by Rachel Lee
From inside the mudroom with the door open so that no one could see, Hillary sighted through the scope. “I need to fire a few shots to be sure.”
“There’s a gun range just outside town. I doubt it’s busy today. Wanna go?”
She nodded. This had to be done exactly right. Together they disassembled the rifle and cleaned it with the gun oil from the locker. Then they loaded it, still broken down, into a backpack so it wouldn’t be identifiable. Trace added some high-powered binoculars when he picked up a box of shells.
* * *
THE GUN RANGE owner waved them in. “No charge today. All my customers are out hunting and aren’t interested in practicing right now. Have at it.”
“Let’s wait,” Trace said to Hillary. “Make sure we weren’t followed. By the way, I hate waiting, in case I haven’t said so.”
“I as well. I didn’t see anyone around on the way out here.”
“Me neither, but extra caution never hurts.”
They waited over twenty minutes while Trace scanned the surrounding area for any movement. Then Hillary quickly reassembled the AR-15 and loaded it with the bullets Trace handed her.
The clip could hold ten rounds. She took each shot at the target cautiously, adjusting the scope several times before she hit dead center three times in a row.
She locked the scope in place, and they once again disassembled the rifle. On the way back, they kept a sharp eye out for anyone who might be watching.
The road was deserted until they reached the edge of town. Even then the streets didn’t appear busy.
“I think we made it,” Trace remarked.
“I’m not too worried about it. He’ll want you to come alone and probably unarmed. He won’t be expecting me.”
* * *
THE NEXT NOTE arrived overnight, left silently on the door. This one was also a mash of cutout letters, and the message was straightforward.
Six p.m. at old mining town. Mullen alone and unarmed.
Hillary looked at Trace. “You know where that is?”
“It’s a landmark. Easy to get to, familiar to everyone, but it’ll be deserted at this time of year.” He looked at her. “Hills, it’ll be deep twilight by then. Sunset is around six thirty. You know what the mountains do.”
“I know. But it won’t be dark enough to stop me.” She glanced at the clock. “I should leave here soon to give me time to set up and get there without being noticed.”
He sighed. “I don’t like this. There are a whole lot of ramshackle and run-down buildings for him to hide in.”
She shook her head. “I know what to do if he does. I’ll be fast even on those no-wax skis, and skis are very quiet. I’ve done it before. Just give me directions.”
That proved easy enough to do. The mining town was marked on the local map, and Allan had one folded on his desk, now buried in papers.
“There’s no signal out there except on satellite phones. You won’t have GPS.”
“The map is all I need.”
Of course it was, Trace thought. Of course. He went to find her a compass.
Chapter Sixteen
Hillary slipped away just after noon. She headed out the front in plain sight, and he watched her cart her skis and poles over her shoulder. Everything else was in a heavy backpack, her ski shoes and gaiters covering any outline of the rifle parts.
She walked away toward the east end of town, the opposite direction from the mining town. He saw her stop several people, and, whatever she said, they pointed east. Maybe asking them if there was a level place where she could use her skis.
Misdirection.
She strolled as if she had all the time in the world.
Then she disappeared from his sight. He could only guess where she’d gone to begin her westward trek.
Once again he had to wait. Only this time he worried as well. He eyed her cell phone left on the table so that if her father called again there would be no accidental ring in her pocket. Then he called the sheriff, Gage Dalton, and asked if there was any surreptitious way to get him a satellite phone and some zip cuffs. He didn’t explain why, and Gage didn’t ask. He just said, “Let me know.”
Trace could do no more now except imagine the worst.
What he couldn’t face was the possibility that something might happen to Hillary. As upset as he’d been about Allan, he wasn’t sure he could survive her loss.
* * *
HILLARY ENJOYED HERSELF. Misdirection was part of her training while keeping watch for a route where she could safely change her course. It felt great to be on a mission again.
She found her place, then headed south. She didn’t want anyone to see her ski away to the west. This walk was longer, but houses and people thinned out until there was nothing. She kept going for another two kilometers, then stopped to put on her skis.
If anyone was watching now, it would all look normal. Perhaps the land to the east that people had pointed out would provide a less challenging snow cover. This area had brush sticking up through the snow.
Well, she’d dealt with that before.
Skis on and locked, poles in hand, she began moving steadily west. Familiar. So familiar to her from training, from missions, from childhood. Her body fell into comfortable rhythms, and the faint sound as she swooshed through the snow reminded her of better times.
So far it was wonderful.
The slope began to rise, also familiar. When she reached a thick stand of evergreens, she pulled out the folded map and the small compass from her pocket.
Experience told her she’d reach the mining town shortly after four. Soon enough to check the lay of the land and choose her ground.
In the meantime, she had nothing to think about except the pleasure of her movements.
And about Trace. He was like a jack-in-the-box in her head, popping up again and again. The face she had come to love. The voice that either soothed her or drove her to the brink of desire.
If anything happened to him, she doubted she would be happy ever again.
* * *
SHORTLY AFTER FIVE, Trace left the house, headed for the mining camp and thanked God he had four-wheel drive with studded tires on his SUV. Renting it instead of a car had been expensive, but given the time of year, he hadn’t wanted to screw around worrying about money.
The roads were terrible after the fresh snow. Beneath that layer was ice, gripped by the studs. If it got too bad, he had tire chains.
Trace had been up to the mining town many times in his youth. Dangerous as it was, pocked by collapsing mines, teens still went there. A favorite hangout away from adults unless one of the deputies or game wardens happened on them. All the warning signs got ignored. A chain-link fence meant to protect people had been cut so many times that the county had given up. It lay rusted and flat in places, an unheeded alert.
As the snow deepened, nobody would expect teens to be there.
It was a great choice for an isolated meeting. It would give the guy a chance to watch him. Trace never believed the man would arrive unarmed. No, the perp intended to get rid of a problem. As he had with Allan. As he may have done with Brigid.
Anger simmered in Trace’s veins, but it was an anger that cleared his head. Heightened his senses.
He’d been in situations like this before. They didn’t scare him.
* * *
HILLARY SIGHTED THE mining camp at quarter after four. Plenty of time. She chose her position with the broadest view of the deteriorating town and the best concealment. Looking through her scope she surveyed the sinkholes, judging her skis would carry her safely over most of those pits. She memorized those she needed to be wary of.
Then she assembled the rifle and loaded it. Ready except for one thing.
She gathered snow-covered deadfall. She dug a body-size pit six inches deep. Then she crawled beneath th
e branches and waited. If the man came this way and happened to find her, he’d meet her rifle before he finished pulling away her cover.
The continuing snow protected her as well. She was prepared.
* * *
STAN WITHERSPOON SUFFERED anxiety as he waited at the mining village. He saw the SUV park about a hundred yards back in some wheel ruts that made it appear that damn vehicle might never get out. Good. He wanted Mullen stuck.
And he was glad to see Mullen alone. Nothing else around here had stirred in the last hour or so.
He surveyed the area and still saw no one and nothing as Mullen walked to the town and began pacing back and forth in front of the village. He’d come alone. The only question was if he was armed. Stan’s mind leaped away from that possibility. He had to deal with it.
Stan was armed. He pulled a pistol out of his pocket and removed the safety catch. Only then did he hold it in front of him and approach Mullen. “Hands up!”
Mullen complied.
At this point Stan began to feel smart. He couldn’t take Mullen and the woman out at the same time. That would have made him stupid.
But any way he looked at it, Mullen was the bigger threat given his background. Once Mullen was gone, the woman might just leave town. Or, if she knew anything and stayed, well, she was just a soldier. Stan was a soldier, too. Or had been.
One of the things Stan had learned in training was not to approach closely with a gun. Especially with a man like Mullen. He stood back at a safe distance.
“Do you want to know what happened to Allan? Why he had to die? Why Brigid had to die?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Stan was relieved Mullen made no move at all. One shot, maybe to his knee, whatever, would be enough to put Mullen down until Stan could kill him.
But Stan needed to get things off his chest. It wouldn’t satisfy him just to kill. He hated being a murderer. He had to explain himself so this guy would understand.
“Brigid caught me moving arms to the insurgents. She saw me doing it twice, and I didn’t think she was stupid.”
“She certainly wasn’t,” Mullen answered.
Stan wanted to shrug, but his conscience was rearing up again, and he needed to get it all out. To explain how he had come to this. “I gave the insurgents an RPG and told them to take her out.”
Trace drew a sharp breath. “Why, you...”
“Don’t bother. I know what I am. I thought it was over. I have a boss, you know that?”
“I didn’t until now.”
Witherspoon heard the edge in Mullen’s voice, saw the man clench his fists, even though they were up in the air. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot right now and you’ll never know why I killed Allan Mannerly.”
Mullen was silent for a few seconds but didn’t move. “Go on.” His voice was taut with threat, but Witherspoon didn’t believe it.
Besides, he was going to die one way or another unless he got this cleaned up. Then he had a thought. “That woman isn’t here somewhere, is she?” He started once again to scan the surrounding area but wasn’t too worried. After an hour of observation, he was sure no one else was there. But he needed to ask anyway.
“She’s a woman.” Mullen’s voice sounded scornful.
Just a woman. Mullen made a good point. Braver now, Witherspoon continued. “That Mannerly guy did something or said something. All I know is the cage started rattling, and I was caught in it. I didn’t want to kill anyone!”
“I believe you,” Mullen answered.
Stan didn’t quite believe him, but it didn’t matter. He needed to have his say, then he’d erase this part of the problem.
“My boss knew information had gotten out. He was uneasy. So he told me to get my butt over here, because he figured it was Brigid’s husband who had warned someone else. I was sent to kill him any way I could.”
Mullen growled but still didn’t move.
“It was easy enough. The guy got drunk every night. I just told him I knew Brigid. He let me in. I don’t think he ever noticed I was carrying my pistol.” He paused. “Funny, but everyone around here has a gun, and some of them carry them in town. Nothing unusual.”
Mullen gave a tight nod.
“So, when Mannerly got drunker, almost passed out, I finished it. Blew his brains out. Left the gun beside him. I thought I was done, but then you started yelling and my boss got even more worried.”
Mullen never flinched.
“He was afraid you knew something. So now I have to take you out. I don’t like it. I’m not a murderer, but he’ll kill me if I don’t get this done.”
Trace’s voice grew thin as fine steel. “You want me to feel sorry for you? You’re the victim in all this?”
“You gotta understand. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to.” He waved his gun toward a nearby building. “Now get in there.”
“Why should I?”
Stan had never expected that response. He waved his gun again.
Then a movement caught his attention, and when he turned he saw the wrath of hell skiing swiftly toward him, a rifle pointed straight at him. It cracked like thunder.
He thought he felt sharp pain in his knee, but before he knew for sure, Mullen had jumped him and thrown him to the ground. His gun was still in his hand. He started to move it, wondering who to shoot first.
Then the woman was standing over him, her rifle pointing straight at his head, and said, “I wouldn’t use that pistol if I were you.”
Mullen had his hands around Stan’s throat, but not too tightly for him to breathe. Just enough to scare him.
“Who’s she?” Stan asked thinly. “I was watching before you got here. I never saw her come. You said she wasn’t here.”
“She’s a Valkyrie, you jackass. Trust me, you’ll have plenty of time in jail to look it up.”
Mullen rolled Witherspoon over and used zip cuffs on his wrists.
Then Trace said, “I suppose we need to put a tourniquet on him.”
“Regrettably,” the woman replied.
“Gage gave me his sat phone,” Mullen told them both. “I called just as I arrived here. Armed response is on the way.” Then he began to tie something around Stan’s thigh.
The pain in Witherspoon’s knee pierced his shock, and he began to shriek. All he wanted now was an ambulance and a huge dose of morphine.
Chapter Seventeen
Hillary sat in the first-class cabin of an airplane on the way to Tromsø, north of the Arctic Circle. She was eagerly looking forward to seeing her father. She’d asked for and received an extension to her vacation. She suspected Pa had something to do with that. Maybe having him behind a desk could be useful.
She turned her head and looked at Trace in the seat beside her. He was already staring at her, and she felt a shiver of pleasure.
He spoke. “That Witherspoon guy sang like a bird.”
She nodded. “Even sold out his chief.”
“I think he figured that years in prison might be better than being shot some dark night by his boss.”
“You may be right.”
Silence fell between them. Hillary liked it when he took her hand, gave it a squeeze then just held it. He made her heart sing.
Her father had taken the story from her and assured her he would deal with it. She hadn’t asked for details because she knew her father. By the time he was done, everyone involved in these arms sales was going to be exposed to criminal charges. Every single one.
Brigid and Allan would be avenged.
Trace spoke again. “Your father. Will he like me, do you think?” It was not the first time he had asked.
“I’ve said so.”
She had no doubt. Her father would see in Trace a reflection of himself. More, he would think a special ops soldier was well suited to her.
&nbs
p; But Trace would not be returning to the Army. One of the saddest things he’d said to her was, “I’ll never jump again.”
He’d decided a desk job would drive him nuts. “If I ever doubted it, all that work we did trying to catch this killer taught me. No desk for me.”
Now he flew with her to Norway after putting in for his medical discharge.
And she had to hope that he would like her home, her country. He certainly hadn’t bought a return ticket.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be nervous.”
“Who, me?”
She laughed lightly. “He’s another soldier like you.”
“Yeah? I’ve never had to face down a spec ops officer and tell him I want to marry his daughter.”
Her heart stopped. “Trace?”
“You heard me. And you can handle it, so tell me if you want me to shut up.”
“Never,” she answered, squeezing his hand tightly. “Never.” The song in her heart grew louder.
“I don’t do crazy things like this.” He grinned. “I love you, you know.”
“You’re giving me that idea.”
“I’ll give you more of an idea later.”
* * *
MAGNUS KRISTIANSEN MET them at the gate, tall and straight, his hair only slightly darker than his daughter’s. Hillary beelined straight for him, for his smiling face, pulling Trace along with her. Her father gave her a big bear hug then looked at Trace.
“This is him?” he asked in Norwegian.
She answered in English. “This is Trace Mullen, the man I love. We’re going to be married.”
Now it was Trace’s turn to feel a song in his heart. Especially when he looked at Hillary’s father and saw a big smile.
“Just promise to live in Norway,” Kristiansen said.
Looking at Hillary, Trace answered, “I think I can promise that.”
* * *
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