus answers. I end the call before he can ask anything else.

Minutes pass. I stand in the doorway alone, silence growing around me. Until I finally hear footsteps. Marcus, followed by the two men I ordered. They step into the doorway, rifles set. Marcus blinks when he sees me, and his composure stutters.

“Sir,” he says, voice calm because he’s trained to sound calm, “what happened?”

“They took her,” I reply. The three words are enough. Marcus already knows what I mean. Not only that she’s gone, but what that implies.

He inhales once. “What do we do now?”

I smile without humor. “Gather everyone. Go from house to house. Drag them out into the square. All of them. If someone resists, make them an example.”

“Done,” Marcus answers, bowing his chin. “And you, sir? What will you—”

A small image slides into my mind and I click my tongue. How did I miss that? Panic had skewed my vision. 

"I have somewhere to be,” I say. “You run the sweep. When the square is full, signal me."

Marcus bows his head. “Yes, sir. We’ll start now.”

He and his men move out immediately. I watch them go only long enough to make sure they are actually gone, then turn away.

Earlier, when Liora and I came into this town, we saw a couple of men. One of them wearing a yellow jacket. He was among the few that didn't say anything but watched. And watched Liora. At the time I let it slide, my wife is pretty. And of course, men look. But a look is not a hand. The same jacket , that exact shade of yellow, is what the little boy I asked for directions was wearing. How did I miss that? The boy has to be his son. He knows something. 

I hurry back to the house. The boy isn’t on the balcony now and the front door is shut. I knock. 

After a minute, the door opens a crack and a woman peers out. She looks the kind of tired that comes from years of not sleeping enough. Annoyance flares across her face when she sees me.

“Yes?” she snaps. “How may I help you?”

“Where’s your son?” I ask, not having any time for pleasantries.

Her brows pull together. “What do you want from my son?” 

I step closer to her. 

“Woman,” I say, the word impatient. “I don’t have all the time in the world. Answer me now.”

"I’ll tell you, on the condition that you don’t hurt him," her eyes are as protective as they can be for a mother. 

I read her in one look, before responding. 

“I only have a few questions,” I promise. “He answers them, and I leave. Do you understand?”

She studies me for a long moment before nodding. 

“Trey! Trey!” she calls, forcing cheer I know she doesn’t feel.

The boys appears. He looks like every frightened child in every bad story. When he sees me, his eyes widen and he takes one involuntary step back. The jacket’s yellow is dirty now, but I still recognize it keenly.

“Where is your father?” I ask. 

“My husband?” the woman says. “Probably drinking somewhere. He... he isn’t about much.”

“Let the boy answer,” I tell her. Trey presses his lips together, then looks at the ground a long moment before finding my eyes.

“The warehouse,” he says softly, voice almost a whisper. “The old mill, the warehouse by the bend.”

“What warehouse?” I ask. "I'm not from here."

He blinks, thinking hard, then points down the street with a small, hesitant hand. “Um... take the road straight until you get to the stream. Then... then turn right. You’ll see it. It’s big and old, like it’s gonna fall down or something.”

His mother crosses her arms, hand on her waist. “And what’s your father doing at the warehouse, Trey?” she demands.

The boy looks down at his shoes, shuffling. 

“I dunno,” he mumbles. “He was acting weird, so... I followed him. I didn’t go close, I promise. I just... watched from far. He went inside, and I got scared, so I ran back home.”

The woman exhales sharply, rubbing her forehead. 
“You shouldn’t have followed him, Trey,” she mutters before turning to me, irritation replacing her worry. “Well, you’ve gotten your answer, young man. Now please, leave us be.”

“Thank you,” I say shortly, then crouch a bit and ruffle the boy’s hair. “Good job, kid.”

He smiles nervously, eyes bright with curiosity and a hint of pride, before his mother pulls him gently inside. The door shuts, and the night falls silent again.

The warehouse.
Maybe Liora was taken there.

My heart slams in my chest as I take off in the direction the boy pointed. I follow the road until I reach the stream, then turn right. Just as he said, an old, musty building sits, its roof sagging, its doors half-rotten.

I move quietly. The stench of oil fills my nose as I push the door open.

And then I freeze.

Liora.

She’s on the ground, her body trembling. Three men stand over her, laughing. Harsh, ugly sounds. Her face is streaked with tears, her lip split, blood staining her dress. She’s trying to sit up, but one of them shoves her back down with his boot.

For a moment, I can’t breathe.

My face darkens.

They hurt her.

They hurt my wife.

They all won’t live to see the sunrise.