Instead, he tried to predict Xiao’s next move. In his day job, Terrell didn’t rely on offender profiling often, but the state required him to attend occasional seminars on the latest science of the criminal mind. The most recent one had been only a year ago.
Criminal profiling focused partly on determining where the offender lived or where he might strike next, which was of no interest to the chief. Terrell wanted to know what Xiao would do next. He knew damn well where.
Right here in this room.
Now, in what he assumed were the very early morning hours, he was finally painting a picture of Xiao, the man. Rich, yes. Determined, yes. Insane? Violent? He wanted his daughter back—that motive was obvious. Or was it? These were the more difficult questions. Was the mogul a normal father whose upbringing told him he could get anything he wanted? Or was he a power-hungry psychopath?
The answers to these questions were the key to getting himself and his wife out of China safely. He looked at Charlotte sleeping. Or at least my wife.
If Xiao was merely a wounded father who wanted his daughter back, it made sense for the Terrells to wait it out. Do what Xiao asks and get the deal done. On the other hand, if Xiao was a bloodthirsty psychopath, escape was their only option. Even if Meirong was returned safely, they didn’t have a chance in hell of getting out alive if that was the case.
Terrell’s blurry watercolor was beginning to suggest the scarier of the two options—that Xiao was unstable, at best. All the major signs of a psychopathic personality were there: narcissism, high intelligence, ostensible charm, no remorse for his actions. Classic. His poetry infatuation screamed obsession.
The most convincing factor, though, was his desire to have Meirong back, without regard for her own wishes. This was not a man who loved his daughter. A psychopath didn’t love. It was ego: to show that no one could abandon him and get away with it. To make up for his wife’s death.
Then how to escape?
The previous night, the chief had called Layle under the supervision of the giants. It had been a mistake on Xiao’s part to be absent; Terrell could talk freely to his deputy without the giants understanding him.
“Look for the girl,” he told Layle. “Don’t let her know you’re there. And don’t tell anyone yet—I think there’s more to this than Xiao is letting on. I’m sure he will keep us in touch.”
Layle understood. He agreed not to contact the embassy or the feds. Once they played that card, things would get ugly: the Chinese government would fabricate some story to justify their imprisonment. Politics would get in the way of a simple transaction. He much preferred to get Meirong to Beijing without that fuss.
Charlotte stirred, and Terrell went to stand by her, but she didn’t wake. He bent and ran his fingers through her hair. The toll of the kidnapping was getting to him, even though it had probably been only one night. Instead of succumbing to his emotions, he straightened and took stock of the room.
Two cots with weak aluminum frames. No good as a clubbing weapon, but maybe potential to sharpen to a point. A table built with similarly light metals. It would work to stand on and access a window or vent, but there was none. Whoever had set up the cell had thought of that. The chairs were useless, light and cheap. Damn. The bedding could be used as a garrote, but that would be useless against the giants. A white painter’s bucket for relieving themselves, which Charlotte had refused to use.
The door was flung open. Charlotte startled awake and sat up.
The giants marched in. Tight black mock turtlenecks and baggy military-style pants. Work boots. Their faces were emotionless.
Behind them came Xiao, smiling. He wore a starched sky-blue Oxford and expensive linen pants instead of the full suit. Terrell could see his physique now, compact but muscular. He held a tray of food. American again—eggs and bacon with fresh melon. Coffee. The air from outside the room rushed in, carrying the scent of the food.
Terrell didn’t say a word.
“Good morning,” Xiao started. “I hope you had a good night’s rest.” His smile turned into a smirk.
“What do you want?”
“Only to bring breakfast.”
Xiao parted the giants, who stepped back and stood on either side of the open door, arms crossed.
“Americans love their coffee, do they not?”
Terrell poured some for himself and his wife.
“I have to use the restroom,” Charlotte piped up. Terrell winced. Xiao waved his hand, and one of the giants pulled her from the room by her arm.
The room was silent. Terrell eyed his captors, now reduced to a single superhuman with his sixtysomething, flamboyant master. Still, Terrell had no weapon, no advantage. He hadn’t had time to sharpen a length of aluminum from the cot. When Xiao had turned to allow Charlotte out, Terrell noticed the gleam of a silver revolver tucked into the back of his pants. Intricately etched and polished, it was gaudy and expensive, but still deadly. He could only assume the giant was armed too. This wasn’t his opportunity.
“Ah!” Xiao finally spoke, seemingly excited. “I have a gift for you.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out an old cell phone. Terrell took it. The back was covered in duct tape.
“I’ve altered it,” Xiao said, smiling with satisfaction. “It will call only the number you used last night. Your deputy.”
Terrell must have looked confused.
“You may talk to him whenever you’d like. We are conducting transparent business transaction,” the old plutocrat said, holding his palms out to Terrell. “You may tell him everything. Your conditions, your treatment. I hope it will convince him that I am reasonable.”
“Let Charlotte go. If you want to appear reasonable.”
Xiao took a seat and opened the bag of jerky. He held it out to Terrell, who refused, then to the giant, who took a large hunk. The behemoth tore into it like a starved dog.
“I wish I could. A woman should not be subjected to such things.” Xiao’s attempt at warmth came off as sexism rather than chivalry. He smelled the bag of jerky, then put it down on the table and wiped his hands on his pants. “I mentioned before, I know you well, though we’ve never met. You are a man of justice, beyond all other concerns.” A smirk. “Your cooperation is best when you have a clear head. When you remember what’s important. We don’t want you making any rash decisions.”
“What if I tell Layle to alert the consulate? You’ll bring on a hell storm.”
“I would advise you against that, Chief Terrell. Do not forget that China is a strong nation, with willpower. Our officials will not simply raid Tram Village on your deputy’s word. They will argue with your consulate, draw things out. Maybe move you from here to prison, if I say the right thing.”
“And you would start a war for your country.”
“I am not afraid of war.” Xiao stood, snapped his fingers, and left with the giant.
A minute or so later, Charlotte was shoved back into the room, and the door slammed shut. Terrell was sitting at the table, staring at the cell phone.
21
SALMON, IDAHO. OCTOBER 21.
11:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
“We really can’t have a fire?” It was almost midnight. The flanks of Mount Phelan were covered in snow again. The air was cold but still.
Jake had just fallen sleep. He sighed. “No fire. Go to sleep.”
“You don’t have any whiskey?” J.P. sounded like a child asking for candy.
“Didn’t make the list of necessities.”
“I can’t fall asleep without a little drink.”
“Now’s a good time to learn.”
Jake and J.P. had summited Phelan at 9 p.m. and confirmed that the hunting camp was occupied. No doubt about it. To J.P.’s dismay, Jake had insisted they wait until morning to make their move. There was no sense in wandering into a potentially volatile situation
blind. From a few hundred yards out, all they could see was the smoke and an occasional shadow moving through the main cabin.
They camped a half mile away. A bright waxing crescent moon intermittently shone through snow clouds, giving an eerie feel to the forest. Two saw-whet owls beckoned back and forth.
J.P. wasn’t the only one trying to keep his mind from reeling. Jake had plenty to think about too—most pressing, what was the plan for daybreak? He was still holding out hope that if Esma was in the cabin, there was a reasonable explanation. Clearing her head with some friends, whatever. In that case, a knock on the door was all that was necessary.
He wouldn’t go in guns blazing; that much was obvious. Approach from downwind—whoever was in the cabin could have dogs. This was something he’d overlooked on an assignment before, and it cost him his target.
More brainstorming: Be careful not to reveal your intentions too early, in case Esma has been taken by hostiles.
The lost hunter was his best bet. Play it dumb: Howdy! Is So-and-So here? Any name but Esma. Get a feel for the situation. Of course, there was still the chance that she wasn’t there at all. The only thing they knew was that Esma’s phone had transmitted in the area. And this call—from the River of No Return—was the only trace of her in the last several days. Stolen phone, just passing through—there were plenty of possibilities.
Jake flipped over in his sleeping bag, finding the new position equally uncomfortable. Another saw-whet call, like a boiling teapot. The tranquility of the woods was a burden, allowing too much space for thought.
He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes. J.P. was snoring. So much for the whiskey rule. He couldn’t get over the name of the mountain. Phelan. Why does it sound familiar? It wasn’t coming together. His legs were restless, stiff and sore from walking. He did the best he could to clear his mind and find sleep.
* * *
Jake woke up before dawn. His arm was numb from sleeping on it. He let J.P. sleep a few extra minutes while he prepared coffee and oatmeal. Another two inches of snow had fallen. He changed socks; his had become sweaty from the down bag. He packed his pad and sleeping bag into their sacks. Then he loaded the Mariner, making sure there was a round in the chamber. The laser sight cut through his foggy breath on its way to an Aspen trunk forty yards out. He put his finger on the trigger, took a deep breath and held it. Just as he was trained. “Bang,” he whispered. He exhaled, turned off the sight, and stuffed the Glock into its holster.
J.P. woke up on his own, to Jake’s surprise. Without saying a word, he quickly broke down his tent and packed away his sleeping gear. When he was ready, he walked over to Jake and poured himself some coffee.
“Oatmeal?” Jake asked.
He shook his head. “Nervous stomach. How you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Confident?”
“Confidence is arrogance. I’m hopeful.” Jake was scarfing down some oatmeal, still wearing his headlamp, which he’d turned to its dull-red setting so the light wouldn’t carry.
“What’s the plan?” J.P. poured himself more coffee.
“Just go observe for a few minutes. If we don’t see anything suspicious, I’ll approach the camp and see what’s what.”
“And me?”
“I have experience with this sort of thing. I’d rather you hang back.”
J.P. seemed disappointed but didn’t protest.
The hike to the perimeter of the camp took twenty minutes. They sat on a snow-covered tree trunk a hundred yards away. Jake held his index finger to his lips to remind J.P. to stay silent. J.P. responded with a series of hand gestures, mimicking a Hollywood FBI agent. In any other circumstance, Jake would’ve laughed.
After fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of life at the cabin but for the thick, lazy smoke of a dying fire. The sun was struggling to shine through the spotty snow clouds.
Jake gestured for his friend to come close. “I’m gonna go in.”
J.P. nodded.
On his way to the front door, Jake took some deep breaths and rolled his neck, trying to settle his nerves. It was a fine line—he didn’t want adrenaline to overpower his common sense, but he had to be on edge enough to react quickly if things went south. He made sure the Glock was covered by his pullover before approaching.
The cabin was old and dilapidated, not unusual for a hunting camp. It being so isolated, there was no easy way to bring in materials for a renovation. Jake first looked in the front windows. The woodstove was barely glowing—it hadn’t been fed since the night before. A few rifles and a shotgun lay on the kitchen counter. He expected as much, but it still concerned him.
The back windows, presumably bedrooms, were covered with burlap curtains. He continued around the property. An awning extending from one side, walled in with hanging tarpaulins. Jake heard something inside. Shit. His heart began to race. Not good. Relax. He stayed still for a moment and listened. The noise continued.
Jake spoke quietly so as not to wake anyone inside. “Hello? Who’s there?” Silence for a moment, then the noise resumed. He pulled his fleece up over his holster for easy access.
“Hello?”
There was no response. He approached an opening in the tarp, took one more breath and entered.
A loud fracas. Rushing air. Jake’s hand went instinctively to the gun. Three or four magpies flushed past him and out the opening. Jesus.
Jake looked around—hanging from meat hooks were four cow moose, an illegal take in this area. The men in the cabin were at least poachers, if not much, much worse.
Looking around for any trace of Esma under the awning, Jake found nothing but a few hunting knives and a bone saw. There was an open screen door between the tarped-in area and the cabin. It creaked in the soft wind.
Jake hustled back out before he was heard or seen. Poachers were nothing to shrug at—they could be dangerous and defensive, and there was no doubt they were armed.
As he walked around the last corner of the structure to get back to the front door, he saw J.P. at the tree line, frantically waving his arms. Jake started to jog back toward his friend to see what was the matter.
“Stop right there, motherfucker.”
Jake stopped, put his hands up in surrender and started to turn to face his adversary.
“I didn’t say turn around!”
Jake glanced over his shoulder.
“Eyes straight ahead, asshole!”
Jake had seen what he suspected. A hunting rifle, likely a 30-06, was aimed squarely between his shoulder blades. The man was thin and weathered.
“The fuck do you want?”
“We got lost.” Jake’s hands were still up. Soon they would start trembling from the strain. “Looking for a buddy’s camp.”
“Don’t look like hunters! Hey, stay back!” the man warned J.P., who had moved forward from the woods.
“We’re not from around here.”
“No shit. Did you go around back?”
“I was just looking for the silver ATV our friend rides.”
“Find it?” The man laughed.
“No.”
“So I guess I’m not your buddy, huh?”
Jake shook his head. What the hell is his problem? “Look, we’re obviously at the wrong . . .”
“Jake! Listen!” J.P. pointed to the sky. Jake heard the back end of it: the unmistakable scream of a woman.
“The hell was that?” the hunter growled.
“We have to go.”
“If someone’s in trouble, I’m going with you.”
Jake turned and looked him over for a moment. Thought about the poached moose in the back. Then decided extra firepower wouldn’t hurt. “Bring your rifle.”
The stranger nodded.
The scream had come from the south, at least as far as they knew. It was difficult to
figure such things in varying terrain.
“This way!” J.P. had run toward Jake and the stranger, and kept running. “It sounded close.”
“There’s another camp just a half mile away, overlooking the river.” The stranger checked his hunting jacket for shells. “Should do.” He had about a dozen. He looked at Jake. “You’re not lost, are you?” It wasn’t a question.
J.P. turned back to them, now jogging backward. “Wait, shouldn’t I get a gun from the cabin?”
“No,” Jake and the stranger said simultaneously. His name was Allen, and it turned out he was no hunter.
“Biologist, actually. Wildlife. They send me up here to collect poached animals so we can use them as evidence. This is a no-hunt zone, but there’s a crew taking twenty or so animals a year from this area.” The intimidating tone had vanished. “So many damn poachers in these hills, I never trust anyone. Sorry.”
Jake waved off his apology. “Are you trained in law enforcement with Game and Fish?”
“Once upon a time. Haven’t fired a weapon in five years. Used to be pretty good.”
“We might be dealing with one or several hostiles. Possibly kidnappers. We don’t know.”
Allen looked confused but didn’t ask. “Up here.” He was now leading Jake and J.P. “Okay, through this last stand of pines, then there’s the camp.”
Jake and Allen went through first, then waved J.P. up. For a few seconds, there was silence. Then, another bloodcurdling scream. And a scuffle.
From behind a shed, two men were dragging a woman to an old F-150. She wasn’t going easily. She flailed and screamed.
“Esma!” J.P. said it too loudly.
“Shhhh.” Jake glared at J.P., but the men didn’t notice them. “Are you sure it’s her?” he whispered.
“Pretty sure.”
Allen piped up. “Either way, we’re going in. There’s a bit of a rise there we can use for cover.”
River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) Page 12
