by Regan Black
Unlike John and so many others, Scott had never seen the horrors inside a UI lab. Although he’d been dosed immediately with a tracking device and sent out to complete a mission to earn his freedom, no other alterations had been made. UI had kept Scott’s friends completely off the radar. Searches for tracking signals similar to Scott’s hadn’t turned up anything. And despite Ben’s special skill of being invisible allowed him to lurk in shadows to eavesdrop and gather information, nothing resembling a clue had resulted in actionable intel.
Until now, when Harbison’s name and face were popping up everywhere. It had to mean something. Her eyes popped open as a possible explanation occurred to her. “He lost his new star,” she whispered as the idea took shape, solidified. What better way to find a lost asset than stir up a manhunt?
Connecting him to less violent crimes in addition to the brutal murder of a military officer only ratcheted up the lynch mob mentality.
Find the lost operative had to be the agenda. Harbison was brand new to UI and yet already strong enough to be out in the field. She didn’t like how that added up. They knew Messenger was changing his tactics, in no small part because of what John, Ben, and now Scott were doing. She had to give Messenger points for creativity even if she didn’t approve of his ethics, tactics, or anything else.
She would discuss the theory with John in the morning. It seemed it was time to stretch their thinking to match Messenger’s.
*
“Lost?” John shook his head after Amelia shared her new theory with all of them over a hearty breakfast. He didn’t like the idea of Ben and Scott searching for Harbison, only to get tangled in Messenger’s wide net. “No. Not with the new UI tracking tech. Odds are good it’s another test.”
“We could help Owen fail that kind of test,” Scott said.
John could already see that would get Amelia’s vote.
“What if this is a trap for you?” Jaime gave voice to John’s concerns as her gaze settled on Scott, concern and love shining in her eyes. “Besides, with so many scattered reports where would we start looking?”
Across from him, Ben was indulging the team by staying visible in his entirety through the meal. That factor alone was proof of Ben’s trust in Scott and Jaime and gave John hope for the team as a whole. The family, he amended. It seemed the recent changes of Amelia’s pregnancy, a stable home base and new friends had brought out the best in the man UI had managed to turn into a chameleon. Ben’s ability to wander anywhere unseen was helpful, but the prolonged solitude of his missions had messed with his head. The clear air, big skies, and privacy of the Crazy Mountains suited them all, John realized.
“I think she might be right about Harbison being lost,” Ben said. “We disabled Scott’s tracker almost before it had a chance to settle in his system. Not that it takes long.” He went to the counter for the coffee carafe and refilled everyone’s cup. “More tea?” he asked Amelia.
“No, thank you.”
They all waited, knowing Ben wasn’t done with his thought. “The scans are coming up empty, right?”
John nodded. They had a program running constantly, searching for any pop on the radio frequencies UI used. “It’s possible they tweaked the trackers again.”
“Between dosing Scott and the other two?” Ben shook his head. “I don’t think even a new and improved UI is that good.”
“If we can’t find Harbison, we need to get back out there and find the lab,” Scott said, his voice rough as sandpaper.
Ben shook his head. “Trust me, kid, you don’t really want to see that,” he said, echoing John’s thoughts. “The only way we end this is to end Messenger.”
Scott pushed his hash browns into a perfect square, pensive. “I don’t want my friends to die like lab rats in a cage either.”
“We’re doing all we can to prevent that,” Amelia assured him.
“Yeah.” Ben gulped his coffee. “Last time I was close enough to overhear a Messenger order he was talking about intercepting a shipment of guns coming up from Mexico.”
John stilled, along with everyone at the table. “You never mentioned that, Ben.”
“Why would I? We don’t need to get between UI and a cartel.”
John couldn’t argue with the perfect Ben-logic. “Would’ve been nice to get close to Messenger,” he pointed out.
“Well, sure.” Ben sat back in his chair. “But he was on the other end of the radio at the time. I was only tagging along with the second-stringers.”
John smothered a smile at Ben’s term for the non-enhanced personnel Messenger was forced to use more often since John, Amelia, and Ben had helped one of the top researchers in the program take out the main UI lab and bleed their offshore bank accounts dry. And still the bastard kept rising from the ashes.
If Messenger rebuilt enough operatives before John had all the pieces in place here, they’d be sitting ducks, despite the expertise from Hank Patterson’s team of bodyguards. Worse, that kind of failure would disappoint Amelia.
His wife snagged the last piece of bacon from the platter in the middle of the table. “When did you overhear that conversation, Ben?”
Ben stared into his coffee cup so long, John was sure he’d forgotten they all were hoping for an answer. “That snowstorm down in Clover City, I think.” He started to fade out, his extremities going a little transparent, as he tried to pin down the timing. “Yeah. The second-stringers were griping because the heater in the car wasn’t working. Pansies. Then Messenger called and gave them a highway number and mile marker. Told them when to show up and where to toss the bodies once they hijacked the truck.”
“That was months ago,” John said.
Ben shrugged. “I figured this one,” he lifted his chin toward Scott, “was the priority. Bird in the hand, y’know.”
John wanted to laugh. Amelia was hiding her chuckle behind her mug of tea. “Yeah, Ben. I know.”
“Hey, Ben, do you remember what highway number?” Jaime posed the question far too casually as she started clearing dishes.
Ben gave her the information immediately. “It was mile marker 429, if it helps.”
“It does.” Jaime said, loading the dishwasher. “That highway bisects the Crow Reservation. Not much out there but miles and miles of wilderness.”
“Good place for an ambush?” John asked.
“Definitely,” she replied. “Cell service isn’t exactly reliable.”
“Which means it’s also a good place to get lost,” Amelia said. “I’ll start the research for any accident reports.”
“We have to leave for Bozeman by noon,” John reminded his wife. Today they would find out if they were having a baby boy or girl. When asked, he truthfully said he didn’t care one way or the other, as long as the baby was healthy. Either way, he was going to be a father and that continued to terrify him on a level he could never explain to anyone.
“I’ll be ready.” She pressed her lips to his, then whispered in his ear. “And so will you.”
Sometimes it was scary how well the woman could read him. “Assuming she finds what we’re looking for, how should we gear up for the search?” John asked Jaime.
“You’re staying,” Scott and Ben said in unison.
Now that was eerie. “Don’t ever do that again,” John said.
Scott only shrugged while Ben made it clear John was not invited to handle any part of the search and rescue.
“I didn’t mean me,” John explained. “I want one of Patterson’s men along for this ride and need to know what to ask for.”
“Why bother? Ben faded almost completely, giving John a view of the cabinets behind his friend. “The kid and I are doing fine.”
“I’ll bother because if you get caught on tribal land someone with valid identification should be there to do the talking.”
“Oh.” Ben solidified a bit. “Fair point.”
Chapter 6
Hope kept watch through the night, sleeping lightly, always listening for trouble outsi
de or inside the cave, and rising as soon as the sun warmed the sky. Stretching her arms overhead, easing the kink from her stiff neck, she glanced over at the stranger—Owen—pleased to see his face relaxed, a low snore occasionally punctuating his even breathing.
The first night she’d hidden here tending to him, she’d thought she’d heard a search party move by. The voices had been faint, any words blurred by the wind. Still, it had been tempting to take a closer look, maybe even ask for help, but some deep-seated intuition had kept her in the cave.
Out of supplies, they definitely had to get moving today. She was grateful Owen had had an uneventful night. Though she’d wrangled him into this shelter, she’d never be able to transport a man his size to civilization. “Please let him be strong enough to make good time today,” she murmured as her stomach rumbled.
How could he rouse himself mid-fever to tell her to leave, only to wake clear-eyed and not remember much of anything? Not even his last name, she recalled. Brains and brain injuries were tricky. Anyone who participated in or watched sports knew that much. Factoring in all the symptoms and fragments of information, she wasn’t sure which version of Owen scared her more: the cold, relentless hunter or the friendly, rather charming man.
He shifted in his sleep as if he felt her staring, but didn’t wake.
Again, she found herself torn over her decision to pull him out of the creek. On foot at a normal pace, it would take a few hours to hike back to her campsite for supplies and transportation. What would she do if somewhere along the way he remembered he’d wanted to kill her?
Well, at least he wouldn’t be armed. She had no intention of handing those guns back to him and making it easy for him to turn on her if his memory returned. He had the advantage in height and brute strength and, based on her first sighting, he had enough stamina for ten men when he was fit. She had survival training, self-defense skills, and an understanding of the terrain.
While she watched, he rolled over and she saw the stains on his skin, his collar, where his wounds continued to weep. She’d long since used the last of the gauze in her day pack first aid kit. The persistent bleeding was so strange.
“Nothing about him is normal,” she reminded herself. Not his appearance on the reservation, his taking notice of her, his violent response, or his weird symptoms as he recovered. She studied his form, stretched out in the small pocket of rock on the other side of the banked fire. Though he was dressed now she remembered uncovering every inch of his stunning body, despite the fair skin. He was a work of art, even injured and feverish. In another time and place she might have asked him to model for a shoot. In her mind, she was already setting it up: outdoors, in rugged terrain, a deep lake behind him.
Suddenly, his body stiffened and he emitted a low, pained moan. Before she could reach for anything to soothe him, he sat up, clutching his stomach.
Curled away from her, she could see fresh bleeding from the cut behind his ear where his head had collided with a rock after she’d struck him. “Owen?”
He spun around in a crouch, his blue eyes turning wild and feral as a wolf when his gaze lit on her.
“Owen.” Voice calm, she suppressed the scream building in her throat and the urge to run jolting through her body. She reached back, put her hand on the knife.
His lip curled, violence shining in his eyes, muscles coiled to strike. Whatever was happening to him, twisting him into one man and then another, she wished like hell she’d snuck away in the night. She doubted there was much chance of outrunning him when he was in ‘relentless hunter’ mode.
“Think, Owen,” she said. “You’re safe. Look around.”
Clutching his side, his gaze darted around the small space. “No, Hope. Not safe.”
He uttered the words as if chewing gravel. She couldn’t imagine what had set him off. “Are you in pain?”
“Leave.” He closed his eyes tight, obviously fighting some internal battle. “Go!”
Whatever he was going through, he was trying to protect her. “I will,” she promised. “As soon as you tell me who I should call to come help you.”
“No calls,” he rasped. Shaking his head, he dropped to his knees. When he looked up at her, his eyes were clear. “You need to get far away from me.”
Three days ago she would have believed him. After nursing him through a glassy-eyed fever, sharing food with him, and learning his first name, she wanted to see this through. If she left him now, who would escort him to safety? “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“It goes deeper than pain,” he admitted. “Every nerve is on fire.”
Within the context of the fever, the nausea, and the confusion, the symptoms added up to withdrawal. She just didn’t know how to factor in the wounds that wouldn’t heal.
“Can you walk?”
He nodded.
“Then we’ll leave together.”
“No.” He tried to stand, winced and fell back to his knees. “Hope, you really need to distance yourself. The people who sent me here…” He doubled over again like he’d taken a punch and straightened with an agonized groan. “They will come back.”
“Then we’d better not leave them a trail.” She hoisted her pack onto her shoulders and unfolded her trekking poles. “These should help.”
The idea of leaving what shelter they had when she wasn’t sure how far or how fast he could travel didn’t appeal. But they were out of food and she had to do something. She doused the fire, and shrugged into her pack. Urging him out of the shelter, she knelt at the creek to refill the canteen and water bottles. All she left behind was his rifle. Both her pistol and his were safely in her pack, his knife on her belt. Once they parted ways, assuming they both survived, she’d consider returning his weapons.
He did better than she expected once they were out in the air. She’d chosen a direct route to the campsite, avoiding the area where she’d left her tripod. Setting a slow pace, she increased it gradually as they went along. Walking put some healthy color into his pale skin and the earlier waves of pain seemed to recede. Maybe the sweat and movement were purging whatever he was fighting.
“Where are we headed?” he asked almost an hour later when they stopped to rest and hydrate.
“My campsite,” she replied, braced for a negative reaction. He simply stared back the way they’d come. “From there we can take my truck to the nearest clinic.” Again, no reaction. “Does any of this terrain strike a chord with you? Remind you why you were out here?”
“Not really.” He pressed the heel of his hand against the seeping wounds and added another stripe of blood on his pants as he wiped it off. “I remember a voice in my ear giving commands and counting off time. There’s a strange dread when I think about it, try to bring it into focus.”
“Then don’t push it.” Her first goal was getting them both to her truck in one piece.
Wary of another feral outburst, she’d noticed the way his gaze kept drifting over the land and up to the sky. More than once he’d mentioned the beauty and peacefulness of the area. In her experience it required a special person to appreciate the vast and challenging environment that was southern Montana and the home of the Crow Nation.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me,” he said as they started hiking again.
“I believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because I saw you before you turned on me and after,” she said. “The disconnect—”
“Hang on.” He stopped short, his gaze locked onto her. “What do you mean I turned on you? Why would I do that?”
“I, um… I don’t know.” She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. When she imagined the potential dangers of his memory returning, she hadn’t anticipated she’d be the spark. “I told you the details, but that was when you had a fever.”
Slowly, hands balanced on the trekking poles, he turned away from her. His gaze scanned the area, the hills and pockets of trees breaking up the wide expanse of spring grasses. He shi
fted again, facing west for a long moment, his back to her.
While she waited, afraid to move, she heard the calls of the migrating longspur she’d been waiting for. Naturally the flock would arrive when she had to be elsewhere. According to the background provided, they’d be here for at least a week. She had time to take care of Owen and get back out to the fields. After she ordered a new camera and tripod, she thought with some frustration.
“Is your cell phone still off?”
Lost in her thoughts, his voice gave her a start. “Yes,” she answered belatedly.
“Good.”
His voice and stance had changed again. When he turned to her, his eyes were almost impossibly blue. Alert, neither ruthless nor friendly, this facet of Owen was detached and analytical. “What’s going on?”
“I tracked you. Shot at you,” he said. “I missed.” Clearly annoyed, he swiped at the oozing wound at his ear again. “I never miss. Then you got the drop on me at the creek.”
“Why did you shoot at me?”
“Orders,” he replied as if that was a sufficient explanation. “Why didn’t you leave me in the creek?”
“Stupidity.” She resumed the hike toward her campsite. “Along with a hefty dose of guilt.” Guilt she barely understood herself, so she didn’t try to explain it to him.
He caught up with her in a few strides. “That’s my knife on your belt.”
“It is.”
“Where’s my rifle?”
“I left it behind.” She was feeling marginally guilty about that now too. “Your pistol is in my pack, loaded, along with two full magazines.” She reached for the pack, prepared to open it and return his handgun.
“That’s something.”
Surprised he hadn’t wanted the gun back, she secured the straps and resumed the brisk pace. “What else do you remember?”
“You weren’t my original target.”
“Good to know.” Though she waited, he didn’t elaborate as to why he’d been running across the reservation. “I sat with you those first two nights.” And he’d mumbled about some strange, impossible things during his fever. “You’ve clearly been through some rigorous physical training.”
