Chris shouted as soon as Dylan emerged from the trees. “I'm afraid she's hurt, or captured, or...” he let the thought trail off. Now they had two women to rescue, and only one place to look. “Get in the truck.” Chris didn't question him, instead sprinting to the Bronco and vaulting into the passenger seat. Thoughts of what they might discover when they finally found both women bombarded him, but he shoved them away. He refused to accept anything but a whole and alive Cassie, no matter that it had been hours since she disappeared. He tore ass across the field, not caring about anything but getting where he now knew they needed to be, chanting, “Hang on, Cassie, hang on,” under his breath. When they made it to the edge of the property he turned the truck hard right to parallel the train tracks, throwing dirt and grass in a wide arc, peppering his windshield with gravel. As he sped down the graveled path, he took solace in Chris's hushed Italian prayer from the passenger seat.
