Luckily, he was experienced enough to know the difference between foreboding and phobia. Climbers were a superstitious lot. They followed their instincts, weighing risks in a fraction of a second. Only a fool ignored his internal warning system. But Sam’s reaction was based on psychological trauma, not the situation at hand.
Hope could do this.
Besides, abandoning the effort would have grave consequences. She’d have to find another partner, maybe even wait until morning. While any possible survivors battled the elements on top of the mountain after the temperature plummeted.
Sam tried to tamp down his fear, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t get scared that often, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with it. He’d become soft, in a way. Apathetic. Caring about life or death required effort.
Oblivious of his struggle, Hope continued to climb. She was confident, but cautious, spending too much time thinking about every move. Time dragged out into an eternity. He had to bite his tongue to keep from criticizing the flaws in her technique. She wasn’t an expert and it showed.
A few years ago, Sam had been an easygoing partner who enjoyed initiating newcomers to the sport. Now he was quickly frustrated, his body humming with impatience. The type of climber he used to loathe.
To her credit, Hope stayed positive and kept a smile on her face. He began to suspect that she was doing it just to annoy him. When she made a minor misstep and almost lost her grip, he swore up at the sky.
His negative attitude made an impact on her near the top. She came to a wide gap about ten feet away from her last placement. A fall from this distance could be dangerous, whether the gear held or not. Even during short drops, climbers could get tangled in ropes, crack their heads against the rock and break bones.
If the gear failed, death was certain.
Her footing looked off as she stretched out her arm. He muttered another curse, and she must have heard it, because she spooked. Instead of committing to the reach, she second-guessed herself and faltered. Her questing fingertips found no purchase, and her foothold crumbled.
With a sharp cry, she tumbled backward, her arms and legs flailing. Her harness caught and held, jerking her body roughly.
Sam braced himself against the rock and listened for the sound of gear popping, his blood thundering in his ears. To his intense relief, the protection bore her weight as she dangled in midair, a thousand feet from the ground. He held the safety rope, her last lifeline, clenched in his trembling hands.
She grasped the rope that attached them, staring up at him with frantic eyes. He let out a slow breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. They’d get through this a lot easier if she didn’t look down.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She moistened her lips. “I’m okay.”
“Reach out to the wall.”
Her gear was keeping her safe, not his gaze, but she seemed reluctant to look away.
“I’ve got you.”
After a short hesitation, she straightened, focusing on the rock face. She let go of the rope with one hand and touched the wall with the other. The tip of her shoe found an overhang, and her fingertips gripped a small fissure. She flattened her belly against the sun-drenched surface and paused there, as if soaking up its spirit.
After a moment of communing with the climbing gods, she made her way up. The final push went by in a blur. Before he knew it, they were at the summit. With Sam’s help, she scrambled over the edge.
He studied their surroundings, breathing hard. The top of Angel Wings was jagged, with dips and crags, like the surface of a tooth. He couldn’t see the remains of a plane, but there were hints of its trajectory. Burned-up bits of fuselage marred the landscape.
Sam pulled up their haul bag while she rested, her shoulders trembling from fatigue. The elation he usually felt after a climb was tempered by worry. They had a new obstacle to meet: searching for survivors.
“That was close,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“My fault.”
“You’re a difficult partner.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yes.”
He searched her face, wondering why she’d overestimated him. Then he realized that she was judging him by his performance in bed, which had been a hell of a lot more generous. Until he threw her out.
A flush crept up his neck at the backhanded compliment. He drank water from his pack, flattered and confused. The fact that he’d given her pleasure didn’t excuse his behavior, but she seemed determined not to demonize him. Maybe she saw the good in everyone. Or maybe she just expected poor treatment from men.
The thought depressed him. He didn’t like the idea of being one of a long string of jerks. He wanted better for her—and himself.
Hope took her gun out of her pack.
“What are you doing?” he asked, startled.
She shoved the weapon into her waistband, against the small of her back. “I have to check out the crash site. Stay here.”
“No way.”
“You can’t come.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a civilian, and this is a potential crime scene. It’s risky to fly at night without GPS or a flight plan. The plane might have been carrying illegal cargo.”
“Not every risk-taker is a criminal.”
“True,” she said. “Some are just idiots.”
He winced, knowing which category she placed him in.
“The crash victims could be smugglers, protecting their stash.”
“Don’t you need backup?”
“I won’t try to arrest a group of thugs by myself. I’ll just survey the scene and collect information.”
“I’m coming with you.”
She deliberated for a moment, her mouth pursed. “You have to take my lead, be quiet and stay back when I tell you to.”
“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. He might be an adrenaline junkie, crazy as fuck, but the situation scared him. He didn’t like guns and he wasn’t keen on getting shot. There was a difference between free-solo climbing, in which he trusted his abilities, and assisting an armed park ranger he hardly knew.
He also worried that they’d find a dead body. His aversion to corpses was stronger than his fear of guns or drug smugglers.
But he had to accompany her. Had to. Because his biggest fear was that Hope would be hurt or killed on his watch. The last woman he’d climbed with was dead. He couldn’t handle another blow like that.
Sam was already broken, hanging on to sanity by a thread. At the slightest provocation, he’d fall apart.
As Hope walked across the uneven, pebble-strewn surface of the crag, he followed close behind, his heart racing. It was ten degrees cooler at this altitude. Wind rippled through his microfiber shirt, evaporating the sweat from his body. Although he’d just slaked his thirst, his throat was dry.
When the wreckage came into view, she paused. It appeared that the plane had clipped the southwest corner of the mountain and broken up across the surface. The majority of the fuselage was still intact, perched very close to the edge of the opposite cliff. A figure was slumped over in the pilot’s seat.
Sam’s stomach clenched with unease.
Although the pilot appeared to be dead, she approached with caution. “We’re with search-and-rescue for Sierra National Park,” she called out, shading the sun from her eyes. “Do you need help?”
No response.
She glanced at Sam, her face tense. Motioning for Sam to stay there, she crept forward. He ignored the gesture and stuck by her.
The plane’s front windshield was broken. Inside the cockpit, the pilot was motionless, his head resting on the dash, gray hair fluttering in the breeze.
“Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
It didn’t appear that any bodies had been thrown from the plane. When she was at an arm’s length from the broken windshield, she leaned over to peer inside. The wreckage was so close to the cliff’s edge, he p
ictured it toppling over with one touch. He bit back a warning as she craned her neck for a better view. A black crow flew out of the cockpit with a shrill screech, wings flapping.
Sam almost had a heart attack.
Hope screamed at the top of her lungs and leaped backward, bumping into him. He stumbled sideways.
“I told you to stay over there,” she scolded.
Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his gaze off the pilot. The lower half of the man’s face was obliterated, and he had a second wound in the center of his chest. Blood spatter coated the interior.
This wasn’t just a crash site. It was a murder scene.
CHAPTER THREE
JAVIER DEL NORTE reached the campsite at the edge of the river sometime after dawn.
He was thirsty, and hungry, and tired. His shirt had stains and his slacks were ruined. His feet were bleeding inside his Ferragamo loafers, he just knew it.
Luckily for him, Americans on vacation were a trustworthy lot. They left all sorts of clothing and supplies out in the open while camping. He didn’t understand why successful people with luxury vehicles would choose to sleep on dirt or torture themselves physically in their free time, but their masochism wasn’t his problem. California culture was ineffable. He’d accepted that and moved on long ago.
His main concern was getting out of this wilderness without detection. And hopefully without having to kill anyone else.
Shoving the items he’d scalped into a stolen backpack, he headed toward the public restrooms to change. Near the men’s entrance, he noticed a door for a utility closet. Unlocked, of course. Because tree huggers didn’t steal toilet paper. He reached inside, helping himself to bleach, hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids.
In the men’s room, he studied his reflection. His once-white shirt was dotted with blood and bits of gore. Teeth fragments, perhaps. Removing it with a grimace, he tossed the garment into the sink and uncapped the hydrogen peroxide.
With heavy regret, for his jet-black hair was striking, he leaned forward and poured the bottle over his head. The liquid burned his nostrils and dripped down his chin, but he gave himself a good dousing, keeping his eyes shut tight. When he couldn’t stand the sting anymore, he rinsed his hair and studied the effect.
Awful.
The rusty bronze color didn’t look natural, or attractive, but it was different. With sunglasses on, he might be unrecognizable. Satisfied, he took off his pants, socks and shoes, piling them in the sink. He added bleach. While he was standing there in his boxer briefs, soaking his bloodstained clothes, another man came in to use the facilities. He was young and spot-faced, his eyes puffy. Mumbling hello, he disappeared into the first stall.
Retching sounds emanated from the confined space.
Javier shook his head in disgust. He fantasized about shooting the sick camper to put him out of his misery. There wasn’t a shower at this imbecilic place, so he washed with cold tap water and patted himself dry with rough paper towels. It was impossible to eliminate every spec of evidence, so he didn’t bother trying. After rinsing his wet clothes, he stuffed them in the trash can.
The pack he’d stolen contained several stray clothing items. He donned a gray V-neck T-shirt and low-slung plaid shorts, lamenting the owner’s bad taste. The shirt was too snug and the shorts too loose, but at least they were clean. He sat down on a wooden bench to bandage the blisters on his feet.
Two more young men walked into the restroom, glancing in his direction. He froze, hoping they weren’t the campers he’d just robbed.
Dismissing Javier, the first guy banged on the bathroom stall. “Dude, pull it together. We’re going to be late for the trip.”
The sick man vomited again.
His friends laughed at the noise, goofing around and punching each other.
“Just leave without me.”
“No way, dickhead! I can’t get a refund if you cancel.”
“I’ll pay you back,” he groaned.
“Stop being such a pussy. We’re all hungover.”
“It’s the altitude.”
“You’ll feel better on the raft.”
The man started dry-heaving, and his friends continued to ridicule him.
Javier almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. There was nothing more emasculating than puking your guts out in a public toilet. He’d done it himself, several years ago, after drowning his sorrows at Hector Gonzales’s bachelor party. The next day Hector had married the woman Javier loved.
Wincing at the memory, he put on a pair of sturdy athletic socks and black canvas tennis shoes that were only half a size too large. The backpack also boasted a hat. A beanie, he believed it was called. Tugging it over his wet hair, he walked outside, bypassing the foolish young men. An area map was posted on an information board next to the restrooms. Warnings about bears and safety instructions appeared in several languages.
He studied the map, which indicated that he was at the Kaweah Campsite in Sierra National Park. Only one road led in and out of the park. Both the entrance and the exit were more than thirty miles away.
That was a problem.
Hitchhiking was common in Venezuela, where he was born, and in many of the other countries he’d visited. Here in the U.S., it was rare enough to attract the attention of the authorities. He needed another mode of transportation. He could continue walking, pay for a ride or steal a car. But what if the park exits were being monitored? Law enforcement officials might know about the crash already. His boss would definitely be looking for him.
A man in Javier’s profession couldn’t leave behind a million dollars’ worth of drugs—and a dead pilot—without consequences.
On the right side of the map, there was an advertisement for Kaweah Whitewater Adventures. A blue line marked Kaweah Campsite as the launch point. The tour stretched past the borders of the park, ending at Moraine Lake.
The river was another exit.
While he considered his options, the hecklers walked out of the men’s room. They hadn’t convinced their friend to come along. Javier gave them another quick once-over, recognizing the type. After leaving Venezuela, he’d honed his English in Costa Rica, which was popular with surfers and potheads.
“You guys going on the whitewater trip?” Javier asked.
“Yep.”
“I’ve always wanted to try that,” he said, falling into step beside them. One of the guys had short, spiky blond hair. The other had long brown hair like Jesus. Both appeared strong, probably from athletic pursuits, rather than hard labor. “How do I sign up?”
“You have to reserve in advance.”
“Oh.”
The longhair exchanged a shrewd glance with his buddy. “We could bring you along if you have enough cash.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred. It’s a three-day trip.”
Javier had enough money, but he didn’t want to appear overeager. He also suspected them of trying to hustle him. Who would pay so much money to get abused by a river? “I’ve got two fifty,” he said, lowering his voice. “And an ounce of weed.”
That perked them up. “What kind?”
“Chronic.”
The guys smiled at each other. “Let’s see it.”
Javier glanced around to make sure they were alone before showing his stash. Neither the pot nor the cash belonged to him, so it was no loss. The deal suited his acquaintances just fine. They became very friendly all of a sudden.
“I’m Caleb,” the long-haired guy said. “This is Ted.”
Javier shook their hands. “Jay Norton.”
Caleb and Ted debated over smoking a bowl right then and there, but decided against it because they were already late. Javier breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to stay alert, not get stoned with a couple of pendejos.
The rafting group was supposed to meet in the camp parking lot at eight. They hurried down the dirt road as a dark green sport utility van with Kaweah Adventures printed on the side was about to pull away.
&nb
sp; “Hey,” Caleb yelled, waving his arms. “Wait up!”
The three of them jogged to the vehicle. “You just made it,” the driver said. “Hop in.”
Javier took off his backpack and climbed inside. The backseat was occupied by two short-haired women in their forties. A cute blonde sat in the middle. There was space available beside her, or next to the driver.
“Hello,” he said, choosing the blonde. “I’m Jay.”
She fluttered her lashes. “Faith.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.
Although he wanted to keep staring at her, because she was beautiful, he introduced himself to the women in back and nodded hello to the driver. When infiltrating a group, it was important to adopt their customs. Outdoor lovers were gregarious. They liked to hug strangers and bond with nature. He couldn’t be standoffish.
Caleb and Ted struck up a lively conversation, using a lot of terms Javier didn’t understand. Class Five, portage, PFDs.
He turned to the girl beside him, studying her with interest. She was wearing long shorts, a tank top and hiking boots. Her platinum-streaked hair was braided into two sections. She had a demure, fresh-scrubbed look, but she wasn’t a teenager. Her brown eyes twinkled with a sexy sort of mischief.
While he sized her up, she did the same to him.
Coño de la madre. If all female campers were this young and hot, he’d been missing out. “Faith,” he said, liking her name. “Where are you from?”
“L.A.”
City of angels. “You’re together?” he asked, indicating the women in back.
“No, I’m alone. My sister was supposed to come along, but she got called into work.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
She arched a brow. “You don’t look sorry.”
He wiped the grin off his face. “Is this your first time rafting?”
“Yes.”
“Mine, too.”
“Really? I thought this route was for experts.”
“Is it?” He glanced behind him for confirmation. “Are you ladies experts?”
“We’ve been around a few rivers,” the redhead said. Her name was Paula.
“Don’t worry,” Caleb said. “Ted and I have done some sixes and lived to tell the tale.” He launched into a boastful account of their accomplishments. Javier wasn’t impressed, but he believed that the guys knew how to paddle. Whether they stayed sober enough to do so safely was another question.
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