It was weather for boots, not loafers. Thankfully, the ground wasn’t soggy yet. The field had looked flat from a distance, but it wasn’t. They had to cut around rocks, rises, and ditches that made the going slow. When they finally reached the edge of the woods, they saw a narrow overgrown trail ahead of them, weaving through a stand of tall pine trees pressed so closely together that very little rain got through.“Brakey’s in the forest, no more than fifty yards away. He’s not moving, Savich.”They unholstered their Glocks, moved to opposite sides of the narrow trail, and walked slowly forward. They heard only the rustling of the leaves as the rain spattered off them, the scurrying of squirrels or field mice. There was no sign of Brakey.The trail ended in a small clearing no more than ten by ten, the trees forming a nearly perfect circle. Savich froze. He knew this place—Dalco’s dreamscape. All it was missing were scattered piles of snow and frigid air. There was even a faint smell of smoke.
