by Elle James
Michael shifted into Park and unfastened his seat belt. “Stay here,” he said.
He didn’t have to tell her twice. As soon as he opened the door she caught the scent of decay. Of death. She looked away, out the side window, but felt her gaze pulled back to him as he made his way to the formless shape on the ground. He stepped cautiously, his shoulders tensed, one hand on the weapon at his side.
Then he stopped and relaxed. He crouched down and studied the scene a moment longer, then stood and hurried back to the Cruiser. “It’s a deer,” he said. “There’s not enough left to tell how it died. It could have been poachers, or maybe the coyotes managed to separate one from the herd.”
She sagged against the seat, weak with relief. “A deer,” she repeated. “I was so afraid...”
“I should have just checked it out and not said anything to upset you.” He put the Cruiser into gear and turned back toward the track they’d been following.
“I’d have been more upset if you’d clammed up and refused to tell me anything,” she said.
“I figured I could count on you to keep a cool head,” he said. “I’m not sure how many other civilians would hold it together as well as you have, considering all that has happened.”
Since coming to the park she’d stumbled over a dead body and been shot at by a sniper and threatened with a deadly rattlesnake. “I’m not exactly sleeping like a baby, but I’m okay,” she said. “Maybe it’s similar to being in battle—you do what you have to do at the time, then fall apart later.”
He glanced at her. “I hope you don’t fall apart.”
“Maybe I’m stronger now.” Despite a few flashbacks, she did feel stronger. Maybe the man beside her even had something to do with that.
“Give me the GPS coordinates on this spot.” He took a small notebook from his shirt pocket.
She read off the coordinates. “Why do you need them?”
He shrugged. “You never know when someone might want to check this out. Maybe we suddenly have a rash of poaching and we need to document it.”
“And to think I always pictured national parks as such peaceful, safe places.”
“For most people, they are.”
She stared out the windshield, at the expanding glow on the horizon. The gray light allowed her to make out more details in the landscape now—the silhouettes of trees and the distant mountains. “We’re only a mile or so from the place where the sniper ambushed us,” she said.
“I’m going to cut the lights again,” he said. “It’s getting light enough to see to drive, and if someone’s watching, they’ll have a harder time spotting us.”
She watched the GPS as they crawled forward again. After a few more minutes, she held up her hand. “This is where I parked to hike into the area where we found the body, and where I saw Mariposa.”
“And where the sniper fired at us.” He put the Cruiser into four-wheel drive and turned off the faint track. “We’ll drive a little farther into the backcountry, then get out and have a look around.”
She pulled the zipper of her jacket up higher. “What exactly are we looking for?”
“Anything that looks out of place. They’ll probably have used camouflage, but a building is tough to conceal. Look for a grouping of trees or rocks that stand out from the rest. Or they could set up a compound in a gully or canyon, where it’s harder to detect.” He tapped the console between them. “In here is a topo map. I highlighted some places they might try to conceal an operation. There’s a Mini Maglite in there, too.”
She found the map and light and when he stopped the vehicle she spread the heavy plastic-coated map between them. Yellow highlighter circled a box canyon, a dry wash and a small woodland. She studied the lines indicating elevation. “This wash is closest,” she said, pointing to the area he’d circled. “And there’s a seasonal creek nearby. This time of year, it will still have water from snowmelt. If I was going to set up a compound out here, that’s what I’d choose.”
“Let’s give it a look, then.”
She read out the GPS coordinates, and he turned the Cruiser toward them. “What do we do if we find something?” she asked.
“We call for backup. There’s no sense going in alone when we don’t even know how many people we’re up against. This morning, we’re just out sightseeing.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“But you were prepared to go in with just me?” He glanced at her, though she couldn’t read his expression in the shadowed interior of the vehicle.
“I guess I trust your judgment,” she said. “Is that a mistake?” After all, he didn’t strike her as reckless. And he’d saved her life before—she couldn’t imagine he’d be eager to throw it away now.
“You can trust me,” he said. “Just like I trust you.”
“Trust me how?”
“If we do get in a tight spot, I trust you to have my back.”
“Of course.” The words were casual, but the feeling in her chest was anything but lighthearted. Even the soldiers she’d worked with in Afghanistan weren’t all so willing to rely on a woman for help. Michael’s high opinion of her meant more than she was ready to say.
“What’s that?” He hit the brake and leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel.
“What’s what?” She saw nothing in the grayness ahead.
“I thought I saw a light.” He switched off the sneak lights and the interior instrument lights. She stared out the windshield at a landscape of gray smudges, backlit by the first rays of the rising sun to their left. But she didn’t see the light that had made him stop.
Michael opened the car door. “We better go in on foot,” he said. “Stay close to me.”
She slipped on her backpack and put one hand to the reassuring heft of the gun at her side. She was back on patrol again, minus the heavier pack and body armor. Even after so much time, the absence of that familiar weight made her feel vulnerable. Exposed.
She shut the door of the Cruiser without making a sound. But there was no way to move across the rugged ground without the occasional scrape of a shoe on rock, or the snapping of a twig that sounded as loud as a slamming door to her ears. Every sense felt heightened—sounds louder, sights clearer, the dawn breeze on her cheeks and the backs of her hands colder. She sniffed the air and grabbed Michael’s arm. “Stop.”
He halted. “What is it?”
“Do you smell that?”
He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Wood smoke.”
“A campfire,” she whispered. “I think we’re getting very close.”
“Which direction do you think it’s coming from?”
She considered the question, then pointed ahead and to the right. “Over there.”
They moved forward silently, slowly. The sky changed from gray to dusky pink to pale blue. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger, too, and with it came the scent of food—corn, maybe, or baking bread. Soon they were close enough to hear muffled voices, and the scrape of cutlery and clink of glassware.
Michael dropped to his belly and indicated she should do the same. They crawled on their stomachs, dragging themselves forward on elbows. She winced as a sharp rock dug into her forearm. At least here they didn’t have to worry about land mines. Probably. She wished she hadn’t thought of mines. Someone who’d employ a sniper, and maybe had access to a ghillie suit and military-grade weapons, might decide to use land mines, too.
She started to suggest as much to Michael when they moved around a clump of bushes and suddenly the whole camp was laid out in front of them, tucked into a wash, the depression deep enough so that the surrounding stunted piñons provided cover. Whoever had built the compound had piled brush between the trees to act as a privacy fence. They’d even pulled camouflage netting over the tops of the buildings, making the compound more difficult t
o detect from the air.
The camp itself wasn’t impressive—four old camping trailers in a semicircle around a campfire ring and three warped wooden picnic tables. A brown tarp stretched between poles formed a crude shelter over the tables, where a dozen men and women sat, eating a breakfast of tortillas and beans.
A woman worked at the fire, baking more tortillas on a piece of tin balanced over the coals. When she turned to deliver a fresh batch of the flatbreads to another woman, Abby pinched Michael’s arm. “That’s Mariposa,” she said. She wore the same plaid shawl she’d had on the other day, the baby wrapped securely in its folds.
Michael rose to squat on his heels and indicated they should leave. Reluctantly, she turned to go. She would have liked to talk to Mariposa again, to make sure she was all right. But staying here wasn’t safe.
But as they prepared to emerge from the screen of bushes into more open ground, headlights suddenly cut through the darkness. Michael jerked her back into the underbrush and they crouched there, breathing hard and watching a truck make its way toward them.
The truck was bigger than a pickup, with a canvas-covered bed, similar to ones sometimes used by the military to transport troops. It lumbered into camp and stopped not far from the picnic tables. Abby and Michael crept to the edge of the brush once more and watched as two men, carrying semiautomatic rifles, climbed out and spoke to the men and women around the table in Spanish. But they were too far away to make out exactly what they were saying.
Suddenly, the camp sprang to life. The two men with rifles began directing the others to load the picnic tables into the back of the truck. A second truck arrived, and then a third. One man, who wore a white shirt and white straw cowboy hat, and who seemed to be in charge, picked up a bucket and thrust it at Mariposa. She spoke to him, clearly agitated, but he shoved the bucket into her hand and gave her a push. She turned and started walked toward the edge of the compound.
“He told her to get some water and put out the fire,” Michael whispered. “They’re ordering everyone to load the trucks and prepare to leave.”
“I’m going around to the creek to see if I can talk to her and find out more.”
Before he could stop her, she was on her feet, headed for the little creek that gurgled a few dozen yards from the camp. She moved cautiously, keeping the screen of brush between her and the activity in the camp. By the time she reached the water, Mariposa was already there, squatting on the bank and dipping the bucket in the shallows.
“Mariposa!” Abby called softly.
The woman looked up, startled. She dropped the bucket and it rolled away, under some bushes.
“Don’t run. It’s me.” Abby moved closer, so the other woman could see her clearly.
Mariposa’s expression changed to one of alarm. She spoke softly in rapid Spanish. The only word Abby could make out was peligroso—dangerous.
“I want to help you.” Why couldn’t Abby remember the word for help? She slipped off her pack and started looking for her phone. If she could get a signal out here, she could use a translator on the web to get her message across.
The shouting from camp grew louder. Mariposa glanced over her shoulder, then stood, the bucket abandoned in the creek.
Abby gave up the search for her phone. She dropped the pack and stood, also. “Come with me.” She held out her hand. “I can help you.”
Mariposa shook her head and started to back away. “No,” she said—a word whose meaning was the same in Spanish and English.
“Por favor,” Abby said. “Please.”
Mariposa looked back toward camp. The shouting sounded closer now. She clutched the baby to her, and Abby was sure she was about to turn and run.
But instead, she untied the shawl and thrust it—and the baby—into Abby’s arms. Then she whirled and fled, back toward camp.
Abby stared, stunned, the unfamiliar weight and warmth of the infant in her hands. The child stirred and whimpered, and Abby felt a primal response, a fierce desire to keep this tiny, helpless life safe. She cradled the child to her chest and turned to go back to Michael.
She collided with him just as she turned. For a second they were frozen, his arms steadying her, the baby cradled between them. She fought the instinct to lean into him, to draw strength and comfort from his solid presence. “What happened?” he asked.
“I saw Mariposa. I talked to her. But we couldn’t understand each other. I don’t know enough Spanish and she doesn’t speak English. I think she told me it was dangerous for me to be here.”
“She’s right. We have to get out of here. They brought another truck in and they’re breaking down the camp. We have to get back to the Cruiser and radio for help.” He looked down at the bundle in her arms. “What is that?”
“This is Mariposa’s baby.” She folded back the shawl to reveal the infant’s face. The child stared up at them with solemn brown eyes. “Angelique. Mariposa handed her to me, then she ran away. I think she wanted me to keep her safe.”
“Come on, we’ve got to go.” He put his arm around her and urged her forward.
They only traveled a few yards before they spotted the line of men and trucks in between them and the Cruiser. Michael swore under his breath. “We’d better risk a call for backup,” he said. Huddled in the meager cover at the edge of the woods, he took out first his radio, then his cell. He swore under his breath. “The radio doesn’t work this far out, and my phone can’t get a signal,” he said. “Try yours.”
Abby felt sick to her stomach. “My phone is in my pack, back there by the stream. I was so busy with the baby...”
“I’ll get it.” He started toward the creek once more, but just then a man stepped out in front of him and leveled a rifle at them. He wore a white shirt, a white hat and a menacing expression.
“You’re in the wrong place, amigo,” he said.
Chapter Eight
“Abby, run!” Michael shouted.
The last thing she wanted to do was abandon him to the man with the gun, but instinct compelled her to protect the child in her arms. Propelled by the urgency in Michael’s voice, she turned and fled, running hunched over to shield the baby, darting and weaving, waiting for the gunshots she was sure would follow. She had no idea where she was headed, but every instinct told her she had to put as much distance as possible between herself and the camp. She could hide in the underbrush and wait until her pursuers were gone.
As for Michael, she prayed he’d find some way to escape. If she could think of any way to come back and help him without endangering the baby, she would.
She stumbled over rocks and brush, her lungs burning. The baby never made a sound. In her short life was she already so familiar with fear and flight? She ran until she was gasping for breath, fighting a painful stitch in her side. The infant was heavier than she looked. Abby stumbled and feared she might drop the child. She’d have to stop and rest for a moment. She needed to get her bearings and figure out her next move.
She huddled behind a pile of rocks, letting her breathing return to normal and her pounding heart slow its frantic racing. The rocks still held the chill of the evening, and she pressed her back against a boulder, letting the coolness seep into her and dry her sweat. She strained to hear any hint of approaching danger. She hadn’t heard any gunshots from the camp, but would she have even noticed in her panic to escape?
She peered out from behind the rocks. No one appeared to be coming after her. She couldn’t even make out the camp from this distance, but she could see the trucks on the edge of the wash and the bustle of activity around them. If only she had a pair of binoculars.
She needed to get to the truck. Michael probably had supplies and tools in there, maybe even a spare radio. If she could figure out how to start the vehicle, she could drive back to park headquarters and summon help.
She tried
to orient herself. The rising sun had been on their left when they’d parked, and they’d walked straight ahead—south. She squinted in the direction she thought the Cruiser should be, but saw nothing. Michael had made a point of parking amid a grove of trees. She’d just have to set out walking in that direction and hope her instincts were right.
Cautiously, she moved out of her hiding place. Now that the sun was fully up, she felt exposed and more vulnerable than ever. But she’d seen no signs of pursuit. And no signs of Michael. Had the man in the white hat shot him and left his body beside the creek?
She pushed the thought away. She had to focus on Angelique now. She folded back the blanket and studied the child, who stared up at her with solemn brown eyes. She stroked the baby’s soft cheek with her little finger and Angelique grasped it, holding on tightly. A wave of emotion rose up from deep inside Abby—a fierce protectiveness, longing and love. She would do whatever she had to in order to keep this child safe.
Keeping to the shelter of rocks and trees, she started moving north, on a trajectory she hoped would take her to the parked Cruiser but be well out of the way of the men at the camp. Every few yards she looked back toward the camp, but no one sounded an alarm that they had noticed her.
When she was confident she was well out of sight and sound of the camp, she increased her pace to a ragged trot over the rough ground. With the sun up it was getting warmer, and she wished she’d had some way to collect water back at the creek. If she didn’t find the truck, she and Angelique were going to be in trouble.
She stopped to rest a moment and look around. Still no sign of the truck. She should have reached it by now. She couldn’t see the camp, either, which made her uneasy. She wanted to be away from it, but she didn’t want to accidentally stumble back onto it. She’d read that people who wandered off marked trails in the wilderness tended to walk in circles. Without a map or compass to guide her, she might be doing the same.
