Brock looked at the map and sighed. Saturday came to an end and they had barely scratched the southern limit of the Woods. It hadn't snowed since Friday morning, but the cabins' owner swore that judging by the way his knee kept hurting, there was more snow on the way. Great. More snow to get deeper into the woods. Canvassing the area was so exhausting and frustrating. They needed to find that damned militia soon, before the weather got even worse with the fall rains.

He knew they were doing things the right way, striking squares off their grid only after a thorough search. Janowsky had gotten the State Police to lend a hand, to keep checkpoints at the main roads coming in and out of the southern woods. That way, Brock could use both Tac teams on the search. So he had eight agents from Portland and twelve Tac men. Seven three-man search teams, out there from nine to five, when the sunset dragged the temperature down with the sun. But he had the same lot of nothing as when he just got there, three days ago.

He heard engines start outside the cabin he shared with Russell, and voices. The Tac teams were leaving. There wasn't enough room for them at the only vacant cabin, so they'd taken accommodation at Portage Lake and Ashland. That added a two-hour commute to their days, but they didn't complain about missing the chance of staying there, with no internet, no phone coverage and only some distorted TV sign. For those staying there, Brock had arranged an extra fee with the cabins' owner to have breakfast and dinner made for the whole group every day. If the Tacs were leaving, it meant he should go fetch his dinner before they closed the kitchen for the night.

The sound of the trucks driving away reminded him of another truck. Sergeant Simon's pickup truck might hold a lead. Maybe the traces of mud on the tires and sides could reveal in which part of the Woods he lived. He remembered Hank had used that to locate the Baileys last year. But Hank wasn't there. Brock had already sent a sample to Portland, but he'd get the results only by Monday or Tuesday.

Before his mind strayed, he made a mental note to have another sample of the mud taken from the pickup. If the first one didn't come up with any positive result, he'd send the second sample to Boston—even if that meant the results delivered personally at his cabin's door by Gillian and her team, all of them eager to take part in the case.

He hated that feeling, being so certain that were the punks there, they would come up with some extravagant way to locate the militia in a couple of day tops. If not through Hank's tests, with Ron's weird devices, or some secret tracking skill of Fred's. Or Gillian would just connect the most unimportant dots in some unexpected way, making it look like it was plain two plus two. Somehow, they'd pin a red stack on his map and she would smirk at him—wrong, she smirks at others, Brockner, never at you. Fine, she would smile at him, those bright blue eyes looking up straight into his to explain the subjects were actually half a mile away from the cabins. See the fence past those trees, sir? That's them, sir.

The door opened behind him. Russell came in with a gust of chilling wind, a murmur of voices outside and a smell of meat stew that made Brock forget about Gillian to hear his stomach howl like a wolf.

"Here's your dinner, or you're going to bed with an empty stomach."

"Thanks."

Brock sat to eat as they commented on the other agents' reports. Soon they took turns for a quick hot shower and went to sleep, tired to the bone.

Not for long.

The satellite phone ringing startled them up. Brock sat up, hearing Russell pick up at the other room.

"We're on the way."

Those words pushed Brock out of bed.

Russell showed at the door, still pulling up his jeans. "The body's been stolen from Ashland hospital."

A minute later, lights were on at the other two cabins. There was an agent behind the wheel of every SUV, warming up the engines. Brock and Russell instructed the rest of the group to establish roadblocks at every access to the Woods from the south.

Soon Brock hit the gas, while Russell called Ashland police to ask for checkpoints in and out of town. When he disconnected, they already had regular phone coverage, so he texted Tanya and called the Tac teams.

"They reacted on Saturday," he said, disconnecting. "Meaning they only got the news today. So they're deep into the Woods."

Brock grimaced, not so sure anymore. "Or they're cunning enough to deduce this was a good moment to do it."

"Or both."

Tanya called him back when they were halfway between Portage Lake and Ashland.

"T, we need satellite stream in real time. Can you do that?"

"Sure, but it's gonna take a while."

"How long?" asked Brock.

"Five minutes to an hour, sir. It depends on how much they've improved their firewalls. What're we looking for?"

"Any civilian vehicle driving into the Woods from the south."

"Got it. Can you fill me in a little?"

Brock let Russell explain the situation to the girl. She sounded wide awake despite the hour, and he heard her type as they talked. He refused to acknowledge what she was about to do. They needed eyes in the sky. She could deliver. End of the story. He tried in vain to ignore the little voice inside his head—look at you, Brockner. Hacking into a military satellite? Haven't you gone punk!

* * *

Agent Coltrane was at the brink of a breakdown, stuttering and mumbling, eyes full of tears, shaky hands. Brock knew she'd been only a couple of years in the Bureau, and this was her first important case. Just like he knew it made perfect sense she'd trusted the hospital's only security guard and went to sleep for a few hours on a Saturday night. Nobody expected the subjects to break in and steal the body. But he didn't have the patience to deal with her feminine, frail nerves at that moment. So he left Russell to the task of calming her down and he questioned the guard and the medical staff.

Tanya texted Gillian and set to work. She was reaching Warp 3 when her phone rang. It was Gillian, who's sleepy tone vanished after the girl filled her in.

"Did you call Kurt?"

"He's not good at this. Shit, Reg! I so need Connor!"

"Join the club. Brandon can do?"

"Yeah, but—"

"I'll get'im. Keep me up."

Brandon was online with Tanya soon. Not only was he afraid of Gillian's possible retaliation if he didn't. He also knew helping Tanya in this situation would work for him, when circumstances allowed him to ask her out on a date again--since the Ghost had trashed what would've been their first.

Ashland hospital was but a primary health center, with only two security cameras: one at the main entrance, the other at the ambulance access. So there was no record of whoever sneaked in all the way to the small morgue, and came back out carrying a dead body.

However, Brandon checked both feeds and he soon spotted a four-by-four truck parked almost out of the camera field, near the ambulance access. It stayed there only a few minutes, a man behind the wheel and the engine running, and all of a sudden it pulled from the curb and skidded away.

Brock could hardly believe it when Tanya called him, only twenty minutes after they arrived at the hospital.

"I got'em on sat, sir. If you can keep your men at their posts, and let the subjects through, I can follow them and find out their cave."

"Do it, I'll call my men. Let me know when you have their location."

"Yessir. Brandon is sending you now a picture of their vehicle and another of their plate. We're running them as we speak."

They had a picture of the car and the plate? This girl was even able to turn Brandon into an efficient tech! Why was he wasting his time with Janowsky's people? "Good job. Keep me up."

While he called the locals and the State Police, Russell stayed in touch with their group over the satellite phone.