by The Witness
"You're going all the way back there? But... why?"
"I forgot something." He squatted down and started lacing on a pair of the crude snowshoes. Dammit, he had to find and destroy whatever homing device the saboteur had planted before he and his cohorts located the wreck.
"But that will take a couple of hours."
"Not quite. I can make it faster on my own. While I'm gone I want you to pack up all our supplies and gear. So haul your butt out of that bed and get busy."
"All right, all right," Lauren grumbled. "You don't have to be so obnoxious." Shivering she climbed from the limited warmth of the sleeping bag and stuffed her feet into her boots and tied them.
"What are you doing?" Sam demanded when she picked up several pieces of wood.
"What does it look like? I'm going to build up the fire."
"No. No fire. Let those coals burn down."
"No fire? Why not?"
"I have my reasons. Just do as I tell you."
"But it's freezing in here right now. Without a fire it will just get colder. Anyway, how are we going to cook breakfast?"
"We don't have time for that. Just grab some jerky." He stomped his feet to test the snowshoe bindings, then dug into the bag of jerky, extracted a few pieces and staffed them into a pocket on his parka.
"You're going to be gone for hours. You expect me to sit here in the cold?"
"Get used to it," he replied. He picked up the rifle and headed for the door. "You're going to be even colder when we start hiking out of these mountains. Anyway, if you stay busy you won't get that cold, and I figure it'll take you hours just to pack. It does most women."
"Very funny. I still don't see why I can't build up the fire. We have the wood right here. Anyway, since you're going to be gone so long, I could use the time to heat water and have a bath of sorts."
The statement jerked Sam to a halt. He spun around. "Are you crazy? Dammit, woman, get three feet away from that fire and it's a deep-freeze in here. You'd have hypothermia before you could finish."
"If I built up the fire really big—"
"No! Absolutely not."
"But I need a bath!"" Lauren wailed.
Despite the urgency and worry that gnawed at him, Sam almost grinned. It was the first time that she had whined about anything, and damned if she didn't look like an adorable, pouty little girl, with her hair all tousled, her chin stuck out, standing there glaring at him.
From the start, he'd expected her to give him nothing but grief every step of the way, especially after the plane crash, but she'd gritted her teeth and done what she had to do without complaint, and under the crudest and most difficult of conditions. She'd even made herself useful.
Everyone had their breaking point, though, and apparently two days without a shower was Lauren's.
"So do I, but it'll have to wait," he replied heartlessly.
"But—"
"I said no. That's it. End of discussion. Just do as you're told. I mean it." He clomped to the door and lifted it aside, but before he stepped out into the fading darkness he stopped and jabbed one gloved forefinger at her. "Remember what I said. No fires, no cooking. And absolutely no bathing. You got that?"
"Yes. I've got it," she snapped back. "I'm not deaf, you know."
"Fine. I'll be back as quickly as I can. Be ready to move out."
Sam stepped outside and propped the door back in place, shutting off the sight of her outraged face.
He took off at once, leaving the cabin behind within seconds. Without Lauren in tow Sam traveled at a fast clip, alternating between rapid walking and trotting in that unnatural, hopping gait made necessary by the snowshoes.
He thought about Lauren as he went. He'd hated to be so hard on her, but it couldn't be helped. There was no way of knowing when the snow had stopped falling, and by now whoever had sabotaged the plane could already have an aircraft out looking for them. He couldn't run the risk of them seeing smoke from their fire when they flew over.
They would come. Sam had no doubt about that. They had to. The only way to know for certain that their targets were dead would be to check out the wreckage. When they found only two bodies they would fan out and start searching.
But he didn't want to tell Lauren that. Not unless he had to. She was frightened enough already.
He hadn't missed the flash of fear in her eyes when he'd told her they were leaving, or the way she had paled. He even understood it. As crude as the old derelict cabin was, as primitive as they were living, as harsh as the conditions were—Lauren felt safe here, miles from anywhere, hidden by the storm and secluded by the rugged wilderness. Plus, no one knew they were there, or how to find them.
Or so Lauren believed.
No sense in taking that small comfort away from her unless he had no choice.
She was no dummy however, and she had already figured out that once they left this place and returned to civilization, she would be in many times more danger of losing her life than she was here. More people meant more risk of being recognized, and the higher the likelihood of Giovessi's people finding her.
Without breaking stride, Sam pulled a stick of jerky out of his pocket and bit off a chunk. Eating was a necessity—his body needed fuel—but he chewed the tough meat without conscious thought, his mind occupied. Lauren was the primary target, but Sam had a gut feeling that the saboteur had wanted him dead, as well.
The whole thing had probably been orchestrated by their mole. Sam knew in his gut that he was close to nailing the dirty agent, and the bastard probably knew it as well. It was just a matter of time. No doubt he had seen a golden opportunity to eliminate not only the witness against his mob boss, but Sam, as well. Two birds with one stone.
If, as Sam suspected, the plane had been sabotaged, that meant that the turncoat in the department was one of the five other men who had been in on the meeting in Harvey's office.
Sam's eyes narrowed at the thought, but he pushed on at the same rapid pace. He eliminated Dave right off. Not only had he been too new to the job to have been corrupted, he'd been a gung-ho, true-blue type, full of shining ideals that had not yet been corroded by the daily grind and the things he saw on the job. Besides, no way would the kid rig the engine to fail, then get on the plane. That left Harvey Weiss, Charlie Potter, Todd Berringer and Roy O'Connor.
He didn't know O'Connor that well, but he'd always considered him to be a straight-arrow. The same could be said for Sam's boss, Charlie.
Todd had a glib tongue and an eye for the ladies, but when it came to the job he was a by-the-book kind of guy—an approach that Sam thought lacked initiative and in his opinion was not always effective, but probably had his friend on the fast track for promotion—something that Sam knew would never happen in his case. He was considered a lone wolf. At times a rogue wolf.
Despite their basic differences, however, or maybe because of them, he and Todd had been friends a long time.
That left Harvey.
Sam didn't like the guy, and he had to admit that made him lean in that direction, but until he had proof, all four men were suspect.
Hell, every agent in the Denver office was a suspect. There could be, and probably were, more than one man—or woman—working for the mob boss.
Dawn arrived so gradually Sam barely noticed. A golden glow backlit the mountain peaks to the east and darkness gave way to a soft pearly light, but it would be another couple of hours before the sun cleared the crests.
The silence was absolute. Nothing else stirred. Sam's heavy breathing and the rhythmic crunch of his snowshoes on the fresh powder sounded shockingly loud in the pristine stillness. He pressed on doggedly, stopping only twice to take a drink of water and check his compass.
Slightly over an hour after leaving the cabin, he cut through a stand of trees and arrived at a spot about three hundred yards above the crash site. Sam stopped, breathing heavily, his eyes scanning the clearing and the ledge at its far side where the plane had gone over into a ravine. Cautiously he m
oved to the edge of the trees. The silence was so magnified he was sure that if it weren't for his own labored breathing he'd be able to hear a chipmunk sneeze.
Finally, satisfied there was no one around, he stepped out of the trees and started sidestepping down the steep slope. He'd barely gone a yard when he heard the distinctive whop-whop-whop-whop of a rotary engine approaching from somewhere behind him.
"Holy shit!"
Sam scrambled back up the incline and made a dive for the base of the nearest spruce tree just as the helicopter rose up over the ridge above him.
Hitting the snow with an "oomph!" he rolled beneath the low-hanging branches, weighted down with snow. The thick spruce needles shielded the ground at the base of the tree from most of the snowfall. Sam scooted on his belly into the natural hollow, in as close to the trunk as he could get and flattened himself into the snow.
Damn. Had they spotted him? Breathing hard, he lay perfectly still, his heart thudding.
The chopper's engine roared overhead, barely clearing the treetops. The tree above Sam and all the neighboring ones waved and whipped in the rotor wash, dumping bushels of snow on him. For a moment it seemed to Sam that the bird hovered overhead, and he hugged the ground tighter.
The chopper went on by and the earsplitting engine noise abated somewhat. Sam wriggled forward on his belly and cautiously raised his head just far enough to see over the rim of the shallow crater.
Through the spruce branches he watched the chopper circle out over the deep ravine. It hovered for a time, and Sam could see men peering down at the wreckage at the bottom. The ravine was too narrow for the chopper pilot to risk flying down to the site. Sam waited, every muscle in his body tense, hoping they would decide that no one could have survived the wreck.
"Yeah, right. You should be so lucky," he muttered to himself when the chopper circled back and set down in the clearing, the blade wash kicking up a cloud of snow.
Though he knew they could not spot him, Sam instinctively drew back a bit when the chopper door opened. The first man jumped out and hit the ground in a defensive posture, crouched, his rifle held at the ready against his shoulder, the barrel sweeping the area. Four more men followed, all assuming the same stance and spreading out in a semicircle, their backs to the chopper and the drop-off beyond it.
The pilot killed the engine and the rotary blades slowed and drooped, and the cloud of snow it kicked up began to settle. Moments later the man joined the other five.
Sam watched and waited, his hand on his rifle, every muscle in his body tensed. From that distance he couldn't see their faces well enough to recognize any of them, but the chopper was FBI.
The first man out, the one who seemed to be in charge, swept the area several times, then looked up the slope at the stand of trees.
Sam stopped breathing.
The man's gaze seemed to focus on the tree where Sam lay hiding. He stared at the same spot for several seconds. Watching him through narrowed eyes, Sam pulled his rifle closer.
One of the other men said something, and the man turned to answer, ending the tense moment. He shouted something to the others and they all relaxed and turned back to the chopper and started hauling out ropes and rappelling equipment.
Sam had seen all he needed. He wriggled backward on his belly and squirmed out from under the tree on the side opposite the clearing. Cautiously, he climbed to his feet and started backing away, through the tree branches, keeping his gaze on the activity below. The men in the clearing were busy hauling out equipment and most had their backs to him. He doubted they could spot him for the trees, anyway, but he carefully edged backward. When he could no longer see the clearing he spun around and took off for the cabin at a run.
Dammit! he thought viciously. If only he had gotten there an hour sooner. Now they were going to have to run for it.
And pray for a little luck.
Sam double-timed it all the way back, pushing himself mercilessly, his lungs working like a smithy's bellows, his breath rushing in and out with a harsh, rhythmic rasp. By the time he reached the cabin his arm and leg muscles were screaming.
He burst through the doorway, paying no attention when the old planked door crashed to the floor.
"Sam!" Lauren jumped and gaped at him, her face pale with shock. "You're back so early! Did you change your mind about going to the plane?" she asked innocently.
He skidded to a stop, his chest heaving. She sat cross-legged on the floor as close to the glowing remains of the fire as she could get.
"No. I...went," he gasped. He glanced at her bare hands. Her long, slender fingers were still spread over the chunk of wood. "Piano practice is...over. It's time to...haul ass outta here."
He darted a look around, pleased, and a little surprised, to see that everything was packed as he had instructed and the duffle bag and pack were stacked beside the hearth with the other pair of snowshoes leaning against them. He hadn't been certain that she would be able to pack everything as compactly as it had been before, but apparently she'd been paying closer attention than he'd thought.
He grabbed the snowshoes and tossed them to her, leaving her no choice but to catch them. "Put those on. And hurry it up. We don't have much time."
"For heaven's sake, what is your rush?"
"Just do it!" he snapped. Sam stepped just outside the door, scooped up a double handful of snow and came back in and tossed it on the embers of the fire, then went back out for more.
"All right, fine." She stood up and positioned her feet on the snowshoes, then squatted down to lace them on.
Sam moved back and forth, dumping snow on the embers. When he was satisfied that they were smothered he put the rifle down and snatched up the backpack and slipped his arms through the straps and hooked the rifle strap back over his shoulder.
"Did you find what you wanted at the plane, by the way?"
"No. There were six men in a helicopter already there."
"What?" Lauren looked up at him, her face lighting up. "You mean we're being rescued? Why didn't you tell me? That's wonderful!"
She finished tying bindings and shot to her feet. Slinging the duffle bag over her shoulder, she clomped toward the door as fast as she could. "C'mon, let's go. Oh, I can't wait for a hot shower and a real bed," she said fervently.
"Forget it. We're getting out of here on our own."
Lauren stopped and gaped at him as though he'd suddenly grown a second head. "What do you mean? Why in God's name would we do that when there's a rescue party waiting? I don't understand."
"You don't have to. If you'll recall, before we left Denver I made it clear that you were to follow my orders—no questions, no arguing. When I say jump, the only thing I want to hear from you is 'How high?' That's it." He grasped her shoulders and turned her back toward the door and gave her a little push. "Now move out. And hurry."
"No! I won't." She grabbed the sides of the door frame and tried to dig in her heels, which, of course, was impossible in the unwieldy snowshoes. "Why should I, when there are men with a helicopter waiting to fly us out of these mountains?"
"Dammit! Those men aren't here to rescue us, you little idiot! They're here to kill us."
She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes as big as saucers. "Wha-what?"
Her face went slack with shock, every vestige of color draining away. Sam relinquished his hold on her shoulders and stared down at her, his mouth grim.
"They came to verify that we were dead," he said in a voice only a fraction less harsh. "And when they discover that you and I aren't—which I'm sure they have by now—they'll try to find us and finish the job."
Lauren began to tremble. She slumped against the door frame for support. Pressing her hand against her midriff, she closed her eyes. "Carlo's men," she whispered. "Even here. Oh God."
Her eyes snapped open. "Wait. How can that be? How did they find us? How did they know about the crash and where to look?"
Sam just looked at her. She was quick, he'd give her that.<
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"Best guess? Someone sabotaged the plane. They probably made an educated guess that we'd head west, away from heavily populated areas. They timed it so that we would go down in the mountains, one of the most rugged and inhospitable places you can find, especially in the dead of winter. Case in point— if the weather hadn't prevented it, those guys would've been here two days ago.
"I figure they planted a homing device on the plane so that they could track us and verify the kill. That's what I was going back to retrieve from the crash and destroy."
"How can you be so sure of all this? Did you recognize them?"
"No."
"Then why do you think they mean to harm us? What if those men are agents from your office who really are here to rescue us?"
"Look, you're just going to have to trust me on this. I don't have time to explain right now. We have to get out of here. So move it."
"But—"
"Dammit, woman! I figure we've got an hour at most before they find my trail and track me here. I'm not wasting another minute arguing with you. So get your ass moving. Now!"
"I still don't—"
Bending from the waist, Sam stuck his face to within an inch of hers. She flinched back, and he saw her pupils widen and a flicker of fear chase across her face.
Good. Maybe now she'd listen.
"Lady, you either get moving or so help me I'll deck you and throw you over my shoulder," he growled. "One way or another, we're getting the hell outta here right now. Your choice."
She swallowed hard, but after a moment's hesitation she tilted her chin and huffed, "Oh, very well, I'll go. But I don't like it," she tacked on defiantly.
"Tough." He put his hand in the middle of her back and shoved her out the door.
"Hey! You don't have to be so rough."
"This way." Ignoring the complaint, he directed her into the stand of trees to the right of the cabin. "Go! Go! Go!"
Lauren fumed every step of the way. This was crazy. Why were they risking their lives this way? Someone else at the FBI office had to have known where they were going. That would've told them where to look when she and Sam didn't show up at their destination. Wouldn't it?