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  This wasn’t as bad, but today there would be no chopper.

  McCone, where are you? Please not anywhere near that stupid asshole with the rifle.

  Fear for her tightened his chest. He thought of how far she’d come, how much she’d struggled. And how in their last couple of months together he’d been so pissed at her. For simply being herself, goddammit.

  The sky above the trees showed sunlight breaking through the haze. Time to try to find her and get help for himself, in that order.

  SHARON McCONE

  I crouched behind the broken-down deck and watched the man cross to the house. He was large and tall with longish blond hair held back by a thick leather band. Boots, jeans, a Western-style shirt under a fringed jacket. Maybe around forty, judging from the lines on his face. Tough looking.

  A dreadful, empty feeling washed over me, followed by a numbing chill. My limbs stopped functioning, and my vocal chords wouldn’t work. I felt like some biblical character who was turned to stone, or to a pillar of salt. I could hear the birds and the rustling of branches and dimly see the pines, but otherwise I was as close to the locked-in state as I’d been when I crashed at Brandt Institute and was rushed to SF General to have the crippling bullet removed from my brain.

  The slamming of the screen door as the man went inside jerked me out of my paralysis. I forced myself to focus on what the man would do next. Probably he’d clean the gun. Or he might just lock it in the cabinet. No, he’d be thorough—and that gave me time to plan.

  What about Hy? He could be anywhere in these hills, dead or wounded. I had no way of knowing—but this man did.

  I moved up onto the deck, peered through the door. He was at the table cleaning his rifle. I flattened against the side wall. Shortly I heard his chair scrape and then a door clicked shut—the gun cabinet. Footsteps moved toward the front of the house, into the room where he’d earlier been drinking wine. Noise from there: the morning news on the previously muted TV, turned up loud. The familiar voice of the ABC anchor was talking about the Morell Associates plane crash: “All three passengers and the pilot were killed when the aircraft struck an isolated slope in the Rockies….”

  He sounds almost pleased. The media loves to serve disaster up to the public.

  I slipped along the hall, holding the Magnum in both hands. Paused beside the open door to the front room, then peered around the jamb. The blond man was pouring what was left in a bottle of wine into one of the empty glasses. I came around the doorjamb, gun extended.

  “Put the bottle down and your hands up.”

  His head jerked and the bottle fell from his hand, smashing the glass into which he’d been pouring.

  “Get up!”

  He slowly stood.

  “Facedown on the floor. Spread your legs, cross your wrists behind you.”

  “Who the hell—?”

  “Go on, do it!”

  He hesitated, and then complied.

  I knelt on his back, the Magnum’s muzzle pressed hard against his neck. “That’s my husband’s vehicle in your yard. Where is he?”

  “I dunno what you’re talking about. It’s my—”

  “Where is he?”

  Long silence. “In… the woods.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  No response.

  I gouged him with the .357. “Did you?”

  No response.

  I could have shot him right then, but if I did I might never find Hy.

  Angrily I yanked off the leather headband, ripping out a few strands of hair in the process. Switched the gun to my left hand and used my right to bind his wrists. Jerked the band till it was tight and tied a knot one-handed.

  “This is trespassing, false imprisonment—”

  “Shut up!”

  “You’re not going to shoot me, lady. I shot that guy in self-defense.”

  “Shot him? You mean killed him?”

  No response.

  “If he’s dead, so are you. You won’t be the first person I’ve killed.”

  Silence. Then: “You’re Ripinsky’s wife? That McCone woman.”

  “Yeah, I’m that McCone woman. Now get up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yeah, you can.” I grabbed him by his belt, pulled him to his feet, steadied him. Then I marched him outside, through the yard, and into the woods.

  CRAIG MORLAND

  The RI chopper pilot had located the area where Ted had said he’d taken Shar by his air nav device even before Craig arrived at North Field. Now as they crossed over the Golden Gate, heading for west Marin, Craig’s phone rang. He said to the pilot through their linked headsets, “Okay to take this?”

  “Sure. It’s not going to screw up the radio on this baby.”

  Mick. “God, this reception is terrible.”

  “I’m still on the chopper.”

  “Well, listen up. I just caught a major break. Remember I thought that sketch you brought me was familiar? There’s a good reason. Although he’s altered his appearance, it’s Specialist Ryan Middleton of the U.S. Marine Corps.”

  “Middleton? Piper Quinn’s husband? He’s dead.”

  “Reportedly dead. Mistakes happen.”

  And sometimes they happen deliberately. “Refresh me: what was Middleton’s specialty?”

  “Tactical intelligence officer.”

  “Someone who owned a great deal of confidential and sensitive information.”

  “Right.”

  “How was he supposedly killed?”

  “Terrorist bombing in Mosul. Official report said all that was found were body parts and his dog tags.”

  “Dog tags can be switched.”

  “Right.”

  Craig was replaying his conversation with Josh Ramsey, the Seattle blogger.

  Okay, yeah, this J.T. from TRIAD did pay me to put out the information on Andersen Associates. I told Ms. McCone about him in our initial interview, but then I got a second visit from J.T. and a lot more cash to keep quiet.

  No, I haven’t heard from them again. Don’t expect to. These agencies, what they do is scatter stuff among bloggers like me; if I reported on too much, I’d eventually become an unreliable source.

  Why did I do it? I needed the money.

  Who do I think they’ll approach next? Do you know how many people are out there in the blogosphere?

  So, Craig thought, a quasi-government agency wants to plant a story, and there’re a lot of hungry people out there hunched over their keyboards just waiting for a chance at a big score. And Ryan Middleton had access to many kinds of information. What if he’d somehow faked his death and slipped back into the country to capitalize on whatever he’d learned? Was going to go public through an intermediary for a hefty price?

  Craig could understand why Middleton might have done it: after years in intelligence with the marines he’d probably seen cover-ups and profit-grabbing beyond most people’s comprehension. Middleton’s wife had served him with divorce papers, he’d lost faith in the corps he’d served, maybe lost any moral base. Craig had had a crisis like that before he left the Bureau. He knew how betrayal by the institutions one believed in could eat away at a person’s soul.

  Piper? Snatched in a quasi-government operation. Not dead, he thought. Middleton had been asking about her, probably had been the one seen “casing” her building. Maybe had been the man Craig had chased down the alley. Whoever had her was holding her as a lure for her husband.

  Conjecture, he thought. But it all fit and it had to be right.

  “Keep working on TRIAD, Mick.”

  “Will do.”

  The pilot had cut back on power and they were descending. He began a series of sweeps of the wooded terrain, spotlights illuminating trees, roofs, and clearings. After a moment, he said, “Mr. Morland, we’re over the property you’re looking for. I just spotted a man and a woman crossing into the woods behind.”

  Hy and Shar? Or Shar and the man Hy had been running the surveillance on?

  Craig
looked down but all he could see was forest and a couple of ramshackle buildings.

  “Did it look like she’s under duress?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. The man was leading and it looked like his hands were clasped behind his back.”

  “Put us down as close as you can to where you saw them.”

  ADAH JOSLYN

  Her captor hadn’t come back. She knew from the way her stomach was rumbling that it was long after dark. Good God, was he going to leave her here to starve?

  Every muscle in her body ached from exercising, but in a good way. Her mind had gone blank during the repetitive motions. For a while she’d tried to amuse herself with reciting favorite poems: William Butler Yeats.

  Earth in beauty dressed

  Awaits returning spring

  All true love must die

  Alter, at best, into some lesser thing

  Prove that I lie.

  Yeah, Yeats was a melancholy fellow. Come to think of it, most of the Irish poets were not a bundle of laughs. But, then, the last line of the poem suggested a challenge.

  Everything in Adah’s life had been a challenge. From the playground bully to the rigors of a strict, private, socialist-oriented school, to her parents’ opposition to her going to the police academy. The academy itself, and the department: being elevated to a high position too soon, the poster-girl treatment and resentment of her fellow officers.

  Normally such reflections would have overwhelmed her, sent her spiraling into despair. Now she used them to keep her spirits up.

  Prove that I lie.

  You betcha.

  She decided to practice using the garrote.

  SHARON McCONE

  I heard the chopper come whirring overhead as I prodded the blond man toward the trees. Going to fly right over the property, and if it was a flyover by strangers I didn’t want them to see a woman with a gun herding a bound man. He went easily; he didn’t want to be seen either.

  It wasn’t a flyover—the chopper was descending, probably to land on the open ground behind the house. Above the trees I could make out the familiar number on its fuselage. It belonged to RI.

  Huge relief. I told the blond man to turn around, hurried him out of the woods into the clearing.

  The chopper landed, its rotors stirring up clouds of dust and pine needles. A figure got out of the chopper and ran toward me. Craig.

  “Where’s Hy?” he called, as the pilot shut the chopper down.

  “This guy is taking me to him. And he’d better be alive when we find him. How did you know to come here?”

  “Ted called me.” Craig came up, looked closely at the man’s face. “Who is he?”

  I hadn’t even thought to ask his name, so great was my anxiety about Hy. Now I had to prod him twice before he said sullenly, “Bob Samson.”

  Craig said, “Who do you work for? Morell Associates?”

  “Yeah. I’m Kurt Morell’s nephew, and I want to know—”

  “Save it. Let’s get going.” To Craig I added, “Talk about hiring the weak link in the family; this guy is as inept as they come.”

  Samson said, “Fuck you, lady,” but he moved when I prodded him forward.

  The trail—probably a deer track—led under the pines where the ground was slick with decaying needles. After a few zigs and zags, Samson veered off and we followed a narrower trail through thick branches and scrub vegetation. None of us spoke. After a ways we came out into a clearing.

  Samson stopped. “Down there,” he said, motioning with his head. “In the ravine.”

  “Watch him,” I said to Craig. I stuffed my gun into my belt and hurried ahead to the ravine.

  It was steep-sided and rocky, with a trickle of a stream at its bottom. There were scuff marks and dislodged stones on its lip—probably where Hy had gone over. But there was no sign of him below. I scanned the ground to either side, then scrambled down for a closer look. Blood smears marked the spot where he’d fallen. Hurt then, but still alive.

  I went up and down the ravine, calling for him, but he didn’t answer. Finally I climbed back up top, where Craig stood guard over Samson. Took my gun from my belt and shoved the muzzle into Samson’s belly.

  “He’s not there. You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where he is.”

  Samson went pale. “Lady, I don’t know where he is. Last I saw of him he went over the edge. I told you, he fired at me first, it was my life or his.”

  “No way—he wasn’t armed. And I heard the shots. Two, close together, from a rifle, not a handgun.”

  “He had a rifle—”

  “The hell he did. He doesn’t own one. Why didn’t you check to see if he was alive?”

  “Because I knew he wasn’t. I’m a crack shot.”

  God, what an idiot! Staring down at a loaded handgun and boasting!

  “Just leave the body where it fell, right? Like a dead animal for the scavengers to pick over.”

  “What else would I do with it?” My finger tightened on the trigger. Then I relaxed it. I’d had enough of killing years ago, and we needed Samson to tell us what he’d done with Adah.

  Instead I jabbed him once more, hard. “You are one worthless, pathetic son of a bitch.”

  Craig said, “Hy must be around here somewhere. If he’s hurt, he couldn’t have gone far.”

  “I’ll hunt for him. You stay here with… that.”

  “Just what I was about to suggest. He’s going to tell me where Adah is—one way or another.”

  HY RIPINSKY

  It seemed like hours ago that he had pulled himself over the edge of the ravine and lain on his good side, panting. The woods were still, although during his struggle to climb up he’d heard a chopper hovering, maybe landing somewhere nearby. Did Morell Associates have a helicopter? He wasn’t sure. Their offices were downscale, but low overhead in that department could support a small fleet of aircraft.

  He’d flown choppers. They were legal at low altitudes, and you could take them lower illegally. But a pilot’s eyes could see only so far. If he kept to the cover of the trees and moved slowly, he might make it to the highway or some secondary road—

  Stealthy motion in the brush some distance away, but too damn close for a man with a bullet hole in his shoulder.

  The shooter coming back to finish him off? Another Morell op?

  He could slide back into the ravine, but the noise might draw attention to him, and he’d be an easy target down there. He could try to hide, but with the morning light shining through the trees he didn’t see any likely places. He could still try for the highway—

  No, he couldn’t. The wound had started bleeding again after his climb up the slope. He was starting to feel light-headed, weak, thirsty….

  McCone, he thought, where are you? Hope to God this maniac hasn’t gotten his hands on you. No, you came out here primed for trouble. You’re too smart to get caught like I did. I used to be smart, maybe I’m losing it.

  The sounds in the woods were closer now.

  He looked around for something he could use to defend himself.

  SHARON McCONE

  I followed the ravine for about twenty yards, calling out to Hy and getting no response. Finally, then, I saw disturbed rocks, gouges in the earth—footholds. Nearby I found freshly disturbed marks in the spongy earth and followed the trail into the trees, batting branches and vines out of my way, shouting.

  No response.

  “Ripinsky!”

  Nothing.

  “Ripinsky!”

  Then his weak voice came through the trees to my right.

  “Over here.”

  He’s alive! I knew it, I knew it!

  “Where?” I called, my voice shaking.

  “Not far, big Doug fir splintered by lightning.”

  I hurried toward the source of his voice. The tree was huge, the splintered section lying between two other firs. Hy was behind it, on his side. He was pale and sweating. How the hell had he made it this far?

  I checked
his pulse, peered into his eyes. The pulse was thready, his pupils widely dilated with pain and residual shock. “Where’re you hit?”

  “My shoulder. You okay?”

  “Yes. Craig’s here too.”

  He let out a ragged breath. “So that chopper was RI’s. What about the asshole who shot me? He get away?”

  “No, I got him and Craig’s questioning him. I’ll explain later. Let me see your wound.”

  He’d torn away his shirt and made a bandage. The edges of the bullet hole were ragged but mostly clean and, when I gingerly probed the other side, I was relieved to find them the same.

  “Doesn’t look so bad. Bullet seems to’ve gone straight through.”

  “Some antiseptic, stitches, and pain meds, and I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re lucky,” I told him.

  “Lucky you found me. Not lucky to be shot by some nut ball who shouldn’t’ve been able to make me in the first place.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Was stupid. Who else’s fault but mine?”

  “Okay, you did something stupid. Who hasn’t?” I eased him into a sitting position, his back against my chest; put my arms around him. He smelled of sweat, and blood, and of something else—familiar, pleasant—that was his scent alone. I closed my eyes, felt tears on my cheeks. This wasn’t one of those times when I was crying reflexively.

  After a minute or so, I asked, “Can you walk?”

  “Give me a bit.”

  “The shooter said you were in the ravine.”

  “Crawled up and took cover here.”

  “He also claimed he shot you in self-defense.”

  “Crock of shit. You know I wasn’t armed.” Long pause. “I think I can get up and walk now.”

  I got his arm around my shoulders and wrapped mine around his waist and we started back out of the woods. I felt a searing pain in my back from the unaccustomed activity, ignored it.

  “Adah,” he said. “You found her?”

  “Not yet. We’ll get it out of Samson—that’s his name, Bob Samson—where he stashed her. In the meantime, the chopper can take you to Marin General. We’d better have a cover story ready. They’ll have to file a police report, and we don’t want the law to know what went on up here.”