When the door was open eighteen inches or so, Harv stuck his head through. “I can’t see anything, it’s too dark.”

“Do you see a light switch on the wall?”

“Affirm.”

“Let’s risk it.”

Harv reached in to his left and flipped the switch. “Oh, man.…”

A bloody tableau greeted them.

Like Bullfrog Bay.

In the middle of the room, atop painter’s plastic, sat a leather office chair soaked with fresh blood. Crimson footprints surrounded the grisly seat. The desk held the instruments of Duane Dalton’s torment. A bloody hunting knife. A stun gun. Pliers. A carpenter’s hammer. And several dozen bamboo skewers with bloodstains halfway down their lengths. Montez had used them as punji sticks, probably driven in with the hammer.

Montez, you piece of shit.

“You okay, Nate?”

“No, I’m not okay. Why would I be okay?”

“Easy…”

“He’s been three steps ahead of us the entire time. No matter what we do, he slips through our fingers.” He grabbed a Tiffany table lamp and hurled it across the room. It pulled free from its plug and shattered on the far wall. “Son of a bitch!”

“Nate.”

“What?”

“Stay focused here. This isn’t over.”

“Isn’t over? Isn’t over? Take a look around. He’s long gone and so are Dalton and his daughters. He’ll be disposing of the bodies within the hour. We’ll never find him in time. It’s over. We lost. The girls are as good as dead. Let’s just face it. We lost!”

Harv grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to make eye contact. “It’s not over. Do you hear me? It’s not over until I say it’s over.”

Nathan’s voice lowered. “Harv, pull your head out and look around. He’s gone.”

Harv touched the side of Nathan’s head, making him resume eye contact. “That’s bullshit. You’re no quitter. This is not over. Now, why don’t you use that finely honed intuition of yours and tell me where the hell he went.”

Nathan looked away again. “I can’t. I’m too angry.”

“Just breathe. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Do it. Now!”

He unclenched his jaw and closed his eyes. Harv was right. This meltdown served no useful purpose. Relax. Let the hatred go.

“Keep going,” Harv whispered. “Deeper.”

He tilted his head back, inhaled deeply, and felt it—a growing calmness—like being immersed in warm water. His hatred drifted away like smoke on the wind.

He heard Harv’s voice. Distant, then edging closer, smooth as silk.

“Look around. Absorb the scene. Every detail. Where did Montez go?”