I left Taryn alone in the back of an abandoned building. The locks are probably older than I am.

What on earth was I thinking?

Some of the doors were closed. I didn't check every room. There was that dark hallway I didn't bother to inspect at all. It's likely there was another way in and out.

We were pressed for time, but that's no excuse.

I enter the common area, gun finally drawn and prepped to fire at a moment's notice. I hurry through that middle section, detecting movement ahead of me already. I should protect myself in the next doorway and take a moment to assess the situation, in case the perpetrator has a firearm, but there's an obvious struggle underway, and I don't do more than pause.

Bursting into the next room, my eyes zoom in on the silver of a knife. Taryn is being dragged at the neck, the point to the side of her throat, a hand over her mouth as well.

They turn the corner and enter the back hallway. The gray-haired man is a head taller than her and about twice the size, but she's doing everything she can to slow him down.

They both look up when I come in. Seeing his face, there's a sense of deja-vu. At the sight of the eye with the clown-like scar, everything clicks in place. He's the guy at the café who wanted me to think he was just eating his damn bacon.

I shout, "Freeze," at the same time he says, "Drop it."

While I'm taking another stride forward, the man tugs Taryn closer to his body to shield himself.

Taryn, meanwhile, seizes the moment, grabs the blade with one hand, and jabs the man's knife arm backward with the other. She manages to nick him in his own neck. It's followed by a backwards headbutt. Then, lifting her weight into his unrelenting arms, they're at just enough of an angle for her to get some traction on the wall. She kicks them both over backwards. The knife clatters to the ground, somewhere beneath them.

I'm approaching fast and see blood. On Taryn's hands. Smeared and splattered across her white blouse.

While she's trying to scoot forward, toward me, the man is attempting to kick free of her. With one hand covering the puncture wound on his neck, he glances at the bloody knife, maybe a foot beyond easy reach. And then at the gun, about ten feet from his face. At that moment, he has to choose, if she's worth dying for, and he decides she isn't. He scrambles to his feet and starts running down the hallway.

He's approaching stairs that I didn't realize were there. I'll have a clear shot for only about half a second.

The tenths of seconds are whizzing by.

Taryn shouts, "Don't."

At the same time, I hear, "Hello?" from somewhere in the front. "Is everything all right?"

It's Justin, back in the building. This dawns on me just as the clown-eyed bastard dips out of range.

I lower my gun with the most frustrated grunt I've ever emitted.

Before the other idiot finds us and freaks out, I tug Taryn to her feet and follow clown-eye's escape route. The industrial exit door below us claps shut just as Taryn starts the stairs. She's barely keeping pace, and that's not like her.

We push outside, into the dingy ally, my gun down but back in both hands. The air is so putrid and saturated, it's practically unbreathable. A downpour seems imminent. I'm surprised it's held off for as long as it has. Within moments, though, the time will come.

I catch sight of Clown-face about twenty yards to the right and lift my gun just as he staggers around a corner. He's hurt and I could easily catch up, but there's this nagging unease that splits my attention and tugs it backwards.  

"Jesus, Taryn!"

There is blood dripping off her left hand. Had I known she was hurt, I would have shot the bastard, no hesitation.

"What was I supposed to do?" she asks as I grab her wrist to assess the damage. "Let him take me?"

All four of her fingers are slashed by the third joint. It's nothing to panic about, but she may need stitches.  

"Let me shoot him!"

I watch her eyes fill with tears. "Then we'd never find Quinn." She swipes at them with her free arm. Then she seems to shudder herself back together. Her eyes dip to the pavement. "Look." She points something out. "I think I hurt him more than he hurt me."

Next to her expanding pile of droplets, there's the start of a blood trail that isn't hers. The drops are fairly large in diameter. I doubt they'd stop flowing anytime soon. If I want to encounter this guy while I have the advantage, there may be no better time.

"Go to the truck." I pull the keys from my pocket and place them in Taryn's good hand. "Do not, under any circumstances, change course."

For once in her life, she just nods and says, "All right."

Then I leave her there, with fewer qualms. She veers left, like I expect, and then my focus returns to the blood trail on the right.

The first bit I accomplish quickly. I saw where he turned. After that, it gets harder. I don't catch another glimpse of him. He's at least a turn ahead of me, and the sky is starting to spit out fat droplets of its own. It's no deluge—yet—but the water is competing with the blood in size, shape, and it starts to overtake the blood in terms of volume. Hustling forward, the color and texture of the blood still stand out, but by the end of the alley, everything's blending together.

My God. Really? The rain couldn't have held off for two more minutes?

At the street where this disaster started, I can just barely determine left or right. I make the choice—left—and it's confirmed correct by an obvious blood splotch beneath the awning of the next building. Beyond that, the last of the dry sidewalk disappears. Even the occasional pink hue is getting watered down beyond my ability to detect.

I jolt at a bolt of lightning, too close for comfort. At the very least, it brightens the area and directs my attention to a car door slamming across the street, a bit further down. It's an old black Nissan Sentra with some body damage.

It's a four-lane avenue in a commercial area. There's a fair chance this person is not my guy.

I drop that notion when the driver skids out of the tight spot, almost hitting the car in front of it. No one else would be in that kind of hurry.

I jump into the street, hand up to stop an oncoming car. The "hey" I direct toward the Sentra goes ignored. The car's accelerating, and in doing so, it sounds like it's about to fall apart. But it does manage to gain the speed it needs to flee the scene with ease.

In the rain and gloom, I try to absorb as much as I can from the license plate. It has horizontal red, white, and blue stripes. A "5C" in the first group and maybe a 9 and a 2 in the second half.

On the way back to the truck, I pull out my phone, make a note of what I remember, and google "Idaho license plates." The colors and format both confirm that my guess was correct.  Luckily, I picked out the 5C. In Idaho, the first number-letter combination is linked to the county where it was issued.

When I get in the truck, I get an immediate hug that makes me feel much less cold, wet, and angry. I guess she was worried about me.

I let it linger for a moment too long, and in that moment, I somehow stifle the urge to kiss her, berate her, fall apart. There's no time for that. We really can't stay here.

Once we're moving, I confirm that she's okay, and she assures me she is. We brought small suitcases with us in case this day trip took an unexpected turn, and her shirt is already changed. The hand is wrapped tight in her ruined blouse. I promise to buy her better supplies at the first opportunity, and then we dig back into the mystery at hand. "Do you know anyone from Dubois, Idaho?"

The car could be borrowed, rented, or stolen. Idaho is over fifteen hundred miles away. The likelihood this will tell us something seems slim at best.

Taryn doesn't respond with a no, however. I get a window-rattling sigh and "it's a long story" instead.

"Well, it's gonna be a long ride. Take all the time you need."

Lainey Wilson - Wildflowers and Wild Horses

https://youtu.be/kvfHSKojdiI