College Friends Vanished on a Mountain Trip — 2 Years Later, Hikers Found This in an Abandoned House…

 

In the summer of 2022, four college roommates disappeared during a weekend camping trip in the Pine Hollow Mountains. No distress calls, no trail markers. Their families were told they wandered off and never survived the wilderness. Two years later, hikers found their white SUV parked behind an abandoned house, engine cold, but fresh clothes hanging on a makeshift line like someone had just done laundry.

 What they found inside that abandoned house turned two years of dead-end investigation upside down and plunged four families into shock. Marcus Cross hadn’t slept right in 2 years. He’d been back from deployment for 8 months now, but the nightmares weren’t from Afghanistan. They were from a campsite in Pine Hollow where his sister Sarah’s tent sat empty, sleeping bags still warm like she just stepped out to pee behind a tree.

 The call came on a Tuesday morning while he was fixing the leaky sink his mom had been asking about for weeks. Water dripped steady into the bucket below each drop counting seconds since Sarah vanished. Marcus, this is Tommy Brennan, used to work Pine Hollow PD. Marcus set down the wrench, wiped grease from his hands with an old rag. He knew that name from the missing person’s file he’d memorized. Every detective, every witness, every dead-end lead.

What do you want? Hikers found something yesterday. Your sister’s car behind an old house up on Birch Creek Road. The bucket overflowed. Water splashed across the kitchen, and mom hadn’t replaced since the 80s. Marcus gripped the phone harder. That’s impossible. Search teams covered every inch of those mountains.

Not every inch, son. Not where Sheriff Mitchell told them not to look. The bitterness in Brennan’s voice cut through the static. Marcus had heard that tone before from soldiers who’d been hung out to dry by their commanding officers, left bleeding while the brass covered their asses.

 What did they find? White SUV, license plate matches, Sarah’s camping gear still in the back, sleeping bags, her favorite coffee mug, the one with the chip on the handle. Marcus closed his eyes. Sarah behind the wheel singing along to whatever garbage pop song was stuck in her head. Her friends laughing in the back seat. Jessica with her infectious grin. Claire taking photos of everything.

 Megan reading trail maps like she was planning a military operation. Windows down, mountain air whipping through their hair. Four college girls who thought the world was beautiful and safe. Where’s the house? That’s the thing, Marcus. House ain’t been abandoned. Someone’s been living there. Fresh clothes on a line, food in the fridge. Like they just stepped out.

 Marcus felt something cold crawl up his spine, settle in his stomach like a chunk of ice.

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Two years. Two years of thinking his sister was bones in some ravine. Two years of his mother crying herself to sleep, clutching Sarah’s old sweatshirt. Two years of guilt that ate at him like acid. He should have been there. He should have gone on that camping trip instead of deploying to Kandahar. Should have protected her. You think? I think your sister didn’t wander off like they said. I think someone’s been lying to your family for 2 years. Marcus stared at the water pooling on the kitchen floor. In the living room, his mother watched morning TV.

 Volume turned low. She’d aged a decade since Sarah disappeared. gray hair, hollow cheeks, hands that shook when she thought nobody was looking. Where’s this house? Birch Creek Road, old logging route, past the main trail markers. I can give you directions. Why are you calling me? Why not the family? Brennan was quiet for a long moment. Static hissed through the phone.

Because I know what it’s like to lose someone to these mountains, and I know Sheriff Mitchell won’t do a damn thing about it. You sound like you got history with the sheriff. You could say that. Marcus grabbed a pen, started writing as Brennan gave him directions. Turn left at the broken gate. Follow the ruts for three miles. Look for the house with the green roof. Brennan. Yeah. Thank you.

Don’t thank me yet, son. What you find up there, it might not be what you want to hear. The line went dead. Marcus stared at the directions scrolled on the back of an electric bill. His mom’s careful handwriting addressed the envelope.

 The same neat script that had filled out missing person reports, written letters to politicians, organized search parties. She’d never given up hope. Even when the cops said Sarah was probably dead, even when the media moved on to other stories. Marcus folded the paper, shoved it in his pocket. In the living room, his mother looked up from her coffee. Who was that, honey? Work stuff, ma. I got to run out for a while.

 She nodded, went back to her show. Some talk program where happy people discussed happy problems. Marcus grabbed his jacket, checked that his Glock was secure in its holster. Old habits from the war. Never leave the house unarmed. Outside, his truck sat in the driveway like a faithful dog. Beat up Ford with 200,000 miles and an engine that ran on stubbornness.

 He climbed in, started the engine, the radio came on. Classic rock station Sarah used to hate. “Turn that old man music off,” she’d say, reaching for the dial. Marcus left it on. Somewhere in the Pine Hollow Mountains, his sister’s car was parked behind a house that wasn’t supposed to be occupied. and someone had been living there for two years.

 The drive to Pine Hollow would take 90 minutes on mountain roads that twisted like broken promises. Marcus had time to think. Time to prepare for whatever he was going to find. Time to remember the last thing Sarah ever said to him. Try not to get shot over there. Okay. I need my big brother to come home safe. He’d promised her he would.

 Now it was time to return the favor. Kevin Reed’s workshop sat in a clearing 5 mi down the mountain, surrounded by forest thick enough to muffle screams. Marcus approached on foot through the trees, night vision revealing the compound’s layout like a military target assessment. Main workshop building with bay doors and industrial lighting. Storage sheds scattered around the property.

 A buried shipping container that made his skin crawl when he realized what it probably contained. Reed’s truck was parked out front, engine still ticking from recent use. Exhaust steam rose from the tailpipe in the cold mountain air.

 Marcus found him in the workshop, frantically loading files into a metal case under harsh fluorescent lights. 50some, graying beard, calloused hands, the kind of weathered face people trusted instinctively, the kind that helped lost hikers find their way right into hell. Going somewhere, Kevin? Reed spun around, hands staying visible in the universal gesture of someone who knew they were caught.

 His eyes were sharp, calculating, already working angles for survival. Cross. Reed’s voice was steady despite the rifle pointed at his chest. I was hoping we could talk like civilized men. About what? How you’ve been feeding college kids to rich psychopaths for entertainment? It’s not that simple. Nothing ever is. Marcus kept his rifle trained on Reed’s center mass. Finger on the trigger. Safety off.

Explain it to me. Started small. One client. One girl who wouldn’t be missed. Run away from Seattle. No family, no friends asking questions. Reed’s voice was conversational like he was discussing the weather or local fishing conditions. Money was too good to ignore.50,000 for one weekend.

 More than I made in a year doing honest work. So you decided to become a professional kidnapper. Clients wanted more different types. Network grew organically. Supply and demand. Basic economics. Marcus felt bile rise in his throat. My sister wasn’t a runaway number. Sarah and her friends were premium package.

 College girls from good families, clean backgrounds, photogenic clients pay extra for that kind of quality. The casual way Reed discussed his sister like merchandise cataloging her value like livestock at auction made Marcus want to put a bullet through his skull. How much? 50,000 each for the initial acquisition. Then ongoing fees for maintenance, streaming revenue, special requests.

 Your sister generated over half a million in her two years with us. Streaming revenue. Reed nodded toward a computer setup in the corner. Multiple monitors, professional cameras, server racks that hummed with electronic cooling fans. Dark web pays per viewer for live content. Popular performers pull six figures annually. Interactive features cost extra. Marcus felt sick.

interactive features. Clients can type commands, watch the subjects follow instructions in real time. Some prefer the hunting packages, turn them loose in the woods, track them down like game animals, and you filmed it all. Business model required documentation.

 Clients want proof of value, highlights for future marketing, evidence of premium service delivery. The clinical way Reed described his sister’s torture, reduced to business metrics and customer satisfaction surveys, snapped something inside Marcus. He slammed the rifle butt into Reed’s face. The man crashed into his workbench, tools scattering across concrete floor. The safe now.

 Reed wiped blood from his nose, led Marcus to a hidden panel behind the tool cabinet. His hands shook as he worked the combination 7419. just like he’d promised over the radio. Inside, external hard drives, printed client lists, financial ledgers, photographic evidence, organized in neat folders. “Everything’s there,” Reed gasped, holding his broken nose.

 “Names, addresses, payment records, video files. Burn it all down.” Marcus grabbed the drives and documents, stuffed them in his tactical pack. Enough evidence to destroy the entire network. put dozens of rich predators in federal prison. One more question. My friend Brennan’s daughter Bethany, what happened to her? Reed’s eyes went dark with something that might have been regret. Lasted 3 days in the advanced hunting package.

 Clients loved her fighting spirit, paid bonuses for extended chase sequences. Marcus shot him in the knee. Reed screamed, collapsed against the workbench, blood spreading across the concrete floor. Where’s her body? Ridge behind the main compound, unmarked grave with the others. Maybe 20, 30 bodies total. Marcus looked around the workshop.

 At the cameras that had recorded his sister’s suffering, at the hunting trophies on the walls, not deer or elk, but personal items from victims, jewelry, phones, driver’s licenses, a museum of human misery. He pulled out a thermite grenade from his tactical vest. militaryissue incendiary that burned hot enough to melt steel and erase evidence. What are you doing? Cleaning house.

Marcus activated the grenade, tossed it into the computer setup. White hot magnesium fire consumed the servers, the monitors, the digital infrastructure of years of systematic horror. Reed tried to crawl away from the spreading flames. Marcus grabbed him by the collar, zip tied his hands behind his back.

 The families deserve to know what happened to their daughters. He dragged Reed outside as the workshop burned, flames reaching toward the night sky like fingers of purification. 20 minutes later, state police sirens wailed up the mountain road. Then FBI tactical vehicles, then media vans with satellite dishes extending like mechanical flowers.

 Marcus sat in the back of an ambulance watching federal agents arrest what remained of the network. Sheriff Mitchell in handcuffs, Reed on a stretcher, headed for federal custody and a life sentence without parole. Sarah found him there wrapped in a hospital blanket looking fragile but alive. Her friends stayed close, Jessica, Clare, Megan, supporting each other like they had for 2 years.

 “You okay?” Sarah asked, sitting beside him on the ambulance bumper. Marcus looked at his sister, still too thin, still holloweyed from trauma that would take years to heal, but breathing, free, no longer merchandise in someone else’s sick business. I will be you. She leaned against his shoulder, exhausted, but safe. I knew you’d come, even when they said nobody was looking anymore.

 Even when I wanted to give up. Marcus pulled her close, felt her bird bone fragility against his chest. I made a promise. What promise? To bring you home. In the distance, smoke rose from Reed’s workshop. The flames consumed everything. Computers, files, the digital infrastructure that had turned human suffering into entertainment for rich monsters.

 But the evidence drives were safe in Marcus’ pack. tomorrow. He’d hand them over to federal prosecutors who’d spend years hunting down every client, every enabler, every person who’d profited from his sister’s nightmare. Tonight, he was just a brother who’d kept his word.

 The mountaineer tasted like smoke and freedom, and justice finally served. Sarah Cross was coming home, and the monsters who’d caged her were going to burn. Marcus drove to Pine Hollow with his Glock in the glove box and Sarah’s missing person file on the passenger seat.

 The Manila folder was thick as a phone book, stuffed with witness statements, search grid maps, and photos that made his chest tight. Sarah laughing around a campfire. Sarah hugging her roommates at graduation. Sarah’s tent empty, flap moving in mountain wind like a ghost was inside. The mountain town looked the same as it had two years ago when he’d spent three weeks searching every trail, every creek bed, every goddamn boulder that could hide a body. Same weathered buildings with peeling paint and handcarved signs.

Same pickup trucks with gun racks and fishing poles. Same locals who’d shake their heads and mutter about city kids who don’t respect the wilderness. same Sheriff Mitchell who’d pat his shoulder and promised they’d keep looking while his eyes said the case was already closed.

 Marcus parked outside Maggie’s diner, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone’s business and the coffee was strong enough to wake the dead. Red vinyl booths, checkered floor, smell of bacon grease that had soaked into the walls over decades. The same waitress from 2 years ago looked up when he walked in. Sandy, maybe 50, tired eyes and a kind smile. She’d served him coffee every morning during the search, never charged him full price.

Marcus Cross, I remember you. She poured coffee without being asked. Set down cream he wouldn’t use. How you holding up, honey? Getting by. He wrapped his hands around the mug, felt warmth seep through ceramic. Sandy, you hear anything about activity up on Birch Creek 

Road? Her smile faltered. Birch Creek. That’s pretty remote up there. Old house with a green roof. Someone said they saw signs of recent activity. Sandy glanced toward the kitchen, then back. Oh, that old place been empty for years. Hikers use it sometimes when weather turns bad. Anyone seen activity up there recently? Cars, smoke from the chimney, anything like that? She shrugged, but her hands were busy wiping the same spot on the counter over and over. Not my business what folks do on private property.

Marcus left five bucks on the table and walked outside. The mountaineer was sharp with pine and old snow thin enough to remind you how high up you were. A gruff voice stopped him by his truck. You’re asking the wrong question, son. Marcus turned. An older man leaned against a rusted pickup, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the gray stubble and worn flannel shirt.

 Big frame gone soft with age, but the kind of soft that could still break your ribs if you push too hard. And you are Tommy Brennan, the one who called you? Marcus studied him. Brennan looked like every retired cop Marcus had ever met. Shoulders bent from carrying too much weight. Eyes that had seen too much [ __ ] Hands that stayed ready even when they were relaxed.

 “Sheriff’s got this town believing a lot of lies,” Brennan said. “What kind of lies?” “The kind that keep families from getting answers.” Brennan’s voice cracked just enough to prove he wasn’t bullshitting. Lost my own daughter to these mountains 5 years ago. The pain in those words hit Marcus like a physical blow. He recognized it. The same hollow ache that lived in his chest.

 The weight that never lifted. She didn’t wander off. Someone took her. Marcus felt his chest tighten. You have proof. Not the kind that holds up in court, but enough to know the truth. Brennan pulled a business card from his shirt pocket, handed it over. The card stock was worn soft like he’d been carrying it for years.

 Check the old logging roads. Sheriff never searches there. Ask yourself why he always finds the campsite but never the people. Brennan climbed into his truck, diesel engine coughing to life. “When you’re ready for the truth,” he said through the open window. “Call me.” He drove off, leaving Marcus standing in the parking lot with more questions than answers.

 The business card read Thomas Brennan, private investigator. A local phone number written in faded ink. Marcus pocketed the card, but didn’t commit to anything. Grief made people see conspiracies where there were only accidents. Made them need someone to blame when the world just turned out cruel and random. But something about Brennan’s eyes stuck with him.

 Not crazy, not desperate, just tired. Like a man who had been carrying a heavy load for too long. The mountain air tasted like pine needles and old snow, crisp enough to cut your lungs if you breathe too deep. Somewhere up there, Sarah’s car sat behind a house that wasn’t supposed to be occupied. Behind a house where someone had been hanging fresh laundry like they owned the place.

 Marcus got in his truck, pulled out the directions Brennan had given him. Turn left at the broken gate. Follow the ruts for three miles. Look for the house with the green roof. The engine turned over rough, settled into the steady rumble that had carried him through two deployments and 1,000 mi of highway therapy after he came home.

 He’d driven these roads before during the search, but always on the main trails, always where Sheriff Mitchell’s teams had told him to look. Never on the old logging roads. Never where the sheriff said there was nothing to find. Marcus pulled onto Highway 9, headed toward the mountains that had swallowed his sister without a trace.

 The radio played classic rock, the same station Sarah used to complain about. “Turn that old man music off,” she’d say, reaching for the dial with paint stained fingers from whatever art project she was working on. Marcus left it on. Let her voice echo in his head.

 Let the memory keep him company on the long drive into country that held secrets in its shadows. Behind him, Pine Hollow shrank in the rearview mirror. A town full of people who’d shaken their heads and offered sympathy and gone back to their lives. A town where the sheriff always found the campsite, but never the people. Marcus pressed the accelerator and headed for the truth.

 The logging road to Birch Creek twisted through pine forest so thick the afternoon sun barely touched the ground. Marcus drove slow, truck bouncing over ruts and fallen branches nobody had cleared in years. His GPS lost signal after the first mile, screen flickering between searching for satellites and blank gray nothing. No wonder search teams never made it up here.

 Sheriff Mitchell probably told them the road was impassible, washed out, not worth the risk. The trees pressed close on both sides, pine boughs scraping his windows like skeletal fingers. This wasn’t wilderness. This was something older, darker. The kind of place where things happened and nobody heard the screams. Every quarter mile, Marcus stopped the truck, rolled down his windows, listened. Birds in the canopy, wind through branches.

 The distant sound of water running over rocks. No human voices. No chainsaws or ATVs or any sign that people came here. Perfect place to hide something you didn’t want found. The road climbed steadily, switch backing up the mountain side. Marcus’ ears popped as they gained elevation. Through gaps in the trees, he could see the valley below. Pine Hollow spread out like a postcard.

 peaceful, innocent, a town where nothing bad ever happened. The house appeared around a bend like something from a nightmare. Two-story cabin, roof sagging under years of snow load, windows dark as dead eyes. But the yard was clean. No fallen branches cluttering the porch. No weeds choking the stone walkway that led from the driveway to the front door.

Someone had been taking care of this place. Marcus parked 50 yards back, engine off. He pulled the Glock from his glove box, checked the magazine. 15 rounds should be enough for whatever he might find. Should be. Sarah’s white SUV sat behind the house, almost hidden by overgrown bushes.

 The license plate was covered in mud, but Marcus recognized the dent in the rear bumper from when Sarah backed into a fire hydrant freshman year. [ __ ] [ __ ] [ __ ] she’d said, examining the damage. Mom’s going to kill me. But their mother had just hugged her, relieved Sarah wasn’t hurt. Cars can be fixed, baby. You can’t. Now that same dented bumper sat behind a house that shouldn’t exist in a place search teams had never looked.

A clothes line stretched between two pine trees. Women’s clothing hung from it. jeans, t-shirts, underwear, all clean, all dry, all fresh. Marcus’s blood went cold. The clothes looked like they’d been hung this morning. Maybe yesterday at the latest. Someone was living here recently. He approached the house with his pistol drawn, boots silent on the pine needles carpeting the ground.

 Military training kicked in. Check corners, watch windows, assume contact at any moment. The front door was unlocked. Inside, the house felt lived in. Canned goods stacked neat on kitchen shelves. Sleeping bags rolled tight in the corner. A propane camp stove with a pot still warm to the touch. Someone had been here within the last few hours.

 Marcus moved through the rooms methodically, clearing corners like he’d been trained in Kandahar, empty. But the smell lingered. sweat, fear, something else he couldn’t identify but made his skin crawl. Old wood and mildew, unwashed bodies, the metallic tang of blood that had soaked into floorboards and never quite washed out.

 In the main room, cotss lined the walls, military surplus, the kind you could fold up and store. But these were bolted to the floor, chains attached to the metal frames. Marcus’s stomach turned. Those weren’t beds. They were restraints. In the back bedroom, he found it. A note tucked under a loose floorboard written in shaky handwriting. They made us read their messages.

 They said, “It’s for viewers.” We smiled. We lied. Marcus read it twice. Three times. His hands shook as the words sank in. Viewers messages. They made us read. This wasn’t about getting lost in the wilderness. This wasn’t some tragic accident where four college girls wandered off a trail and froze to death.

 Someone had taken his sister, taken all four girls, and they’d been forcing them to perform for an audience. Marcus pocketed the note, kept searching, his heart hammered against his ribs, military discipline waring with raw panic. Sarah had been here in this house. God knew for how long. In the main room, he noticed something else. Scratches in the wooden floor.

 Fresh gouges like furniture had been dragged across it recently. Heavy furniture. He followed the scratches to a section of wall that looked different. Newer wood painted to match the rest, but not quite right, like someone had built it in a hurry and hoped nobody would notice. A hidden door. Marcus ran his fingers along the edges, found the latch behind a loose board.

 The hidden door swung open on silent hinges. The space behind was small, cramped, a hiding spot built into the wall cavity, but big enough to hold people if you forced them to squeeze together. On the floor, strands of long brown hair, Sarah’s color, Sarah’s length, a silver bracelet with a broken clasp, the one their grandmother had given Sarah for her 16th birthday.

Marcus’ vision blurred. His sister had been here in this box, chained like an animal. For how long? Weeks? Months? Two years? Outside, gravel crunched. A vehicle approaching slow and careful. Marcus killed his phone’s flashlight eased the hidden door shut. Through the front window, he saw a Pine Hollow Sheriff’s cruiser rolling up the drive, engine barely audible.

 Sheriff Frank Mitchell stepped out, one hand resting on his service weapon. He moved like he knew exactly where he was going. No hesitation, no surprise at finding this place. This wasn’t a patrol. This wasn’t random. Mitchell had been here before. Marcus crouched behind the kitchen counter, Glock ready.

 Through the dirty window, he watched Mitchell check the clothesline, examine Sarah’s SUV with the familiarity of someone conducting a routine inspection. Then Mitchell headed straight for the front door. No hesitation, no calling for backup, no surprise at finding fresh evidence of the missing girls. Because he already knew they’d been here, Mitchell knew everything. The door creaked open. Mitchell stepped inside, hand still on his weapon, eyes scanning the room with the efficiency of someone who’d done this before. Well, well, should have stayed away, son.

 Mitchell was looking right at him. Had been tracking him since he arrived. Marcus was [ __ ] Sheriff Mitchell’s boots thudded across the porch like he owned the place. Marcus stayed low behind the kitchen counter, finger on the trigger. Through the window, he watched Mitchell check the clothes line with the casual efficiency of someone conducting routine maintenance. No surprise, no confusion.

Mitchell knew this house, knew it well. The sheriff examined Sarah’s SUV, running his hand along the dented bumper like he was checking the condition of inventory. Then he pulled out his radio, spoke quiet words Marcus couldn’t hear, calling for backup, reporting the discovery, or telling someone the cleanup needed to happen faster. The door creaked open.

 Mitchell stepped inside, hand still on his weapon, eyes scanning the room with practice deficiency. Well, well, should have stayed away, son. Marcus froze. Mitchell was looking right at him, service weapon half-drawn. Come on out, Cross. We need to talk. Marcus rose slowly. Glock aimed at Mitchell’s chest. The sheriff didn’t seem surprised to see the weapon.

 Didn’t even flinch. Sheriff. Mitchell smiled. The same sympathetic expression he’d worn at Sarah’s vigil two years ago. Patient, understanding, the face of a man who’d spent his career delivering bad news to grieving families. But his eyes were cold as January ice. You found the note, didn’t you? Mitchell asked, stepping closer.

 Smart girls, too smart for their own good. Where is she? Your sister, safe, federal, clean clothes, warm bed, more than she deserves after the trouble she’s caused. Marcus’s finger tightened on the trigger. Every instinct screamed to pull it. Put a bullet through Mitchell’s heart. And this right here. But he needed answers first. trouble. This is bigger than you think, boy. Bigger than this town.

 Bigger than your family. Mitchell took another step, confident like a man who’d been in control for so long he’d forgotten what fear felt like. You got family back home? Mother still living in that little house on Maple Street? Be a shame if something happened to them while you’re up here playing detective.

 The threat hung in the air between them, casual as discussing the weather. Marcus felt rage boil up his throat. Two years of nightmares. Two years of his mom crying herself to sleep, clutching Sarah’s sweatshirt like it could bring her daughter back. Two years of thinking his sister was bones in some ravine. And this bastard knew where she was the whole time.

 “Your sister’s alive,” Mitchell continued, voice as honey over broken glass. “Her friends, too, for now. For now. But that can change real quick. Depends on how smart you are, how much you love your family. Mitchell reached for his radio. Unit seven. This is Marcus lunged. Military training kicked in like muscle memory. He grabbed Mitchell’s wrist, twisted hard until bones ground together.

 The radio clattered across the floor, plastic casing cracking against the wall. Mitchell swung his left fist at Marcus’s temple. Marcus ducked, drove his elbow into the sheriff’s ribs, heard cartilage pop. Mitchell gasped, tried to draw his sidearm.

 Marcus slammed his knee into Mitchell’s gut, sent him crashing into the wall hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling beams. The sheriff hit the floor, wheezing. Marcus stood over him. Glock pointed at his head. “Where are they?” Mitchell spat blood, teeth stained red. “You have no idea what you just started. I asked you a question. mountain facility, Pine Ridge Road, compound about 15 miles north of here. Mitchell’s voice was thick with pain, but his eyes still held defiance.

But you’ll never make it. My boys will cut you down before you get within a mile. Marcus ripped Mitchell’s radio from his belt, his service weapon from its holster. Standardiss issue Glock 22, fully loaded. How many? Enough. Mitchell tried to sit up, winced as broken ribs shifted. Walk away, Cross.

 Take your family and disappear. Move to another state. Change your names. That’s the only way they stay breathing. Marcus looked down at the man who’d lied to his face for 2 years. Who’d shaken his hand at Sarah’s vigil while knowing exactly where she was. Who’d hugged his mother and promised to never stop looking. He wanted to pull the trigger.

End it right here. Watch Mitchell’s blood soak into the same floorboards where his sister had been held captive. But Sarah needed him alive to find her. Her friends needed him functional, not consumed by rage. Military discipline over personal vendetta. “Tell me about the viewers,” Marcus said. Mitchell laughed, a wet sound that made Marcus’s skin crawl.

“You think this is just about your sister, kid? We got clients in every major city. Politicians, CEOs, judges, rich men who pay premium for exclusive entertainment. Entertainment, live streams, interactive experiences. They can type instructions, watch the girls follow commands. Some prefer the hunting packages. Turn them loose in the woods. Track them down like deer.

 Marcus felt bile rise in his throat. How long your sister? Two years active. She’s been good for business. Clients love the ones who still fight back. The casual way Mitchell said it like Sarah was livestock. Like her terror was a commodity. Snapped something inside Marcus. He pressed the Glock’s muzzle against Mitchell’s forehead.

 Give me one reason not to paint this wall with your brains. Because you need me alive. Mitchell’s voice was steady despite the gun pointed at his skull. networks bigger than Pine Hollow. Kill me, they’ll scatter like roaches. Your sister disappears forever. Marcus backed toward the door. Weapons trained on Mitchell. The sheriff wasn’t wrong.

 This felt organized, professional, too big for one corrupt cop to run alone. “Tell your boys I’m coming,” Marcus said. “And I’m bringing hell with them.” He slammed the door and ran for his truck. behind him. Mitchell’s voice echoed through the cabin. You don’t know what you’re dealing with, Cross. This goes all the way to the top.

 Marcus fired the engine and floored it down the mountain road, gravel spitting behind his tires. Mitchell’s radio crackled to life in his passenger seat. Time to find out exactly what he was dealing with and how many people he’d have to kill to get his sister back.

 Marcus pulled off the main road two miles down, killed the engine behind a cluster of boulders that hid his truck from passing traffic. His hands shook as he grabbed Mitchell’s radio. Two years of wondering, of nightmares, of thinking Sarah was dead. Now he knew she was alive and it was worse than death. Static hissed. Then voices. Unit 7, come in. Mitchell, you copy. base. This is unit three.

 Sheriff’s not responding. Marcus held his breath, listening to the coordination of people who’d been doing this for years. Dispatched to all units. We have a security breach at the Birch Creek site. Security breach. They knew he’d been there. Known all along this might happen.

 Kevin, you copy? A new voice, rougher, with the accent of someone who’d lived in these mountains his whole life. I’m here. What’s the situation? Cross found the house. Mitchell’s down. Son of a [ __ ] How much does he know? Enough. Boss wants full shutdown protocol. Marcus gripped the radio tighter. Shutdown protocol. Military terminology. These weren’t local yals playing games.

All packages need immediate transport, the dispatcher continued. Move Sarah and her friends to the disposal site. Marcus’ vision blurred. Disposal site. They were going to kill her. Copy that. How long do I have? 2 hours. Clean sweep. No survivors. What about the clients? Already notified. They’re pulling out. Some want refunds.

 Some want to watch the finale remotely. The radio went quiet except for static. Marcus sat in his truck, hands shaking with rage. Two hours. Sarah and her friends had two hours to live. And somewhere, rich bastards were negotiating refunds for not getting to hunt his sister in person. He pulled out the business card Tommy Brennan had given him. Dialed the number with fingers that felt numb. Three rings.

Brennan. It’s cross. You were right about everything. Silence. Then what did you find? Note from the girls. hidden room where they kept them. Sheriff Mitchell’s part of it. Running some kind of network for rich clients. Jesus Christ. Brennan’s voice was quiet like he’d been expecting this but hoped he was wrong.

 Where are you? Mountain Road off Birch Creek. I need help. They’re moving my sister in 2 hours. Moving her where? Disposal site. Pine Ridge Road. Brennan cursed long and creative. I know that area. Remote as hell. Perfect for He stopped. Perfect for what? Hiding bodies. Brennan’s voice was flat.

 Matter of fact, how many are we dealing with? I don’t know, but they’ve got radios, coordination, military terminology. This isn’t some backwoods kidnapping. Number it’s not. Brennan paused. Meet me at the old logging station on Route 9. You know it. I’ll find it. Marcus, how many weapons you got? Marcus looked at Mitchell’s service weapon on the seat beside him. His own Glock in its holster.

 Two pistols against God knew how many rifles. Not enough. I’ll bring extras. This is going to get ugly. Brennan. Yeah. Why are you helping me? Really? Long pause. Marcus could hear traffic in the background. the sound of Brennan moving fast because my daughter Bethany was on that disposal list five years ago and I never got the chance to save her. The line went dead.

 Marcus started his truck pulled back onto the highway. Pine needles crunched under his tires as he accelerated toward Route 9. The radio crackled again. Kevin status report. Loading packages now. Three secured. Looking for the fourth. Marcus’ blood froze. Three secured, one missing. Find her. Boss wants them all gone before midnight. Copy.

 Subject four was always the runner. She’s probably holed up somewhere in the compound. Subject four. Sarah, still fighting after 2 years of hell. Marcus pressed the accelerator harder. The truck’s engine roared as he took the mountain curves faster than safety allowed. Somewhere up in these mountains, his sister was running for her life, and he was the only one who could save her.

 The radio squawkked again. All units be advised. Cross is armed and dangerous. Former military approach with extreme caution. How dangerous we talking? Afghanistan veteran, two tours, specialist in close quarters combat. [ __ ] Yeah. So don’t [ __ ] around. You see him, you put him down. No warnings, no arrests. Kill him. Marcus smiled grimly. Let them come.

 He’d been killing Taliban and caves for 2 years. A few corrupt cops and their rich clients would be target practice. The old logging station appeared ahead. A weathered building beside the highway with broken windows and a roof that had seen better decades. Tommy Brennan’s pickup was already there. Time to go to war.

 The old logging station squatted beside Route 9 like a monument to dead industry. Marcus pulled up beside Tommy Brennan’s rusted pickup truck. The older man climbed out carrying a duffel bag that clinkedked with metal when he set it down. “You look like hell,” Brennan said, studying Marcus’s face in the fading light. “Feel worse.” Marcus showed him Mitchell’s radio. “They’re moving fast.

 Something about packages and a boss who wants everyone dead by midnight. Brennan unzipped the duffel bag. Inside, two rifles, boxes of ammunition, tactical vests that looked military surplus, night vision goggles still in their cases. You came prepared. Been ready for this fight for 5 years. Brennan handed Marcus a rifle, Remington 700 with a high-powered scope. Good to 800 yards if you know what you’re doing.

Marcus checked the action, tested the scope’s adjustment. Military muscle memory kicked in. Weight distribution, sight picture, breathing control, like riding a bicycle made of death. How many we looking at? Hard to say. Kevin’s the handyman. He’s their logistics guy. Does maintenance around the trail heads, helps lost hikers, earns everyone’s trust.

 Brennan’s voice turned bitter. Probably three, four others for security. Maybe more if they called in backup. You know this, Kevin. Brennan’s face darkened like storm clouds gathering over mountains. Kevin Reed, helpful son of a [ __ ] Always first to volunteer for search parties. Always knew exactly where not to look. The radio crackled.

Package four located. Beginning transport. Marcus grabbed it. That’s Sarah. They found her. Pine Ridge facility is 15 miles north. Old mining operation. Lots of buildings scattered across the valley. Perfect place to hide operations like this. Brennan pulled out a handdrawn map spreaded across his truck’s hood.

 Lines and X marks drawn in pencil updated over years of surveillance. Two access roads. Main gate here, service road here. They’ll expect us to come up the main road. It’s the obvious approach. Service road, steep as hell, rocky, tears up your transmission if you’re not careful, but it comes out behind the main compound. Gives you elevation advantage. Marcus studied the map.

Classic military tactics. Pin the enemy between two forces. Eliminate their escape routes. I’ll take the service road, Marcus said. Hell you will. That’s the hard route. requires technical driving. I’m military. You’re not. Brennan loaded a magazine into his rifle with the practice deficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

My daughter’s buried somewhere on that mountain. I’ve been planning this assault for 5 years. I’m going up the hard way. The radio squawkked again. All packages secured. Initiating final protocol. What’s final protocol? Marcus asked, though his gut already knew. Brennan’s hands tightened on his weapon. It means they’re done playing games.

 Your sister and her friends are about to disappear forever. Marcus shouldered his rifle, checked his watch. 8:30 p.m. Full dark in 30 minutes. How long to get there? Service road? 40 minutes if you push it hard. Main roads faster, but they’ll see you coming from miles away. Then we better move. Brennan grabbed his gear, started toward his truck.

 Then he stopped, turned back. Marcus, these aren’t just kidnappers. They’re hunters. Rich clients pay premium money to hunt people through these mountains for sport. Marcus felt something cold settle in his stomach. What do you mean? Your sister’s been their prize game for 2 years. They keep the pretty ones alive longer. Let clients bid on hunting experiences. Some want quick kills.

 Some want extended chases. Some want dot dot dot. He trailed off. Want what? Interactive experiences. Live streams where they can give commands. Watch the girls perform on camera. Marcus’ vision went red. Two years. Two years of his sister being hunted like an animal, forced to perform for the entertainment of rich psychopaths.

 How do you know all this? because I’ve been investigating them since my daughter disappeared. Bethany was 19, art student, sweet kid who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Brennan’s voice cracked. They hunted her for 3 days before she died from exhaustion. You saw proof? Found video files on a laptop I liberated from one of their associates.

 Bethany running through the woods, terror in her eyes, while some bastard in expensive hunting gear tracked her like a deer. Marcus looked at the map at the mountain facility where Sarah was counting down her final hours. Then let’s go hunting. They climbed into their trucks, engines rumbling to life. Brennan’s headlights cut through the gathering darkness as he pulled onto the highway. Marcus followed Mitchell’s radio crackling with updates.

 Transport complete. All subjects secured in building 7. Cleanup crew on route. ETA 20 minutes. Roger. Beginning final preparations. Somewhere ahead, Sarah was locked in a building with a number instead of a name, waiting to die for the entertainment of monsters. But she wasn’t alone anymore.

 Her brother was coming, and he was bringing war with him. The mountain air tasted like pine and old snow and the promise of violence. Marcus pressed the accelerator and headed for the darkness. The service road twisted up the mountain like a broken spine designed by someone who hated vehicles.

 Marcus drove without headlights, following tire tracks in the moonlight that filtered through pine canopy. His truck bounced over rocks and fallen logs that would have stopped a normal vehicle, suspension groaning with each impact. Military training had taught him to drive through worse terrain under enemy fire. This was just mountain roads with the promise of violence at the end. The radio in his passenger seat stayed busy with professional chatter.

Perimeter secure. No movement on main access road. Package transport complete. All four subjects secured in building 7. Clients arriving in 20 minutes. You ready for the finale? Clients. Marcus’ jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. Rich bastards coming to watch his sister die like it was dinner theater.

 The road leveled out near the ridge. Trees thinning to reveal the valley below. Through gaps in the canopy, Marcus could see lights from the mining compound spread across the cleared ground like a constellation of evil. Professional setup. Wellunded. This wasn’t some backwoods operation run by local psychopaths.

 Marcus, parked behind a cluster of boulders that hid his truck from casual observation, grabbed his gear. The rifle felt solid in his hands, scope properly zeroed, magazines loaded with enough ammunition to start a small war. The facility sprawled across the valley floor like a military base. Main building in the center, smaller structures scattered around like satellites. Flood lights on poles creating pools of harsh white light.

 Two guards walking patrol routes with the disciplined efficiency of professional security. Marcus glassed the compound through his rifle scope, counting targets, noting defensive positions. Building 7 sat on the far side, separated from the others by maybe 200 yards. Single guard posted outside, rifle slung casual but ready. That’s where they were keeping Sarah.

 His radio crackled. Brennan, you in position? Marcus keyed the mic. Copy. Eyes on target building, counting six hostiles, possibly more inside structures. I’m set up on the main road. Give me 5 minutes to get their attention. What’s the play? I’m going to light up their front gate like the 4th of July.

 When they come running to investigate, you move on building 7. Roger that. Marcus checked his rifle again. Counted ammunition. Four magazines. 120 rounds total. should be enough for whatever he might find. Better be enough. Through the scope, he watched vehicles arriving at the main gate. Expensive cars, black SUVs with tinted windows that screamed money and power. The clients coming to watch four college girls get murdered for entertainment.

Marcus’s finger found the trigger imagined putting bullets through those windshields. But that would blow the element of surprise. Get Sarah killed before he could reach her. military discipline over personal vendetta. Brennan, we’ve got company arriving. Looks like the audience is here. I see them.

 Rich pricks in their fancy cars coming to watch the show. How long until an explosion lit up the main gate like a miniature sun? Brennan’s truck had rammed through the entrance, guns blazing, muzzle flashes strobing in the darkness. Sirens wailed across the compound. Flood lights swept the main road, searching for threats.

 Guards ran toward the disturbance, shouting into radios, leaving their posts to respond to the attack. Marcus moved. He sprinted down the slope, using shadows between buildings for cover. Rifle ready for contact. The guard at building 7 was looking toward the chaos. Weapon pointed at the wrong direction.

 Attention focused on the light show at the main gate. Marcus came up behind him, silent as death. The guard turned just as Marcus drove his combat knife between the man’s ribs, angling up toward the heart. They went down together, blood pooling warm in the pine needles. Marcus grabbed the guard’s keys, his radio, dragged the body behind the building where it wouldn’t be found immediately.

 Building seven secure, he whispered into his own radio. Copy. I’m pinned down but keeping them busy. Move fast. Marcus unlocked the building door, stepped inside. Concrete walls, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the smell of fear and old blood that had soaked into everything, and four metal cages lined up against the far wall like something from a nightmare.

 Sarah sat in the far cage, alive, but holloweyed, thin as a scarecrow. Her hair was longer than he remembered, tangled and unwashed, but her eyes still held defiance after 2 years of hell. Marcus. Her voice was barely a whisper, like she was afraid speaking too loud might make him disappear. I’m here, Sarah. I’m getting you out.

 He fumbled with the keys, hands shaking with rage and relief. The caged door swung open. Sarah collapsed into his arms, all skin and bones trembling like a broken bird. “The others,” she whispered against his shoulder. Jessica, Claire, Megan, save them, too. Marcus looked at the other cages.

 Three more girls, Sarah’s college roommates, equally holloweyed, but alive. Survivors of two years in hell. Can you run? Sarah nodded, though her legs shook when she stood. We’ve been waiting 2 years to run. Marcus freed the other girls, helped them stand on unsteady legs. They moved like broken dolls, but their eyes held the same defiance he saw in Sarah.

 Back exit, Marcus said, checking his rifle. Stay low. Follow me. Don’t stop for anything. They made it 50 yards across open ground before the flood light found them. There, a voice shouted from the main building. They’re escaping. Muzzle flashes lit up the night like deadly fireworks. Marcus shoved the girls behind a concrete barrier. returned fire.

 His shots were precise, controlled, each bullet finding its target. Two guards dropped. Three more took cover behind vehicles. His radio crackled. Marcus, I’m hit. Can’t hold them much longer. Four girls who could barely walk. One rifle half a mile to the extraction point through hostile territory.

 The math didn’t look good, but Marcus had made worse odds work in Afghanistan against better trained enemies. Stay close,” he told Sarah, checking his ammunition. “We’re going home.” The compound erupted in gunfire as more guards responded to the escape. But Sarah Cross was no longer a victim. She was a survivor, and her brother had come to take her home.

 Marcus laid down covering fire as the girls ran for the treeine, his rifle spitting controlled bursts that sent guards diving for cover. Bullets sparked off concrete, wind through the air like angry hornets. He counted muzzle flashes from different positions. Six shooters spread across the compound, maybe more in the buildings. Too many for a frontal assault. Time for asymmetric warfare.

“Move!” he shouted, dumping half a magazine into a guard position. Sarah stumbled, caught herself against a concrete barrier. Jessica helped Megan stay upright when her legs gave out. Clare grabbed Sarah’s arm when she faltered. All four girls supporting each other like they had for two years. Survivors taking care of survivors.

 The radio in Marcus’ pocket crackled with panic. All units converge on building 7. Subjects are escaping. More headlights swept the compound as vehicles raced in from patrol routes. The sound of engines shouting, “Boots on gravel.” A spotlight caught them halfway to the trees. Sarah screamed as the white beam painted them like targets.

 Marcus dove, tackled her as bullets chewed up the ground where she’d been standing. Pine needles and dirt exploding around them. You hit number keep going. They crawled the last 20 yards to the forest on their bellies. Bullets cracking overhead. Bark splintering from trees as guards fired blind into the darkness. Marcus’ radio. Brennan status report. Static. Then took one in the leg.

 Still mobile, but bleeding bad. Where are you? Got the girls. Moving to extraction point. I’ll meet you there. Can’t hold this position much longer. Marcus helped Sarah to her feet in the cover of the trees. The four girls looked at him with hollow eyes that had seen too much. But underneath the trauma was something harder.

 They’d survived 2 years of hell. They weren’t breaking now. How far? Sarah asked, voice steadier than her legs. Quarter mile through the forest. Can you make it? We made it. 2 years. We can make another quarter mile. They moved through the forest like ghosts. Marcus taking point with his rifle ready.

 Behind him, the girls helped each other over fallen logs through thick brush, stepping careful to avoid snapping twigs. No talking, no complaints, just the sound of breathing and boots on pine needles. These weren’t victims anymore. They were soldiers in their own war for survival. A twig snapped to their left, maybe 50 yards away. Marcus held up his fist. Everyone froze, listening. Through the trees, a figure moved parallel to their path, hunting them.

 Professional movement, disciplined spacing, someone who knew how to track prey through wilderness. Marcus gestured for the girls to stay put, melted into the shadows like a predator. The hunter carried an expensive rifle with thermal scope, wore night vision goggles that cost more than most people made in a month. Rich client probably paid extra to participate in the finale.

 the kind of sick bastard who thought money could buy him the right to hunt college girls for sport. Marcus came up behind him like death itself. The client never heard him coming, never felt the knife slide between his ribs, angling up to puncture his heart. He dropped without a sound. Expensive gear scattered across the forest floor. Marcus dragged the body into thick brush, took his thermal scope and night vision gear.

 Now he could see in the dark better than his enemies. Clear,” he whispered, returning to the girls. They reached the extraction point. As Brennan’s truck came crawling up the service road, one headlight shot out, steam rising from the radiator. The windshield was spiderwebed with bullet holes. Brennan climbed out, blood soaking his left leg below the knee, rifle in his hands despite the wound.

 “Jesus,” he said, looking at the four girls. “You found them. You actually found them.” All four, Marcus said, helping Sarah into the truck bed. But we’re not clear yet. Vehicle engines roared from the compound below. Headlights sweeping the mountain side like search lights. The sound of radios shouting, dogs barking. Full-scale manhunt in progress.

 They’re coming, Brennan said, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. Marcus looked at his sister, her friends. Two years of captivity had left them thin, holloweyed, traumatized. But they were alive and they were free. “Get them to safety,” Marcus said, checking his rifle. “There’s something I need to do.” “Marcus, no.

” Sarah grabbed his arm with fingers that felt like bird bones. “Don’t leave us, please. I’m not leaving. I’m making sure no one follows.” He kissed her forehead, tasted salt and pine needles, and two years of fear finally ending. Get them home, Brennan. Call the FBI, the state police, anyone who will listen. Tell them about the network, the clients, everything.

What about you? Marcus looked down at the compound, at the lights and vehicles and armed men who had turned his sister into entertainment. I’m going hunting. He disappeared into the forest as the first vehicles reached the service road. Rifle ready. Night vision painting the world in green and black.

 Time to show these bastards what a real predator looked like. The mountain air tasted like pine and gunpowder and justice long overdue. Marcus Cross was done playing defense. Now it was time to go on the attack. Marcus watched through stolen night vision as three vehicles climbed the service road in single file. Two black SUVs packed with security contractors.

 One armored sedan carrying the clients who’d paid premium money to watch his sister die. Rich bastards who thought wealth could buy them the right to hunt human beings for sport. Time to teach them about being prey. Marcus positioned himself above a hairpin turn where the road curved around a steep drop off. Perfect ambush point. No escape routes.

 Nowhere to run when the shooting started. The lead SUV rounded the corner, engine straining against the grade. Marcus put two controlled shots through the windshield, watching the driver’s head snap back through the thermal scope. The vehicle swerved hard left, tires screaming against gravel, rolled down the embankment in a cascade of breaking glass and twisted metal. The sound echoed through the valley like thunder.

The second SUV stopped hard, brake lights flaring red in the darkness. Four men jumped out with military precision, rifles ready, spreading into tactical positions. Contact, contact. Shooter on the ridge. Professional voices, professional movements. These weren’t local cops or rent cops. Someone had hired real security for tonight’s entertainment.

 Marcus moved position, flanked left through the trees. Through the scope, he could see the sedan’s passengers. Middle-aged men in expensive outdoor gear, faces pale with terror they’d never experienced before. Not so fun when you’re the ones being hunted. The security team spread out trying to locate his position.

 Hand signals, covering fire, bounding overwatch. These guys had training, but Marcus had two advantages: high ground and the righteous fury of a brother who’d found his sister in a cage. He dropped the first contractor with a headsh shot at 200 yd. Clean kill. No suffering. More mercy than they’d shown Sarah.

 The second man took cover behind the SUV, shouting into his radio, “Sniper on the ridge. We need backup. Where is he? Ridgeline 11:00. Professional shooter, military training.” Muzzle flashes lit up the mountainside as they returned fire. Bullets winded overhead. chipped bark from trees around Marcus’ position, but they were shooting blind into darkness. He waited, counted their shots.

When they paused to reload, he moved again. The radio on his belt crackled with panic. Base, this is Kevin. We lost contact with the extraction team. Kevin Reed, the handyman who’d been feeding victims to this network for years, earning trust just to betray it. Marcus keyed the mic, voice calm as a professional soldier reporting contact.

Kevin, this is Marcus Cross. Dead silence on the radio. You know that name, don’t you? Sarah Cross, the girl you’ve been selling to your sick clients for 2 years. Cross? How did you? She’s free. Her friends are free. And I’m coming for every last one of you bastards. Marcus put another round through the SUV’s engine block. Steam hissed into the night air as coolant mixed with oil on hot metal.

 The remaining security contractors broke cover ran for the armored sedan. Big mistake. Running made them targets instead of threats. Marcus tracked the first one through his scope, led the target slightly, squeezed the trigger. The man dropped like a sack of meat, rifles spinning away into the darkness.

 The second contractor made it to the sedan, dove inside, shouting orders. The armored car reversed hard, tires spinning on loose gravel, backing down the mountain road faster than safety allowed. Marcus let them go. He had bigger prey to hunt. Kevin, you still monitoring this frequency? The radio crackled with static than Reed’s voice tight with fear.

 You don’t understand what you’re dealing with, Cross. This network spans three states. Clients in every major city. You kill me, someone else takes over. Then I’ll kill them, too. This goes all the way to the top. Politicians, judges, people with real power, they’ll bury you and your family.

 Marcus started down the mountain, stepping over bodies, collecting ammunition from the dead. Maybe, but you won’t be around to see it. Cross. Wait. Your sister. what we did to her. I can make it right. I got information, client lists, financial records, everything you need to burn the whole network down. Marcus stopped walking, considered the offer.

 Taking down the entire network would mean justice for more than just Sarah, for Brennan’s daughter, for dozens of other victims. Where my workshop hidden safe behind the tool cabinet combination is 7419. Everything’s documented. Why would you keep records of your own crimes? Insurance. These rich bastards. They don’t like loose ends. I kept evidence to make sure they couldn’t eliminate me. Smart.

 Criminals who survived long-term always kept insurance policies. Kevin. Yeah. Thanks for the confession. Marcus switched off the radio, pocketed the evidence. The workshop was only 5 miles away, down winding mountain roads that would take him past the main compound. Time to finish what he’d started. Time to make sure no other families went through what his had endured.

 The night air was cold and sharp, tasting of pine and gunpowder, and justice finally served. Marcus Cross had work to do, and Kevin Reed was waiting, probably packing files and running for his life. But there was nowhere to run from the kind of war Marcus was bringing.