by Jenna Kernan
“Where are you?” she called.
Dalton called back. She stood then and fell over her backpack. She groaned as every muscle in her back seemed to seize, but she righted herself and headed toward her husband’s voice, carrying the pack over one shoulder.
Jet raced to her and then away. Behind her, the light from the blazing cabin illuminated the hillside. Sparks flew up into the sky, and she prayed that the ground was still wet enough to keep this fire from spreading to the forest surrounding them.
“Did you get him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Dalton returned up the hill for her and took hold of the pack, then dashed down the slope away from the fire.
“Shouldn’t we wait for fire and police?”
“I’m not certain there aren’t more of them.” He tugged her along.
The ground was dark, and she stumbled over roots and through shrubs.
“If there are more, they can just pick us off from the woods.”
“But if we get to the police.”
Dalton didn’t slow. “I don’t know them. I know my people. We need to get to them.”
They reached the other side of the roundabout on the cabin road and he paused, waiting. She heard the engine sound a moment later. Jet sat beside her and she grabbed her collar.
“She saved our lives,” she said, and stroked Jet’s soft head with her free hand.
“Yesterday she nearly cost you yours, so we’re even.”
She recalled her jump from the bridge.
“She fell.”
Dalton said nothing as he watched the ranger’s truck sweep past.
“How are you planning to get out of here?”
Chapter Thirteen
Dalton doubled back and waited as other cabin dwellers gathered at a distance from the fire. He watched them, looking for some sign that one or more were armed. The first to arrive were the rangers, who quickly disconnected the propane tank outside the kitchen window and dragged it away.
They told everyone to keep back and asked if the two in the cabin had made it out. He waited with Erin outside the circle of light cast by the flames until the fire department and state police arrived. Only then did Dalton leave cover. He made straight for the police. Erin followed, despite his order for her to wait. She left her pack and the automatic weapon behind.
Dalton scanned the crowd. Everyone seemed intent on watching the cabin blaze. He worried about the surrounding dark. A sniper could pick them off with ease.
“What happened?” asked a park ranger. “Stove blow?”
Dalton pulled Erin down so that the ranger’s pickup truck was between them and the woods above the cabin. Before them, flames shot out of the windows and smoke curled onto the roof of their cabin.
“I heard gunfire,” said a woman in pink yoga pants and an oversize T-shirt.
“Automatic gunfire,” added the tall, balding guy holding a half-finished cigarette.
The group clustered together, arms folded as they watched the firefighters set up. Erin held Jet and squatted beside a rear tire.
“Can you wait here just a minute?” Dalton asked.
She hesitated, chewing a thumbnail. “Where are you going?”
He pointed to the well-built trooper, his hat sloped forward revealing the bristle on the back of his head. He was tall and broad shouldered, wearing a crisp uniform with a black utility belt complete with all appropriate gear.
“That guy is the real deal. I’d bet my life on it,” he said.
“Good, because you’re about to.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“You said there might be more of them out here.”
“We need help, Erin.”
She stood and shouted, “Mr. State Trooper. I need help.”
The trooper turned and looked their way. Erin waved.
“Over here.”
The officer strode toward them. Dalton had to smile. Erin had gotten help without leaving cover.
“Yes, ma’am?” said the trooper. He was young, Dalton realized, without a line on his baby face. Still, he stood with one hand casually near his weapon and eyes alert.
Dalton identified himself to the trooper as an NYC detective and showed the officer his gold shield. Then he quickly described the situation.
“Two dead. One in the cabin and one behind the cabin.”
The trooper lifted his radio. “Wait here.”
“If you use that radio, anyone listening will know our position. Call it in with your phone.”
The trooper hesitated, then nodded. “That your dog?” His gaze went to Jet, who sat calm and alert beside Erin.
Erin slipped an arm about Jet, suddenly protective.
“Is now,” said Dalton. “Why?”
“Do you know anything about a couple murdered in the Hudson Gorge Wilderness? They were camping with a black dog.”
“Plenty,” said Dalton.
Erin interrupted. “Did you find a teenage boy, Brian Peters. He was in my party.”
“Not that I’m aware of. But we do have a missing party of adult kayakers.”
“That’s my party,” said Erin, pressing her palm flat to her chest. “I was the expedition leader.”
“Erin Stevens?” asked the trooper.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Where is the rest of your party?” asked the trooper.
Erin burst into tears.
Dalton took over. “I was with them when their camp was attacked. We escaped with the boy, Peters. He suffered a gunshot wound to his upper arm, couldn’t hold a paddle. My wife towed him to the opposite bank from her camp and gave him instructions on how to walk out, then she and I proceeded downriver. The rest of her party aren’t missing. They’re dead.”
“No evidence of that.”
“There is. And there is a downed chopper in the river below the cliff.”
“I’m going to need to bring you both in.”
“Sounds good to me. Can you get some backup? I’m not sure that there aren’t more out here.”
“Who’s after you?”
“Long story. You need to send help after Peters. Also, I need you to call New York City detective Henry Larson. He’s here in North Creek. That was our destination.”
“You can call from the station.” He aimed a finger at them. “Wait here.”
Dalton watched him stride away. It seemed to take hours, but he suspected it was less than forty-five minutes before they were transported to Trooper Barracks G in Queensbury. Another thirty minutes and four FBI agents arrived with two beefy guys from DHS.
It was five in the morning and the knot in Dalton’s shoulders finally began to ease. They had made it. They were safe, though he still had the package.
Erin and he were separated, something that rankled and made him anxious. He felt the need to keep looking out for her, regardless of how many times she’d proved her own capabilities. He went over the events with the FBI agents Nolen Bersen and Peter Heller. Bersen took lead. He was tall, fit and had hair that was cut so brutally short it seemed only a shadow on his head. Heller stood back, arms folded, his freckled forehead furrowed beneath a shock of hair so red that it appeared to be illuminated from within.
By six thirty in the morning Dalton needed the bathroom and some food. He was informed that Henry Larson had been notified that they were now safe and had arrived, but Dalton could not see him. In the bathroom he discovered he was not to have a moment’s privacy when a Homeland Security agent, Lawrence Foster, flashed his ID. He wanted a word. Dalton told him to get in line.
“Do you still have the package?” asked Foster.
This was the first person who seemed to know anything about the intelligence he and Erin had rescued. Dalton used the urinal and ignored him until he was finished. Then he faced
the guy, who was heavyset with close-cropped hair, brown skin and dressed like an attorney in a well-fitting suit.
Dalton narrowed his eyes on the man. He knew all about interagency competition. His office hated it when the FBI came and took over an operation or, worse, took their collar. So he understood Foster’s attempt to get something but still resented his choice of time and place.
“This is my first time being interviewed in a toilet,” said Dalton. “You want to join us in interrogation room three, come on along.”
Foster smiled and stepped away from the door he had been blocking. “I’ll see you there.”
Dalton headed back to the interrogation room. It was nearly eight when the room was cleared of everyone but two men in plain clothes. The elder one stepped forward. Dalton guessed him to be just shy of forty, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, going gray early. He wore a slouch hat, fisherman’s-style shirt, worn jeans and muddy sneakers. At first glance, he looked as if he’d been hauled off an angling excursion. Second glance made Dalton’s skin crawl. He’d worked with CIA, and this guy had that look.
His gaze flicked to the younger man. This one would fit in almost anywhere. He was slim, with a thick beard, glasses and hair that brushed his collar. His clothing was banal, jean shorts and a white tee worn under a forest green plaid cotton shirt. He could be pumping gas or passing you at the horse race track. The point was you wouldn’t notice him. The guy’s gaze finally flicked to Dalton, and those intent gray eyes gave a whole other picture. A chill danced along the ridge of his spine.
“What agency?” asked Dalton.
“Federal,” replied the older guy. His cap said he’d fought in Operation Iraqi Freedom, but somehow Dalton thought he was still active. “You got something that you want to give to us?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
The men exchanged a look.
“Let’s start again. We were expecting the delivery of some sensitive material. Our courier delivered that information successfully to one of our operatives. The helicopter he was flying crashed into your wife’s party, killing Carol Walton.”
“You all clean up that scene?”
He nodded.
“Terrible tragedy. Surprised you made it out. Looked professional. Helicopter, according to reports.”
“You CIA?”
The second man took that one. “We are here to see just how much you know. Clearly you know something because you ran, survived, and we have not recovered our package. Judging from the trail of bodies, neither have your pursuers. Though, close one tonight.”
“You recovered the two that came after us?”
“Bagged and tagged,” said the Iraqi vet. “How did you end up with our intelligence and do you still have it?”
Dalton ground his teeth together for a few seconds, opened his mouth. Closed it again and then wiped it.
His initial interviewer passed him something. He drew back, leaving a folded sheet of paper on the desk. Dalton looked from the page to the man across from him at the table. Then he lifted the paper and read the contents of the letter.
It was from his direct supervisor returning him to active duty and notifying him that he was on loan to a Jerome Shaffer. Dalton recognized the signature. His gaze flicked up to the Iraqi vet, who had removed his wallet from his back pocket and laid a laminated ID card before him.
This was Jerome Shaffer and he worked, according to the card, with the Central Intelligence Agency.
The two stared at each other from across the table.
“I need to hear it from my boss.”
The call was made and a sleepy, familiar voice verified that Dalton was now on loan to the CIA until further notice. He handed back the phone.
“Okay,” he said.
Agent Shaffer nodded. “So where is it?”
Dalton opened the side pocket of his cargo pants and laid the black leather case on the table.
Both men stiffened. Shaffer rose and they backed toward the door.
“Don’t move,” said Shaffer. A moment later the pair were in the hallway and the door between him and the agents closed firmly shut. The click told him he was locked in the interrogation room. He looked to the mirrored glass, knowing there were others out there, but as he could not see them, he still didn’t know what was going on.
Fifteen minutes later the door swung open and in stepped a woman in a full hazmat suit.
Chapter Fourteen
They had separated Erin from Dalton shortly after their arrival at the troopers’ headquarters. Dalton told her it would be all right, but as the minutes ticked by she became restless and had just given up pacing in the small interrogation room in favor of drinking from the water bottle they had furnished.
She looked up as the door clicked open, hoping to see Dalton. Instead, a trooper stepped in, preceding two men who were not in uniform.
Erin lowered the bottle to the table.
The trooper made introductions and Erin shook hands with each in turn. Agent Kane Tillman was first. He wore business casual, loafers and tan pants with a gray sports coat and a classic tie on a pale blue shirt. His face was cleanly shaven and his short hair had a distinctly military air.
Agent Tillman said he was a government investigator of some sort. She missed his title as the other man offered his hand. His associate was more unkempt with hair neither stylish nor unfashionable. His clothing was as drab as his features. She glanced away from him after the introduction and realized she’d only heard part of his name. Gabriel. Was that his first or last name?
She assumed that they were FBI agents, though Gabriel was not dressed like the other FBI agent, Jerome Shaffer, whom she had met on arrival. Her gaze slid to Gabriel. Was his hair dark blond or light brown? She wasn’t sure, but Agent Tillman was speaking, so she turned her attention back to him.
They told her that they’d spoken to Dalton and that she’d be allowed to see him soon. The best news was that Brian Peters had been found alive.
“He was picked up by a ranger and driven to their station. We took charge of him from there.”
“His wounds?”
“Superficial. He’ll make a full recovery.”
She sank back in her seat as relief washed through her, closing her eyes for a moment before the questions began again.
Her interviewer wanted to hear about the helicopter crash.
She relayed to Agent Tillman all she recalled of the attempted rescue of the pilot. They told her the pilot was a friend. Agent Tillman said that he’d known the man, and so Erin had been thorough. The other man, she could not recall his name now, only the letter G. The other one listened but rarely spoke.
“And he said to tell the authorities what exactly?”
“He said to tell you this was taken from Siming’s Army.”
“Right. And he gave you something?”
“Yes, a cooler.”
“Which your husband carried.”
“At first. Then he just carried the contents. We left the cooler to throw our pursuers off us.”
“You believe they were after what you carried?”
She reported what they had overheard before running for their lives.
“Right,” said Tillman. “We were looking for you, as well. Seems you outfoxed both pursuing parties. Even our dogs couldn’t find you.”
She shrugged. “Rain helped. We only left the river day before yesterday. I’m glad you didn’t stop us. I’m afraid Dalton might have thought you were one of our attackers.”
Tillman just smiled. “Well, this is better.”
“Will we be able to go home?”
Tillman’s smile grew tight. “I’m afraid not quite yet. You see, all the opponents you two faced are dead. But we believe there are several more in the region. We are very anxious to capture someone from this organization.”
&nb
sp; “I see.” She didn’t, and her face twisted in confusion. Why was he telling her this?
“Your husband has agreed to go back to the Hudson. He will be helping us catch the people who tracked you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Helping how?”
“He’s a detective. He’s worked undercover. We think it’s our best option.”
Erin straightened in her chair as her gaze flicked from one to the other.
“He said that?”
Tillman didn’t answer directly. “He’ll explain the details to you.”
Something stank. Either he was lying or Dalton was ignoring every promise he’d made to her.
“What about his wife? He wasn’t out there alone. Don’t you think they’ll notice that I’m no longer there?”
The other guy spoke and she jumped. She’d half forgotten he was even in the room and now he was right next to her, leaning against the wall beside the door.
“That’s no problem.”
What color were his eyes? she wondered, squinting. Green, gray, blue? It was hard to tell and he was only two feet from her.
He was smiling at her. It was an unpleasant smile that raised the hairs on her forearms.
“We have a substitute. Someone to play your part.”
“The hell you say.” She stood and faced them. “We just spent two days running for our lives and you want him to go back there without me? Phooey on that!”
“It’s our best option.”
“I want to speak to him now,” she said, arms folding.
“Not possible,” said Tillman.
“Now,” she said, leaning across the table, looking for a fight.
Tillman backed toward the door. The other guy was already gone. She rushed the closing door.
“I want to see him!”
Tillman shut the door before she reached it, and the lock clicked behind him. Tugging on the handle only made her remember how sore her muscles were.
They allowed her to leave the vile little room to use the bathroom, escorted by a female trooper with umber skin and unusual height.
“I want to see my husband.”
“I’ll relay the message,” she said.
