Isaac stopped behind his mother, motioned for Ross and Gale to do the same.
“Would any of you mind telling me what the hell she’s saying?” Ross hissed.
Eve’s chanting grew louder.
“This is a dark place. Evil spirits live here,” John said, quietly.
“Evil spirits, my ass,” Ross said, trying to push by the group.
When Isaac gripped him firmly on the arm, Ross glared at the man’s hand.
“Wait,” John said. “Let her finish.”
His grandmother’s body started to shake as her voice reached a crescendo.
Then her chanting ceased and her head slumped. She took a deep shuddering breath, then pointed ahead.
“Kigatilik,” she said, in a wavering voice.
John looked at Gale and Ross with sad eyes. “You can go forward.”
Gale took an uneasy step. Then another. He clutched Cassie’s jacket under his left arm and took his Colt Anaconda out, held it by his side. He moved by low-hanging boughs and stepped into the opening and déjà vu slapped him in the face.
The opening was small, surrounded by ferns. A small green tent lay in ruins in the middle—a food box—its contents opened and strewn. Fresh grizzly tracks punched through the mud.
“Jesus Christ,” Ross huffed.
A backpack lay next to a steel-sided rifle case near the demolished tent.
A flash of lightning lit the scene. Thunder broke over them. Gale went to the case, opened it. A .308 Winchester Magnum rifle sat inside; Gale checked the action. A bullet sat in the chamber, four more in the magazine. It hadn’t been fired.
Ross grabbed the backpack and peered inside. He took out a fire starter, water filtration tablets, and a quick-dry towel, then his hand stopped on something at the bottom. He looked at it for a moment and something unspeakable came over his face. Gale met his gaze, then Ross slowly pulled out a .357 Colt Python from the backpack.
Cassie’s Colt Python.
Gale felt the color drain from his face. He grabbed the pistol and confirmed Cassie’s name was engraved on the hilt. He dropped her jacket in the mud and cracked the pistol’s six-shot cylinder, letting the bullets fall onto his palm. Four of them were loaded cartridges, the other two were empty shell casings.
Cassie’s pistol had been fired. Twice.
Why is her pistol in this backpack three miles upriver?
“Whose… whose campsite is this?” Gale asked.
Eve Attla, who had been squatting down over something in the ferns, reached her hand down, and came up with a brown wallet. She gave it to Ross. The trooper opened it, then turned it to show an Oregon driver’s license to Gale.
“His name is William French.”
Chapter 14
KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, EASTERN RUSSIA
Date Unknown
CASSIE’S EYES FLEW open and she sat up, gasping for breath. Her vision swam, a myriad of blotchy greens and blues.
Dizzy, parched, and confused, she sat up on damp earth and put her hand to her forehead in an effort to mitigate her moose-sized headache.
Her tongue felt like a dehydrated slug—sticking to the roof of her mouth, a chalky chemical taste in her throat.
As her eyesight normalized and steadied, she realized she was in a heavily wooded area. Lush green ferns wet-kissed her arms, her legs, the sides of her face. Where was she? What was happening? Her brain felt muddied. This wasn’t home, this wasn’t Montana.
No, she thought. I went to Alaska—drove north. Stayed at that hotel—the Northern Breeze! The campsite by the river in Eagle. It was nighttime. A loud bright orange flash! And—
“Maverick!”
It all came back to her and she jumped so fast she nearly fainted. Her body felt weak, depleted, banged up and bruised. She focused on her breathing until she could stand upright and called for Maverick until her voice went hoarse.
There was no sign of the dog.
What had attacked them? She remembered Maverick’s high-pitched screams of pain.
She didn’t know where she was.
Cassie felt a familiar sensation of panic bubble in her stomach, but she quickly forced it back down as her survival training kicked in.
Remain calm. Take stock of your surroundings. Devise a plan of action.
She started with her body.
Her pants were ripped and filthy. Bruises lined the right side of her legs up to her pelvis. Her tan T-shirt was covered in mud, her right forearm sported a nasty gash that looked like it had been…
Stitched?
Cassie blinked, confused. She counted at least twenty black stitches, expertly applied.
How in the hell?
Dread suddenly filled her and she whipped around, scanning the forest. Someone had stitched her up. Someone had put her here. Were they watching her now? Adrenaline elevated her senses and she listened, watched—reacting to every gust of wind, every movement of leaves, every chirp or rustle from a bird.
For ten minutes she didn’t move a muscle.
The forest seemed normal, but something was off. The flora: the bushes, the trees seemed different.
When Cassie felt satisfied she wasn’t being watched, she continued with her checklist. Her body was in good enough shape to walk. Her stomach didn’t feel too empty, but, damn, was she thirsty.
She devised a plan.
Find high ground. Then get to civilization. If that’s not possible, find water and shelter.
The sun was directly above her; rays of it streaming down between the gaps of leaves. It would be impossible to find her bearings until she found high ground, so she picked a direction and started walking.
Thirty minutes later, she stumbled into a spring that trickled into a small stream. Cassie was so thirsty she dunked her head into the freezing water and gulped until she was satisfied.
The water washed away that nasty chemical taste in her mouth and replenished her body. Almost immediately another memory triggered in her brain—that taste in her mouth—she had tasted it before, back at the campsite, the foul-smelling cloud that enveloped her after Maverick screamed, after the bright orange flash.
Then another memory.
It must have been after the flash.
Much later.
A flicker of consciousness.
It was a sensation of feeling constricted—like she was in a coffin. A mask had been covering her face, it was dark. She hadn’t been able to move her arms or legs.
There had been sounds, too.
Loud, thumping sounds, like a helicopter rotor.
Had she been in a helicopter?
Just then she was snapped out of her memory by a faraway buzzing. Cassie looked up through the trees at the clear blue sky and made out a small white dot, almost indiscernible against the glare of the sun.
It wasn’t moving like a plane or a bird. It was hovering, then jolting left and right in quick succession.
Cassie squinted at it, trying to make out what it was—when a loud snap of a twig sounded behind her. She turned, peering into the dense vegetation.
Two men stood not twenty feet away.
They were shirtless.
Tattoos covered their bald heads, faces, and chests.
They gazed right at her with hungry eyes and smiling yellow teeth.
One had a knife.
The other started sprinting right for her.
Chapter 15
IF YOU CAN’T run, wait until your attacker is close, use their momentum against them to take them off balance. Then make quick, succinct blows in critical areas until the threat is neutralized.
It was the mantra her father had repeated over and over when teaching Cassie basic self-defense as a young teenager. A mantra that she had repeated to herself various times during her military training. A mantra that reverberated in her head as she backpedaled in surprise and slipped and fell in the ice-cold spring as the tattooed man closed the distance between them.
He splashed into the spring as Cassie crab-walked backw
ard onto dry land. She didn’t have time to get to her feet and run, so she let herself fall on her back, her knees and elbows up planklike, waiting.
His hands went for her throat.
Cassie waited until his full body weight rested completely over her.
Then she kicked upward and to her right. The man flopped over, half in, half out of the spring. Cassie got on top of him.
Succinct blows in critical areas until the threat is neutralized.
She balled her fist, cocked her elbow, and delivered a punch in the fleshy part of the man’s throat just to the left of the Adam’s apple, directly on the carotid. The man’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes bulged in surprise, his arms went limp by his side and his eyes fluttered shut.
Cassie spun off the man, found her feet, and immediately twisted her body sideways as a blade slashed by her. The second man had lunged and missed, stumbling into a thicket of brush.
The man wasn’t big.
He was skinny actually—malnourished even.
The tattoos on his back, biblical images and foreign symbols, were numerous and crudely done. But Cassie wasn’t paying attention to the tattoos; instead she planted her feet and positioned her body for the next attack.
The second man found his balance and turned to face her. The knife glinted in the sun and the man’s eyes went skyward, right to where that white, buzzing speck zipped above.
The man licked his lips, and Cassie noticed that even his tongue was tattooed.
Control the blade hand, Cassie thought as the man lunged again. She let the blade come in close to her stomach before she pivoted and grabbed the man’s wrist. Her free hand clamped down on his elbow and she used his momentum to spin him while simultaneously twisting the blade hand.
The man bellowed and the knife fell to the ground. Cassie then shifted course, planted a knee behind the man’s legs, and tripped him backward.
He fell back and she was on him. She aimed for the throat but the man raised his arm in defense. Cassie’s fist glanced off the man’s forearm.
She hit him again.
And again.
The man kept his hands over his face and throat.
This one knows how to fight.
Cassie changed tactics—aiming lower, she hit him in the diaphragm. Hard. She heard the breath leave him. He sputtered and gasped like a beached fish.
“Who the hell are you!” Cassie screamed.
She hit him again.
“Why are you attacking me?”
She hit him again, this time in the ribs.
“Where are we? Why are you attacking me!”
A series of words escaped the man’s mouth. It definitely wasn’t English—it had a Slavic harshness to it.
The man then spat in her face and attempted a punch. Cassie blocked the blow, saw her opening, then delivered a well-timed fist at the man’s throat.
The effect was instantaneous.
Cassie got to her feet, shaking, confused. She went for the knife. Held it. It looked new, recently sharpened and perfectly maintained.
The first man still lay unconscious, the second man clutched at his throat. Cassie was having trouble comprehending what had just happened.
The knife trembled in her hand, and before she could run, she heard a loud piercing whistle from above. The whistle grew louder and louder until something landed with a resounding thunk at her feet.
Sticking halfway out of the mud was a stainless steel canister the size of a coffee thermos.
Cassie bent down to examine it when the top of the canister burst open and sprayed a mist of orange in all directions. The familiar foul-smelling chemical cloud engulfed her.
Cassie staggered backward and tried to run but lost her balance and toppled over.
Then all went black.
Chapter 16
EAGLE, ALASKA
Saturday, June 29th
GALE WINCED AS he squatted down on the linoleum floor and extended his arm through the open kennel, his hand running from the top of Maverick’s head all the way down his back. The sleeping dog’s chest rose and fell; the IV line that ran into his leg kept him sedated.
The veterinarian said the dog could leave by tomorrow. The cuts on Maverick’s face and leg required stitches and two of his ribs had been cracked. Gale studied the gash on Mav’s face—it was the work of a knife, no doubt. Someone had slashed the dog.
Maverick had been protecting Cassie, Gale was sure of it.
Gale rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since the encounter with the grizzly. Forty-eight hours since the discovery of Cassie’s blood-soaked yellow jacket and William French’s campsite.
Gale had barely slept since his arrival in Eagle and his mind was beginning to get sluggish. Gale checked his watch, Petit and Bill Cronin and his men from the Rocking R would be arriving by the evening. After the search team had discovered William French’s campsite, Gale had called Montana, knowing that he needed men up here he could trust, men who were willing to do anything to find Cassie.
After the encounter with the grizzly, word had spread fast through Eagle. Suddenly, everyone wanted to help and be a part of the search. After the discovery of Cassie’s pistol in William French’s backpack, Ross had called Sergeant Meredith Plant and asked for a criminal case to be opened. This led a press team and television crew to latch on to the story and fly into town.
“Dad, she’s here. Plane just landed.”
Gale scratched Maverick behind the ear and stood to see Emily and Trask silhouetted in the vet office doorway.
Sergeant Plant had just flown in from Fairbanks to take over the investigation. Ross insisted this case needed the keen eye of a seasoned investigator.
In the time it took Plant to get to Eagle, Ross had organized nearly a hundred townspeople and villagers to search the woods and riverbanks along the Yukon.
All evidence from both campsites had been collected, tagged, and sent to Anchorage for forensic testing—what kind of tests, Gale didn’t know; he was hoping to get clarification once he met Plant, especially about the mysterious canister found in Cassie’s campsite.
Gale took in Emily and Trask. They both looked haggard. Emily had dark bags under her eyes, and Trask’s hair and beard were disheveled.
“How are you two doing?”
“Holding up,” Trask said.
“You need sleep, Dad.”
Gale waved off Emily’s comment and squeezed her shoulder, stepping around them and onto the front deck of the small vet clinic.
It was a beautiful day. Blue sky, and not a cloud in sight. Gale could hear the rumblings of a crowd in the distance. The search and rescue volunteers had been called in for Sergeant Plant’s arrival. Gale guessed that most of the volunteers were eating lunch at the supply tent that had been erected in the parking lot of the VPSO’s office.
They walked silently down Chamberlain and took a right on Front Street and saw the crowd milling about. Nearly twenty boats, rafts, and dinghies were docked on the shore.
Gale saw the Attlas in the corner of the crowd. John and Isaac were talking to a group of villagers as they ate lunch. Eve sat in a camping chair, and she was staring directly at Gale, expressionless. The day before, he had thanked the woman for warding off the bear on the shoreline and apologized for his rashness.
Eve had just stared into his eyes like she was prodding the darkest depths of his soul. The whole experience had been unnerving. It was like the old woman knew who he really was. Knew his past. Understood his present. And could foresee his future.
Gale peeled his attention from the old woman and saw the Fairbanks news reporter interviewing Trooper Ross by the food tent. Max Tobeluk stood by Ross and looked uncomfortable, sickly and ashen.
A car horn honked over the rumble of the crowd and a truck pulled into the parking lot. A young trooper built like a fly rod got out of the driver’s seat and placed his blue Stetson hat over his head and took in the crowd.
A short, blond-haired wo
man climbed out of the passenger seat and rounded the truck. She had an authoritative air about her: hawkish brown eyes, a sharp nose. She shouldered a travel bag and wore tan cargo pants—a gold badge flashed from her belt next to a holstered Glock. But what really took Gale aback was that the woman was pregnant.
Very pregnant.
This must be Sergeant Plant.
Plant walked through the crowd and caught the attention of Ross who stopped his interview and walked over to her. They talked for a moment, then Ross called the crowd to attention.
He introduced Sergeant Plant and the skinny trooper at her side. His name was Elliot Vance. Vance was also a certified Alaskan bush pilot and had flown Plant from Fairbanks. Vance and the other pilot, Rutledge, would use their planes to aid in the search.
For the next ten minutes, Ross made a show of getting Plant up to speed with the organization of the search. When Ross was done, Plant thanked everyone and applauded their diligence. She then told the crowd that she was heading up a criminal investigation into the disappearances of Cassandra Gale and William French.
When she was done, she pulled a woman from the crowd and together they marched up the stairs into the VPSO’s office.
“Should we go talk to her?” Emily asked.
Gale was already moving. He weaved through the volunteers, took the stairs two at a time, and opened the door without knocking.
Sergeant Plant sat at the desk, poring over a stack of papers as the other woman stood opposite her, an uninterested look on her face.
Emily and Trask filed in behind Gale.
Plant looked up. “Ah, you must be Mr. Gale. Good to finally put a face to a name. Please, sit.”
The bored-looking woman stepped back as Gale, Emily, and Trask took their seats across from Plant.
Plant indicated the other woman. “This is Sherry Pruitt with the United States Border Patrol. She works the crossing at Little Gold.”
Pruitt nodded but didn’t say anything.
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