by Anna Philpot
Sam dropped his gaze to the papers in front of them. He gulped as he realized these were confidential government reports—something Sam should not be viewing.
“The intel we’ve collected—it’s scant. The video I showed you? That’s from an international ring with connections to Islamic State baddies but also to Russia, Syria, and, yes, even Israel and other countries we consider allies. These guys don’t care who wins as long as it’s them.”
“All right. Bad news. At least four of them. Who’s Anton?”
Jeannette hesitated. “He’s an operative.”
“Operative?” Sam’s gut clenched so tight, the ache radiated up into his chest. “A spy. American at least?”
“The CIA won’t say if he’s one of theirs. NSA either.”
Well, that was even worse. If Cici managed to get mixed up with a spy, then her chances of survival dipped down close to zero. And that was if the man was one of their own. Whatever the operatives were doing out there—if it started with blowing up cars, it wouldn’t end on a more positive, less violent track.
Shit.
He ran his fingers through his hair. He’d cut it last month as a belated birthday present to himself, but he was still getting used to the shortened strands. He dug his fingertips into his scalp, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure building there.
Didn’t work.
“I’m in.”
“The task force?” Jeannette asked, brightening.
To save Cici, yeah, he was definitely going to be part of this—whatever it was. He sucked in a breath, forced his mind to slow down, to start asking the questions he needed answered to see the entire picture.
“How’d you get the video? What do you know about the men in it?”
“My boss called me—sent me the video. He’s been monitoring this group from DC. Part of why I’m here.”
“You’re DEA. That’s drugs. Not assault rifles.”
“Which they try to sell,” Jeannette snapped back. She breathed in deep through her nose, clearly trying to stay patient. “Both, by the way—drugs and guns. We need to get to Chaco, stat. You, me—that’s all we have for the next fourteen to sixteen hours as they pull together a team of people who have more in-depth knowledge of what’s going on here.”
“FBI, CIA, NSA,” Sam muttered. “An alphabet soup of we-don’t-give-a-fuck about Cee.”
Jeannette continued as if Sam had never said anything. “But he’s given me permission to contact the nearest military base. I’ve got a call in right now to Kirtland. I want a chopper and air support.”
“Good. Sooner rather than later.”
“Exactly,” Jeannette said with a nod.
“I need to talk to my boss—” Sam said.
Jeannette leaned in closer, her mouth taking a hard, ugly line. “Already done. I was bringing you in already, as soon as you said you’d have drinks. We need you.”
He bit back a retort and focused on the more important details. “You knew something was in play. At Chaco, specifically?”
“No, but we knew operatives were in the state—the last of this group flew into Denver yesterday but they’ve been amassing out here for a couple of weeks, we think. That’s part of why my boss wants you.”
Sam breathed in, then out through his nose. His Denver task force had worked on special crimes—none of which had international implications like this case. “You said drugs, guns. What else?”
Jeannette frowned. “Don’t know. That’s why I’m only one portion of this operation. I happened to be lucky enough to be the closest one who’s got a seven to nine-hour start on anyone on the East Coast, thanks to the remoteness of the location.”
Jeannette said the last bit with more relish than Sam could tolerate—like she was in the right place at the right time. Maybe she was for her career. But Cici…Sam tried to swallow down his partially eaten late lunch. He managed. Barely.
“And somehow Cici’s managed to get involved in this thing,” Sam said. His throat ached with the need to yell.
Jeannette’s lips flattened. “Front and center.”
10
Cici
Time flows away like the water in the river.― Confucius
“What is it?” Anton asked.
The creature turned its lamp-like yellow eyes toward them, a snarl flashing a bunch of long, sharp, yellowed teeth. The outline of the cat was large but blurring as the sun slid behind the jagged topography of the next ridge. Faint red rays limned the sky, making everything glow a faint blush and lack proper depth.
“Puma,” Cici said, keeping her voice soft and low.
“Oh, narrows that right down,” Anton said, sarcasm dripping from each word.
He pulled out the long hunting blade from the easy-access zipper on the front of his pack and lifted the pistol from his waistband. His hand shook before he stabilized his arm and narrowed his eyes. “When I tell you, run.”
Cici shook her head, placing her palm on his forearm and pushing it—and the gun—toward the ground. “You’re in my territory now. Running is the worst idea. We need to scare it away.”
“You want to frighten the largest predatory cat in North America?” Anton’s voice rose with disapproval.
“Better than running and having it hamstring us,” Cici snapped. “And it will. You engage its instincts when you run. Best chance we have is to make it think we’re too much work to kill.”
“Which entails what?” Anton asked.
How did a man much more comfortable in a city end up with this assignment? Days-long outback camping was much different from navigating the dangers of the political jungle.
“How long have you been out here?” Cici asked.
“Three days.”
All right. That made sense. She studied the large cat, who tilted its head, its eyes focused on her.
“Male, judging by its size,” she murmured. She swallowed hard, trying to sound nonchalant—as if staring down a hundred-plus pound feral cat was no biggie. “We must have walked into his territory.”
“All good information, but how do we get rid of it?” Anton asked.
“You act as big and loud as you can.”
“Big, fine. Loud, not such a good plan.”
“All right,” Cici said on a sigh. “Stick close and follow my lead.”
“I could just shoot it,” Anton said, slowing raising his arm again.
“No,” Cici said, her voice sharp. “It’s done nothing to us.”
“Um. It wants to eat us?” Anton said.
Cici glared. “Shooting is loud.”
Anton stepped nearer to her, but he still held his gun and his knife.
“Honor all creation,” Cici muttered. She took a deep, cleansing breath and prayed for courage she did not feel. She raised her arms outward and nudged Anton in the ribs. He did the same, grumbling under his breath. Cici snarled at the cat, who eyed her. When she snarled again, its ears tilted forward.
Cici rose on her tiptoes and growled deeper and longer. The cat replied with a deep rumble and a curl of its own lip. Anton dropped his arm and aimed his pistol. Cici smacked his arm.
“Hey,” he said, his voice angry but not too loud.
The cat backed up a couple of steps, its tail hanging low, close to the rocks. Cici waved her arms in a big, complicated pattern then followed it up with a hiss. Cici hoped the mix of the sounds and the weird arm motions frightened the cat.
This time the puma made an indeterminate low sound in its throat. Cici rose on her tiptoes again, making herself as tall as possible. When the cat blinked at her, she once again waved her arms more and faster. Anton finally caught the spirit and did the same.
With one last look and hiss, the puma turned and trotted away from them.
Anton clutched his chest and wheezed. “I do not like the wilderness.”
“Not sure that matters,” Cici said, taking deep belly breaths to calm her racing heart. Facing down a puma was never on her bucket list. Not something she needed to try aga
in.
She settled onto a boulder and pulled out her water straw. She shoved it in her mouth and took a long pull. Nothing happened. Panic seeped through her. No way she was out. The reservoir held at least two liters of water. Cici shook the straw as she depressed the button. A stream of water shot across the rocks and she let go, annoyed. She needed that water—every drop. She needed to be in top physical form until Sam and the cavalry showed up.
Hopefully soon.
Please let it be soon.
“Let’s keep moving,” Cici suggested. She took a couple of steps forward, moving away from where the puma crouched moments before.
Something large and distinctly masculine seized Cici by the small hairs on the nape of her neck, yanking her back and exposing her throat.
11
Cici
By nature, men are nearly alike; by practice, they get to be wide apart.― Confucius
“Should have shot the animal,” the heavily accented male voice growled into Cici’s ear. He pulled her backward, yanking her hair so hard her eyes watered. “I would have shot you all but that was entertaining.” He studied her face with dark, hungry eyes. “Such a pretty thing.”
He caressed her jawline with his firearm. Cici didn’t know what kind it was, but she did see the wide barrel, a dark empty eye, ready to unload lead straight into her flesh.
Cici tried to pull back—an instinctive move. She couldn’t.
The man holding her smelled of dried sweat, which became more obvious when he pulled her head back, dragging her closer to where the cat had been moments before—and closer to a cluster of boulders Cici wanted no part of.
“Drop your weapon, Vasiliev.”
“Why?” Anton asked, sounding bored once again.
Cici managed to cut her gaze back to Anton’s by shifting her eyes. Anton’s face remained devoid of emotion, his hand steady with his pistol aimed in front of him—pointed at Cici.
“Because I’ll shoot the woman,” the man holding her said, as if speaking to a simpleton.
“And why do you think I care if you shoot her?” Anton asked.
Cici gritted her teeth, hoping that Anton was calling the man’s bluff. Who was to say? She’d known Anton for all of a few hours. Perhaps he considered her life expendable. What was the term she’d heard the military use?
Collateral damage.
Anger burned through Cici’s veins like acid. After scaling a damn mountain, after just taking on a puma, she was not getting shot in the face by some nameless Russian.
Cici couldn’t even blame her sister for this current scenario. Cici chose to hike alone—something, as an SAR volunteer, she knew to be unwise. She’d also decided to leave with minimal fanfare, so only Evan knew her plans.
She’d been stupid because she was annoyed with Sam, and now she might well pay with her life.
“Where’s Misha? He’s always your little sidekick.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the man holding Cici sneered.
Yes, actually, Cici would, too. And she’d really like the guy to stop yanking her hair. Her head throbbed in a rich, painful beat that caused her vision to blur. Or maybe that was from the fear.
“That’s why I asked,” Anton said.
Cici’s eyes widened. Was he going to sigh and get all huffy now, too? Her neck ached, her head pounded, and the gun shoved in her face pressed tight against the delicate skin next to her eye, no doubt causing the skin to bruise.
Each thrum of her heart became more precious—as it had felt when she’d dreamed of her sister’s last moments earlier this summer.
Aci, I could use some help right now.
A cold, soft breeze tingled across her cheeks, soothing the painful throb in her temples. She sighed, thankful for the momentary release.
Please, Aci.
The man yanked her head and yelled something she couldn’t make out, thanks to the new, skyrocketing level and pain in her head. Anton turned to the right and fired his pistol into a cluster of boulders. The evening wind picked up into one of those dust devils so common in New Mexico. The angry winds swirled around Cici and her captor, blowing dirt and bits of plants into their faces. The man grunted and turned his head, taking the brunt of the mini cyclone.
When a tumbleweed’s sharp, long spines caught him in the cheek, ripping open his skin, he let go of Cici’s hair. She fell to the ground and began to crawl toward Anton as quickly as possible, since he was her only hope of protection.
The man who’d held her howled as the rough edges of the large, rounded brushy weed slammed into his face and neck again and then again. There was no logical explanation for the tumbleweed to jab into the sensitive skin over and over, but Cici didn’t question it. Instead, she said, “Thank you, thank you,” as she crawled toward Anton, who traded fire with the other man—Misha—hiding among the rocks. Anton kept moving away from her, and Cici bit back a sob of frustration until she realized Anton was also pulling the other man’s bullets away from her, too. Anton had to turn as a piece of flying rock grazed his temple. He shot back, but even from her long angle, Cici knew the shot wasn’t on target. Another hail of bullets slammed in the ground around Anton and zinged through the air, one grazing his thigh and another, his side.
Cici managed to scramble to her feet and sprint forward. Unfortunately, each step caused her head to pound more. Cici squinted and forced her feet forward.
As Cici neared Anton, he bit on his lip and fired. Misha didn’t return another round. The other man hollered as the tumbleweed continued to thwart his attempts to get loose. Anton turned, aimed, and shot him. Cici gagged as a hole appeared between his eyes. A trickle of blood leaked from the wound.
“Let’s go,” Anton said, pulling Cici forward.
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t stop shivering either. Anton headed toward the rocks where Misha shot at them.
Misha clutched his bloodied middle, as he lay on the ground, teeth gritted, his skin covered with sweat. When Cici made to drop to her knees beside him, Anton said, “No.” His tone was sharp. Cici stumbled back as Misha raised his hand, a large, black pistol shaking in it. Anton shot him, once in the chest and again in the head. Cici managed to shut her eyes and miss the second bullet, but the ache building within her chest blossomed.
Anton must have picked up the other man’s weapon because he thrust it into Cici’s hand.
“Safety’s on. You may need it.”
“I already have one,” she pushed past her chattering teeth.
Cici’s hand trembled so hard, she nearly dropped the weapon.
“Don’t even think about it,” Anton snapped. “You’ll need it before this is done. Put it in your pocket or your pack and let’s move. The others will be triangulating toward the gunfire.”
Cici shoved the gun into her back pocket, trying hard not to gag as she did so. Anton picked up the pace, trotting across the mesa, toward a distant cluster of juniper and taller rocks—the only physical protection in the area.
They walked for a mind-numbing amount of time, multiple hours, though how many exactly Cici couldn’t say. When Anton spoke again, Cici startled. She must have slid into a partial stupor. She blinked, trying to focus not just on the situation but on her surroundings.
“The others will be looking for Otis and Misha. Following the shots.” He kept his voice soft.
“Is that why we came back this way?” Cici murmured.
Anton nodded. “I need to pick them off if I can. They’ve been on our tail for a while, and they’re close enough now.”
Pick them off didn’t sound as atrocious as killing. But the result was the same: men dead because of their allegiance and their choices.
Cici kept pace, trying to turn off her conscience as Anton raised his gun. She bit her cheek hard enough to draw blood as the first shot blasted from Anton’s pistol. He kept both hands on the butt of his weapon, steadying it as he shot another round, then another. He dropped to a crouch as bullets whistled back toward them.
Cici dropped to the ground with a grunt as her ankle caught. She laid her palms flat as she slithered closer to Anton. He didn’t spare Cici a glance, concentrating on the flash of the other man’s gun in the thick darkness. Anton squeezed off another two rounds.
There was no return fire.
After a long time, maybe ten minutes—it seemed much longer to Cici, whose body shivered as the cold sweat dried on her skin—Anton dropped to the ground. He crept forward, arms still extended as he moved toward the spot where he’d shot.
He came back a moment later, his lips twisted in grim satisfaction.
“Dead.”
Cici sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. She rested her cheek there for a moment and said a short prayer for the men’s souls. Unsure what else to do for them or herself, she nodded once, swallowing down bile.
She rose, readjusted her pack, and fell into line behind Anton, once again putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the pain in her scalp and the twinges of discomfort in her ankle. Her heart ached the most as they continued their trek across the barren plateau.
A lone bird called out. A raven, maybe. Cici quick-stepped closer to Anton, remembering the last ravens she’d seen. Pristine white ones, their beautiful white feathers coated in blood. That had been a warning. A vicious one.
“Too bad you didn’t pick us all off.”
The voice came from the left.
A shot rang out, Cici bit her cheek again, willing down her scream.
Anton grunted.
Lightning arced across the sky, and Cici made out not one, but two men’s shadows appearing from the blackness and marching toward Anton and her. The first drops of rain tapped against the crown of Cici’s head.
Cici had forgotten about the rain clouds she’d noticed so many hours before. In this part of the country, it was typical for the promise of rain to dissipate. But, now, the clouds had rolled in closer, blanketing the area. Cici glanced up, but the sky was too dark to gauge the cloud cover. A couple more raindrops splatted on her cheek.