Mountain Blizzard

by Cassie Miles

  “That sounds right,” Dylan said. “What should I do? Turn you invisible?”

  “Wake up, baby brother. I need you to be sharp now—right now.”

  “I have an idea,” Emily said. “Satellite surveillance.”

  “It’s hard to pull off,” Dylan said. “If there are any clouds, it blocks the view.”

  “You could use a drone,” she suggested.

  “The only drones in the area are probably operated out of Fort Bragg, and I’m not going to hack in to the Department of Defense computers. Stuff like that could get me sent away for a long time.”

  “There must be something,” she said.

  “An idea,” Dylan said. “Sean, do you have any of those tracking devices I put together a while back?”

  “I have the big ones and the teeny-tiny ones.”

  “Slap a couple of each on the truck when he stops for gas. Turn them on right now, and I’ll see if I can activate from here.”

  While they continued to follow, Sean told Emily where he kept the tracking devices in his luggage. Following his instructions, she checked batteries and made sure they were all working. She activated each.

  “Good,” Dylan said. “I’ve got four signals.”

  Emily chuckled. “You’re amazing, Dylan. You can track us all the way from Denver?”

  “And I kind of wish I could see what was going on. In the next generation of trackers, I’m adding cameras.”

  “Where are we?”

  “On the road to Sacramento,” Dylan said. “According to my maps, there aren’t any major intersections on your route.”

  “But he might be stopping here,” Sean said as he dropped back, slowing the rental car and allowing the truck to get almost out of sight. He stretched the tense muscles in his shoulders. He didn’t like keeping surveillance in crowded traffic, but these empty roads were equally difficult.

  After rummaging around in his backpack, Emily found energy bars and a bottle of water. Both food and drink were welcome. He hadn’t slept last night, and the sun was rising.

  The orange truck rumbled through Sacramento, still heading east.

  Dylan called them back with an alert. “Make sure your car has enough gas. It looks like the route he’s taking is Highway 50, otherwise known as the loneliest road in America.”

  “That’s right,” Emily said. “I’m reading the road signs. It’s Highway 50, and it goes to Ely, Nevada.”

  “The road’s quiet,” Sean said, “but not that lonely.”

  He’d actually driven Highway 50 on one of his trips between San Francisco and his parents’ house in Denver. On the stretch across Nevada, there were maybe fifteen towns, some with populations under one hundred.

  The good thing about the desolate road was that it wouldn’t be difficult to keep track of the orange truck. The negative was that there was nowhere to hide. If he didn’t stick the trackers onto the truck soon, he’d never be able to sneak up and do it.

  Finally, just outside Ely, the truck made a rest stop. If Levine and the other guards had been decent human beings, they would have made sure the people in the back of the truck were okay. That didn’t appear to be part of their plan.

  Sean drove up a gravel road behind the gas station and parked on a hillside behind a thicket of juniper and scrub oak. With the tracking devices in his pocket, he started down the hill. Emily caught his arm.

  “One kiss,” she said.

  They made it a quick one.

  * * *

  EMILY PACED BEHIND the car, stretching her legs after too many hours sitting. She needed to take her turn behind the wheel. Sean was exhausted, and she wanted to help.

  Looking for a vantage point, she moved along the edge where the hill dropped off. Behind a clump of sagebrush, she crouched down and lifted the binoculars to watch Sean. He’d found a hiding place behind the gas station, not far from the orange truck.

  Her heart beat faster as she realized he was in danger. He had to stay safe, had to stay in one piece. She couldn’t bear to lose him again. But that was exactly what was going to happen.

  She saw him dart forward and place the tracking devices, and then she lowered the binoculars. Their investigation was wrapping up. Soon, it would be over, and Sean would leave her. If they couldn’t be in love, they couldn’t be together. He’d be gone.

  Behind her right shoulder, she heard the sound of a footstep. Someone was approaching the rental car and being none too subtle about it. She couldn’t see him but as soon as she heard him wheezing from the hike up the hill, she knew it was Bulldog.

  He whispered her name. “Emily. Are you here, Emily?”

  What kind of game is he playing? She still had her stun gun in her pocket and wouldn’t hesitate to zap him. But that meant getting close, and she preferred to keep her distance.

  Again he called to her. “Come out, Emily. I have a surprise for you.”

  She ducked down, making sure he couldn’t see her.

  “Forget you,” he said. “I’m outta here.”

  She heard him walking away and knew he’d take the gravel road rather than scrambling up and down the hillside. She scooted around the shrubs and sagebrush to get a peek at Bulldog and see what he was doing. He jogged down the hill toward the truck. Before reaching the gas station, he paused and looked back toward the rental car.

  Incongruously, he held a cell phone in his hand. With his chubby fingers, he punched in a number. The answering ring came from the rental car. That innocent sound was the trigger.

  The car exploded in a fierce red-hot ball of fire.

  The impact knocked her backward and she sat down hard. Her ears were ringing, and she fell back, lying flat on the dusty earth, staring up at a hazy sky streaked with black smoke from the explosion and licked with flames. The earth below her seemed to tremble with the force of a second explosion. Vaguely she thought it must be the gas tank.

  Sprawled out on the ground, she was comfortable in spite of the heat from the flames and the stench of the smoke. Moving to another place might be wise. There was a lot of dry foliage. If it all caught fire, there would be a major blaze. Her grip on consciousness diminished. A soft, peaceful blackness filled her mind.

  Sean was with her. He scooped her up and carried her down the hill to the gas station. The orange truck was gone.

  In the gas station office, he sat her in a chair and leaned close. “Emily, can you hear me?”

  “A little.”

  “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  She stretched and wiggled her arms and legs. Nothing was broken, but she was as stiff and sore as though she’d run a marathon. “I do hurt a little.”

  “Where?”

  “All over.” Though wobbly in the knees, she rose to her feet. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and stared into his face. “I. Love. You.”

  She wasn’t supposed to say that, but she meant it. If he said it back, they’d be on the same page. It would mean they should be married, again. Say it, Sean.

  “Emily.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You need to sit down.”

  He guided her back into the chair, brought her cold water and a damp washrag from the restroom. Her hearing was starting to return as she watched the volunteer fire brigade charge past the gas station windows and attack the blaze.

  “It was Bulldog,” she said to Sean. “He set off a bomb.”

  “I know.”

  “How did he know I was with the car?”

  He shrugged. “He must have spotted you through binoculars. I was worried that they’d notice us following.”

  “Did you take care of the plants?”

  “Mission accomplished.” He ran his thumb across her lips. “You’re going to be okay. I want you to stay here. I’ll come back for you.”

  Not a chanc
e. “This is my investigation. You’re not going to leave me behind.”

  He didn’t argue with her. As she drank her water and nibbled a sandwich the gas station owner had given her, she was aware of Sean striding around, yakking into his cell phone and making plans. If he had figured out some way to follow Levine, she was coming with him, and she told him so after he loaded her into the back of the local sheriff’s car, and they went for a short ride. Had she really said, “I love you”?

  As they sat in a pleasant lounge in the Ely airport, Emily’s mind began to clear. She was picking up every third or fourth word as Sean buzzed around the room, talking on two phones at once. She figured, from what Sean was saying, that Dylan was able to track the orange truck. Levine wasn’t getting away; he was driving into a trap.

  The local sheriff and some of his deputies were in the lounge with her. Law enforcement was involved, and she was glad. She and Sean had taken enough risks. Like saying I love you? It was time for somebody else to step up.

  Sean sat beside her. “It’s almost over.”

  With all the excitement and confusion swirling around them, she had only one cogent thought. She loved him.

  “I can’t take it back,” she said. “I can’t lie.”

  “You love me,” he said.

  Not to be outdone, she said, “And you love me right back.”

  He gently kissed her, and she drifted off into a lovely semiconscious state. Still clinging to her bliss, she boarded a private plane flown by none other than their buddy David Henley. This Cessna wasn’t as big or as fancy as the Gulfstream they’d taken to San Francisco, but she liked the ride.

  “Sean, where are we going?”

  “Aspen.”

  “Of course.”

  It made total sense. They’d gone from intense danger in San Francisco—crooked FBI agents, the crime boss’s thugs and Chinese snakeheads—to the peaceful, snow-laced Rocky Mountains. She smiled. “I think we should live in Colorado.”

  “As you wish,” he said.

  “I also think I’m awake,” she said. “Can you give me an explanation?”

  “Dylan’s tracker worked. Levine and the two idiots drove the truck on Highway 50. The feds and law enforcement are keeping tabs on them. I thought we could join in the chase at Aspen.”

  “Why Aspen?”

  “The timing seemed right,” he said. “Ely is about eight hours from Aspen.”

  It occurred to her that the orange truck could keep rolling all the way across the country, leading a parade of FBI agents and police officers to the Atlantic shoreline.

  But that was not to be.

  By the time they landed in Aspen, Sean received word that the orange truck had stopped at a ranch in a secluded clearing. The FBI was already closing in.

  He turned to her. “Do you want to stay here? I could arrange for your aunt to pick you up.”

  “I’m coming with you. I won’t let you face danger all by yourself...”

  “Half the law enforcement in the western United States will be there to protect me.”

  “But you need me, and I need you.”

  “I love you, Emily.”

  “And I’m a reporter.” She gave him a hug. “I’m not going to miss out on this exclusive story.”

  Sean and Emily arrived at the scene in time to see the people in the orange truck go free, as well as dozens of other women and children who had been assembling electronics at this secluded mountain sweatshop.

  Greg Levine was arrested, along with the rest of the men working at the ranch and their leader. The big boss was none other than Frankie Wynter himself.

  * * *

  THREE WEEKS LATER, when Emily’s four-part article was published, she was able to say that Frankie had been charged with the murder of Roger Patrone. Though she knew Patrone was killed because he had saved three children and thwarted Frankie’s operation, she managed to write her story without mentioning the kids. Liane Zhou deserved her family.

  And so did Emily. Resettling in Denver was easy. She fit very nicely into Sean’s house.

  On the wall by the fireplace, there were two wedding photos: one from the original wedding and another from the mountain ceremony at Hazelwood.

  * * * * *

  SPECIAL EXCERPT FROM

  Pursuing sadistic killers is what former

  FBI profiler Samantha Dark does—but this time,

  it’s too close to home...

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of

  AFTER THE DARK,

  part of New York Times bestselling author

  Cynthia Eden’s miniseries

  KILLER INSTINCT

  available April 2017 only from HQN Books!

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  After the Dark

  by Cynthia Eden

  THE SCENE WAS all wrong.

  The killer—the balding man in his late thirties—the man who stood there with sweat dripping down his face, a gun held in his trembling hand and a dead girl at his feet...he was wrong.

  FBI Special Agent Samantha Dark raised her weapon even as she shook her head. She’d profiled this killer, studied every detail of his crime spree. And...

  This is wrong.

  “Drop the gun!” That bellow came from her partner, Blake Gamble. He was at her side, his weapon drawn, too, and she knew all of his focus was locked on the killer.

  They’d come to this house just to ask Allan March some follow-up questions. He’d been one of the custodians at Georgetown University, a university that had recently become the hunting grounds for a killer.

  At Blake’s shout, Allan jerked. And when he jerked, his finger squeezed the trigger of the gun he held. The shot went wide, missing both Samantha and Blake. She didn’t return fire. Allan doesn’t fit the profile. This is all wrong—

  Blake returned fire. The bullet slammed into Allan’s right shoulder. Not a killing wound, not even close. Blood bloomed from the spot, soaking the stark white shirt that Allan wore. Allan should have dropped his gun in response to that hit, but he didn’t. He screamed. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he aimed that gun—

  Not at Blake, but at me.

  “Has to be you...” Allan whispered. “Said...has to be you...”

  She didn’t let any fear show, even as the emotion nearly suffocated her. “Allan, put down the gun.
” Blake’s order had been bellowed, but hers was given softly. Almost sadly. Put the gun down, Allan. I don’t want to shoot you. This isn’t the way I want things to end.

  The FBI had been searching for the Georgetown University killer for months. Following the trail left by the bastard—a trail of blood and bodies. But the trail shouldn’t have led here.

  Allan March was a widower. His wife had passed away two years ago, slowly dying of cancer. He’d been at her bedside every single moment. All of the data that the FBI had collected on Allan indicated that he was a dedicated family man, a caregiver. Not—

  A serial killer.

  “I’m sorry,” Allan whispered.

  And Samantha knew what he was going to do. Even as those tears poured down his cheeks, she knew.

  “No!” Samantha screamed.

  But it was too late. Allan pointed the gun right at his own face and pulled the trigger. The thunder of the gunfire echoed around them, and, a moment later, Allan’s body hit the floor, falling to land right next to the dead body of Amber Lyle, the twenty-two-year-old college student who’d been missing for three days.

  “Fucking hell,” Blake muttered.

  This is wrong.

  Samantha rushed toward the downed man. Her weapon was still in her hand. Her eyes were on Allan. On what was left of his face. Dear God.

  * * *

  “THE PRESS IS ripping us apart, Samantha! Ripping us apart!” Her boss glared at her as they stood inside the small FBI office. “You were supposed to be the freaking superstar—a profiler who could do no wrong. But your profile was shit. You had us looking for a man who didn’t exist. Three women died while we were looking for the killer you said was out there!”

  Samantha stood, her shoulders back and her spine straight, as Justin Bass berated her. Spittle was flying from her boss’s mouth. His blue gaze blazed with rage.

  The executive assistant director was far more pissed than she’d ever seen him before. The guy had a temper, everyone knew that truth, but this time... There’s no going back.