How did the daughter of the powerful Silas Sterling end up half-frozen on a shoulder of a backroad in the middle of a blizzard? And more importantly, who was she running from? His hands shook slightly as he tossed the ID onto the dashboard. He had to keep it together.
If Silas Sterling was involved, Mike was in the crosshairs again. He looked at Sarah, wrapped in his old work blanket. She muttered something in her sleep and drifted off again. He took a deep breath and focused on the road. He couldn’t leave her, but he had to be smart. He wasn’t just a truck driver tonight; he was a target.
If Silas’s people were on her trail, trouble was right behind them. He reached for his cell phone, his fingers fumbling as he tried to dial 911, but the screen mockingly read: “No Service.” Mike let out a frustrated sigh. The storm had knocked out the towers in this valley. “Great,” he muttered, tossing the phone aside.
The truck stop was his only shot. He pushed the rig harder, the engine roaring as it plowed through the drifts toward a faint glow in the distance. The tires kicked up plumes of snow as he pulled into the “Blue Ridge Diner & Fuel,” a small oasis of neon and gravel in the middle of the storm. It was the only light for miles.
Mike pulled into a spot away from the main pumps and killed the engine. He turned to Sarah; her breathing was still uneven, her face deathly pale. He had to get her inside. He climbed out, fought the wind to the passenger side, and lifted her gently. She felt as light as a feather, and he held her close, shielding her from the biting cold.
The diner door chimed as he kicked it open, greeted by the smell of burnt coffee and old grease. The place was nearly empty: a tired waitress behind the counter and a lone trucker nursing a cup of joe in a corner booth. The waitress, a woman in her fifties with a gray ponytail, looked up from her crossword. “Lord have mercy, what happened to her?” she asked, rushing over.
Mike kept his voice steady. “Found her in a ditch. She’s got bad hypothermia. You got a working phone?” The waitress nodded and reached for the landline. Mike carried Sarah to a booth and laid her down. The trucker in the corner looked over, but didn’t say a word, just went back to staring out the window.
Mike rubbed his hands together, trying to get the feeling back, his nerves on edge. Something felt off. The waitress came back, frowning. “Phone’s dead. Lines must be down from the ice.” Mike felt a knot tighten in his stomach. No cell service, no landline… it was starting to feel like more than just bad luck.
He looked at Sarah. She stirred, her fingers clutching the edge of the blanket. At that moment, the diner door swung open again, letting in a blast of freezing air. A man walked in—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a heavy black overcoat with snow clinging to the wool. He kept his hands in his pockets, and Mike felt a cold sweat break out on his neck.
He didn’t recognize the man, but he recognized the look—cold, calculating, scanning the room like a predator. There was almost certainly a sidearm under that coat, and he wasn’t here for the breakfast special. Mike leaned back, trying to shield Sarah from view with his own body.
The man stepped forward, his boots clicking on the linoleum. He walked to the counter and spoke in a low, flat voice. “Evening. I’m looking for a young woman. Dark hair, light coat.” The waitress narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t seen anyone like that.” The man took a slow breath and let his gaze drift toward the booths.
Mike’s heart hammered. The stranger’s eyes lingered on him for a split second before moving on. “If you do, let me know,” the man said, sliding a photo across the counter. The waitress barely glanced at it. “Like I said, nobody here but the regulars.”
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