Chapter 23 - Into the Pine Barrens
The wilderness of Northern Wisconsin was a suffocating maze of towering black pines, grey granite boulders, and thick, rolling fog that swallowed the headlights of Vincent’s SUV as they navigated the narrow, unpaved logging road.
Clara sat in the passenger seat, her hands gripped tightly around the leather armrest, staring out into the impenetrable blackness of the forest. Every shadow looked like a watcher; every snap of a distant twig sounded like a footstep.
"We're three miles past the last service station," Vincent said, his eyes flicking constantly between the winding dirt road and the digital dashboard display. "The coordinates point to an old abandoned logging camp near the lake."
"Vincent, look!" Clara pointed through the windshield as the road opened up into a clearing surrounded by rotting wooden cabins half-reclaimed by moss and briars.
In the center of the clearing stood a single cabin with a dim, yellow light flickering behind a grease-stained window. Parked beside it was a heavy-duty black pickup truck with no license plates.
Vincent cut the engine, plunging the SUV into sudden, heavy silence, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the low howl of the northern wind through the pines.
"Stay in the car," Vincent commanded, reaching beneath the center console and pulling out a heavy, matte-black firearm, checking the magazine with a practiced, lethal click.
"I'm not staying here, Vincent," Clara said, opening her door before he could stop her and stepping out onto the cold, damp pine needles. "We finish this together."
Vincent didn't argue. He knew her too well. He stepped out beside her, keeping her slightly behind his broad frame as they moved toward the cabin across the decaying wooden porch.
The front door hung slightly ajar, creaking rhythmically in the wind.
Vincent raised his weapon, kicked the door open with a resounding crash, and stepped inside—only to stop dead in his tracks.
The cabin was completely empty. There was no Victor Sterling, no guards, no weapons. Just a single wooden table in the center of the room.
And resting on top of the table was a ringing satellite phone, its green indicator light blinking frantically in the dark.
Slowly, breath held in her throat, Clara stepped inside behind Vincent. Vincent holstered his weapon, walked over to the table, and picked up the satellite phone, pressing it to his ear.
"Moretti," Vincent spoke into the line, his voice a lethal whisper.
May you like
A harsh, raspy laugh echoed from the other end of the line—a voice that sounded like grinding stones. *"Hello, nephew. Did you really think it would be that easy to bury a Sterling?"*
Before Vincent could reply, a loud click echoed from beneath the floorboards directly beneath their feet—followed by the unmistakable, terrifying hiss of a digital countdown timer engaging.
