by John Sneeden
Drenna reached up and used the cuff of her sleeve to wipe away a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. At the time of the accident, she had shifted into survival mode, pushing aside any thoughts of Trevor. But smelling him here had brought everything back.
Stay focused. You can grieve later.
Drenna entered the walk-in closet and closed the door behind her. She felt her way to the back and sat down on the floor. Hit with a wave of exhaustion, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. It felt good to rest. Too good.
Forcing her attention back to the matter at hand, she unzipped the bag and felt around until she found the penlight. She thumbed it on and examined the contents of the kit. On top was a banded stack of twenty- and hundred-dollar bills totaling three thousand dollars. Pushing the cash aside, she confirmed the other items: a 9mm Walther PPS pistol, a folding tactical knife, a burner phone, a passport, a driver’s license, and the thing she needed the most right now—the first aid kit.
She pulled the kit out and set it aside. She removed the belt from her thigh and pulled her jeans down to her knees. She called out in pain as the wet denim slid across her wounds. After waiting for the pain to subside, she picked up the penlight and directed the beam across her right thigh. Five wounds were visible on the front and sides of her leg. Three looked superficial, but two looked downright nasty.
She picked up the first aid kit and popped it open. It was probably the first time she had looked inside. It didn’t hold much, but she found a tube of antibiotic ointment. She thought through what she needed to do next. She would search each wound for glass, a painful process she wasn’t looking forward to. She would then cover everything with ointment. It was possible that bacteria had already penetrated the exposed tissue, but at this point, it was all she could do.
Once the wounds were treated, she would search the cabin for something to use for sewing stitches. She knew Trevor fished while staying at the cabin, so she was certain she could find a spool of monofilament line. She would also need a needle, which shouldn’t be a problem, since Trevor’s uncle kept the place stocked with everything a guest could possibly want.
Her plans set, Drenna removed the ointment and closed the first aid kit. As she put it back into the bag, she saw what appeared to be the edge of a folded piece of paper at the bottom. She frowned. It seemed out of place. Maybe it was a receipt.
She pulled the paper out and unfolded it. A handwritten note was scrawled inside: To my favorite spy. I love you, T.
Drenna caught her breath. Trevor left her little notes all the time. It was one of the many things that set him apart from the other men she had dated over the years. But this one hit her like an eighteen-wheeler going seventy down the highway. A surge of emotion built inside her.
Not here. Not now. I have work to do.
She tried to push her feelings aside as she had before, but they were too intense. Her body shaking, she leaned forward, cupping her face in both hands.
The scent. The note. The memories. It was all too much.
Unable to hold back any longer, she wept.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CIA Operations Officer James “Mack” Delgado eased the Jeep Cherokee up to the orange cone and put it in Park. As he killed the engine, he surveyed the road ahead. There was almost no shoulder to pull off on, so the local authorities had blocked off the road for as far as the eye could see. “I guess this is as close as we’re going to get,” he said.
His partner, Gabe Corbin, drained the last of his gas station coffee. “My bladder is about to explode.”
“Well, you better take care of it now,” Delgado said as the two got out of the vehicle.
Corbin slammed his door shut. “I told you I needed to stop a half hour ago.”
“Quit whining. There are plenty of good trees to choose from.”
While his partner stepped away to conduct his business, Delgado examined the line of vehicles parked beyond the cone. He counted four sheriff’s patrol cars, two unmarked sedans, a CSI van, a tow truck, and an ambulance. As far as he could tell, the FBI hadn’t yet arrived. He supposed the two unmarked cars could belong to the bureau, but both were beat-up older models that didn’t seem to fit the bureau’s profile. In Delgado’s experience, the FBI always used vehicles that were either new or had been detailed to look new. Everything they did was meant to project an air of superiority.
Delgado turned and looked at his reflection in the Cherokee’s window. His salt-and-pepper hair was slowly becoming more salt than pepper. As a man in his mid-fifties, he knew his time in the field was coming to an end. He had noticed the desk assignments were arriving more often. They told him it was because of his attention to detail, but he knew better. There was a new generation of spies taking the reins, and agency brass were slowly squeezing him out.
He glanced at the woods and saw that his partner was still behind the tree. He must have a Costco-sized bladder.
“Let’s go!” Delgado shouted.
“It’s your fault,” Corbin said, his voice muffled by the large trunk. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
Having been up for most of the night, Delgado was already exhausted, and that exhaustion was morphing into irritation. The coffee had helped a little, but he knew the day would only get worse as things moved along.
At just past four that morning, Delgado had received a phone call from his boss, Nathan Sprague. Sprague said there had been an accident in the mountains of West Virginia, and it was believed that Drenna Steel, one of the US government’s most prized assets, had died as a result. Although he didn’t have much information, Sprague indicated a vehicle had gone down the side of a mountain and into a river.
Penelope Winston, the director of the CIA, wanted agents on the scene to confirm Steel’s death, and Sprague had chosen Delgado and Corbin. The choice had been easy because they had worked with Steel before. They were two of only a few CIA employees who even knew of Steel’s existence.
The sound of footsteps pulled Delgado out of his thoughts. Corbin was coming out from behind the tree. He was a handsome forty-eight-year-old with dark-brown hair and a tan complexion. He seemed straight out of Hollywood casting, the prototypical spy.
“You’re not wearing your coat?” Corbin asked.
Delgado shook his head. “This is rural West Virginia, not Langley.” He looked up to see the morning sun peeking out from behind a cloud. “Besides, it’s going to be as hot as hades out here.”
Corbin, always concerned about his appearance, made no move to take his own coat off.
“Not many people up here,” Corbin said as they walked down the line of vehicles. “I guess they’re all down by the river.”
Delgado scanned the area ahead. Corbin was right—there were only three people in sight. Two paramedics pulled something out of the back of the ambulance, and a deputy sheriff stood in the road, presumably to keep anyone from approaching the scene.
As they continued on, the stand of trees on the right shoulder ended, affording a view down the slope. Delgado cast his gaze in that direction. He had pictured fast-moving rapids, but that stretch of river was anything but. The waters seemed to move at a snail’s pace.
“This one is hard to swallow,” Corbin said.
His comment pulled Delgado out of his thoughts. “Drenna?”
Corbin nodded. “Not just losing her. That’s bad enough. But the way it happened…” His voice trailed off for a moment. “She traveled the world for years, from one danger zone to the next. She went up against some of the nastiest human beings on the planet, and yet she always managed to survive, even when the odds were stacked against her. Then after all those years of defying the odds, she dies in a freak accident while on vacation.” He gave Delgado a sideways glance. “Sometimes life just doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe that’s how she would’ve wanted it.”
Corbin frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard she was really into this guy she was with. If she had to
die, maybe it was better to be with him than to die at the hands of some piece of human filth overseas.”
“I don’t know. If she was about to start a new life with this guy, then I don’t think she wanted to die.”
“I never said she wanted to die,” Delgado said. “I said if she had to die, then this is probably how she’d want it.”
Delgado was about to say something else when he saw the deputy coming toward them. He was a rail-thin man—probably mid to late-twenties—with dark hair and pale skin. Not exactly the kind of guy who would strike fear in the heart of a bad guy. Then again, there probably weren’t that many bad guys around here, anyway.
“Morning, gentlemen.”
“Good morning,” Delgado replied.
“I’m Deputy Barkett.”
Corbin stepped forward and flashed his agency identification card. “I’m Gabriel Corbin, and this is my partner, Mack Delgado.”
The deputy glanced at the card then pulled a pad and pen from his shirt pocket. He frowned as he ran his finger down the list. “I see you, Mr. Corbin, but I don’t see a Mack Delgado.”
“Sorry, James Delgado,” Corbin said.
“Yes, I see it now.” Barkett used the pen to scribble through their names then put the pad away. “Now, if you’ll follow me, I believe Sheriff Wilkins is waiting for you.”
As they set out, Delgado noticed a gap in the line of vehicles about fifty yards ahead. The space had been marked off with yellow tape, and within the tape were two crime scene investigators he hadn’t noticed before. One took photographs while the other measured something on the asphalt. Skid marks. He guessed they were trying to reconstruct how the truck had gone off the road. Although he had no experience with accident investigations, Delgado knew that investigators were often able to obtain a treasure trove of information from the marks, including the speed at which a vehicle was going.
The deputy turned right between two patrol cars. When they arrived on the other side, Delgado looked down the slope. It wasn’t the kind of place where someone would want to go off the road, he thought. The upper portion of the bank was sprinkled with low-lying bushes and saplings. Nothing there would stop a large vehicle from going down. Once someone started in that direction, there was no coming back up.
“Watch your step.” The deputy led them onto a narrow trail that zigzagged down the hill.
As they began the descent, Delgado turned back to see Corbin step forward gingerly, his tanned face now pale as death. Delgado smiled. He had forgotten his partner was terrified of heights.
“It’s not every day we get the FBI in this part of the world,” the deputy said as they continued on.
He doesn’t realize we’re with the CIA. Delgado decided not to correct him. The agency wasn’t allowed to conduct investigations on US soil, so their names had probably been lumped in with the list of FBI agents who were scheduled to show up later that morning. It made sense to do it that way. Delgado just wished they had been told.
“I’ve been to West Virginia many times,” Delgado finally said. “It’s a beautiful state.”
“We think so too.” Barkett stopped and pointed to their left. “By the way, that’s where they went down.”
“Good heavens,” Corbin muttered.
Delgado saw that the terrain to their left was much different than the section they were on. A rock outcropping cut into the slope about midway down. From there, it was a steep drop into the river.
“See those bushes growing along the ledge?” Barkett asked. “Based on the tracks, it looks like the driver purposely turned the truck in that direction.”
“Must have hoped the bushes would hold them up,” Corbin said. “But at night, they probably couldn’t see it would take them right off a cliff.”
Corbin was right. There was a hedgerow, but the plants weren’t much bigger than the ones found in someone’s front yard. Delgado didn’t blame the driver for trying, but at this angle, he could see that there was no chance the bushes were going to stop any vehicle from going down, even a small car.
“Once they went off that ledge, it was a straight shot into the river,” the deputy continued. “At some point, the truck flipped over, either while in flight or when it hit the water.”
A minute later, they reached the bottom. Delgado noticed a boat anchored in the river. He guessed it was over the place where the truck went in.
The deputy led them toward a group of law enforcement officials standing in a circle on the beach. One of them broke away from the group and walked in their direction. He was older, perhaps middle to late sixties. He had wispy gray hair and a large belly that hung over the front of his belt. He also had a bushy mustache that would make a walrus turn green with envy.
“Sheriff Larry Wilkins,” the man said when he drew near.
Delgado nodded. “I’m Mack Delgado, and this is my partner, Gabe Corbin.”
The three exchanged handshakes and brief introductions.
“I’ll head back up,” the deputy told Wilkins.
The sheriff nodded then turned to the two agents. “Did you know the deceased?”
“Yes, we worked with her,” Corbin replied.
“My condolences.” The sheriff’s eyes darted toward the water then back to the men. “We had to bring a couple of divers in from Frederick. They’ve been in the water for almost forty-five minutes.”
“Do you mind if we take a look at our partner’s body?” Delgado asked.
Wilkins’s eyes narrowed slightly. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell us what?”
“We haven’t found her body. We’re pulling the man out now, but hers wasn’t in there.”
Corbin’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I am,” Wilkins said, his tone defensive. “I think those divers would know if there were two bodies in that cab.”
Delgado felt shaken by the news. How was that possible? Had she been thrown out of the truck as it went down the bank, or had she somehow managed to climb out after it went in? He figured it must be the latter, since no body had been found on the slope. She could have crawled off, but if she had, then where was she?
“So you’re saying she’s still alive?” Corbin asked.
Wilkins shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that.” He glanced toward the road. “Nobody survives a fall from up there.” He returned his gaze to Corbin. “Right now, it’s just a matter of finding the body.”
While it was hard to imagine anyone surviving a drop of that magnitude, Delgado still wasn’t sure they could completely rule out finding Drenna alive. He looked at Wilkins. “If you didn’t find her on dry land, then that means she must have gotten out of the truck after it went into the river.”
“Her window was open, and for some reason, her air bag didn’t deploy,” Wilkins said. “And since the bag didn’t deploy, there is no way she survives the impact on entry. That means she was either thrown out while the truck was in the air, or she drifted out through the open window as the truck was sinking.”
“Or she may have come out before the truck went off that ledge,” Corbin said.
“Unlikely,” Wilkins said.
Corbin looked at him. “How do you know that? She could’ve easily been thrown out when the truck bounced down that hill. Who knows? She may have purposely jumped out.”
“Then where is she?” Wilkins asked, his mustache twitching. “If she jumped out and died, then we would’ve found her body. If she survived, then she would’ve crawled up to the road.”
Corbin said nothing.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” Wilkins continued. “I know this is tough, but if your friend was alive, then we’d know it by now.”
Delgado rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The sheriff was probably right. None of the various scenarios suggested Drenna had survived. Since the air bag had never deployed, it would have been almost impossible for her to survive the truck’s impact with the river. Not from that height. And even if she had been thrown from the truck, it w
ould have been difficult to survive the impact unless she just happened to go in feet first.
“Have you identified the man?” Corbin asked.
“We found his license.” Wilkins pulled a notepad from his front shirt pocket and stared at the top page. “His name is Trevor Wayne Lambert.” Wilkins looked up at them. “Know him?”
Delgado shook his head. “We believe he and our colleague were dating.”
Wilkins put the pad away. “Sad to end that way.”
“Who was driving?” Delgado asked.
“Lambert. He was still strapped into the driver’s seat when our men got down there.”
Corbin looked up the slope. “Do we know what caused the accident? Seems odd that they would just run off the road like that.”
“It’s actually not all that odd. It was foggy last night, and we also believe this Lambert fellow had been drinking heavily.”
Corbin frowned. “How do you know that?”
“The two were staying in a cabin just up the road. I sent one of my deputies over there to check things out, and he found a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the counter. Looks like they were hitting the booze pretty hard.”
“That doesn’t prove he was drinking at the time of the accident,” Corbin said.
“Look, I know you city boys are going to nitpick everything we do, but we see this all the time up here. Someone gets drunk then tries to drive on these mountain roads. There are two or three cases every year. Some of them get lucky and run off the road where there are plenty of trees to keep them up. Others like your lady friend ain’t so lucky.”
Corbin seemed unconvinced. “I still think you need to check his blood alcohol before—”
“So now you’re trying to tell me how to do my job? Of course we’re going to run blood work.”
Anxious to defuse the situation, Delgado said, “We know you’re doing everything you can, Sheriff. We’re going to have to file a report with our people, so we’re just trying to be thorough.”
Wilkins kept a hard gaze on Corbin but finally nodded.
