Chapter 6
Before Deputy Miller could issue a command, the man by the car dropped his cigarette and reached swiftly inside the open window. A second man emerged from the shadows beneath the rusted iron bridge, holding a heavy iron pipe in his hand. The element of surprise was instantly shattered.
"Drop the weapon! Police!" Deputy Miller shouted, stepping out from the brush and aiming his service pistol directly at the man by the car.
Mark couldn't stay hidden any longer. Ignoring the deputy's orders to remain back, Mark pushed through the thorny bushes, his boots crunching loudly on the gravel as he emerged onto the access road. "Where is my wife!" Mark roared, his voice cutting through the damp night air with raw, unfiltered fury.
The man holding the iron pipe froze, glancing between the armed deputy and the enraged husband. The driver of the sedan slowly raised his hands, stepping away from the vehicle door.
"We didn't hurt her," the driver said defensively, his voice high-pitched and nervous. "We were just delivering a message. That's all it was. A warning."
"What kind of warning?" Deputy Miller demanded, keeping his stance wide and his weapon steady. "Who sent you?"
"Ask her family," the second man muttered, spitting onto the gravel. "She knows what she buried. You think you can hide from the past just because you moved to the suburbs and planted a garden? The past always comes back to collect."
Mark lunged forward, grabbing the second man by the collar of his jacket before Deputy Miller could intervene. "Tell me where she is right now, or I swear to God—"
"Mark, back off! Let me handle him!" Deputy Miller ordered, pulling Mark away from the suspect with a firm grip on his plaid shirt.
The suspect smirked, wiping dirt from his jacket. "She went willingly, man. She saw the photograph we left on her windshield this morning. She knew we were coming for her. She walked across that bridge to talk to the boss herself."
Mark looked past the two men, his gaze fixing on the rusted iron bridge that spanned the dark, churning creek. On the other side of the bridge, a narrow footpath led up into the abandoned quarry—a desolate, rocky wasteland known for old mining shafts and deep, water-filled pits.
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"Deputy, we have to cross," Mark said, his chest heaving as he tried to regulate his breathing.
Deputy Miller cuffed the two men quickly, securing them against the side of their sedan. He turned to Mark, his expression grim. "They're small-time thugs. Muscle for hire. But if Sarah went across that bridge alone, she's walking right into a trap."
