.

was a huge barred owl, as still as a stone sculpture, its neutral coloring blending in with the mostly gray November landscape as it perched on a branch high in a naked beech tree.

      Before Carine could raise her camera, the owl swooped off its branch and flapped up over the low ridge above her, out of sight.

      She sighed. She’d won awards for her photography of raptors—she’d have loved to have had a good shot of the owl. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure her digital camera was up to the task.

      A loud boom shattered the silence of the isolated ravine.

      Carine dropped flat to the ground, facedown, before she could absorb what the sound was.

      A gunshot.

      Her camera had flown out of her hand and landed in the dried leaves two feet above her outstretched arm. Her day pack ground into her back. And her heart was pounding, her throat tight.

      Damn, she thought. How close was that?

      It had to be hunters. Not responsible hunters. Insane hunters—yahoos who didn’t know what they were doing. Shooting that close to her. What were they thinking? Didn’t they see her? She’d slipped a bright-orange vest over her fleece jacket. She knew it was deer-hunting season, but this was the first time a hunter had fired anywhere near her.

      “Hey!” She lifted her head to yell but otherwise remained prone on the damp ground, in the decaying fallen leaves. “Knock it off! There’s someone up here!”

      As if in answer, three quick, earsplitting shots cracked over her head, whirring, almost whistling. One hit the oak tree a few yards to her right.

      Were these guys total idiots?

      She should have hiked in the White Mountain National Forest or one of the state parks where hunting was prohibited.

      Just two yards to her left was a six-foot freestanding boulder. If these guys weren’t going to stop shooting, she needed to take cover. Staying low, she picked up her camera then scrambled behind the boulder, ducking down, her back against the jagged granite. The ground was wetter here, and her knees and seat were already damp. Cold, wet conditions killed. More hikers in the White Mountains died of hypothermia than any other cause. It was what had killed her parents thirty years ago. They were caught in unexpected freezing rain and poor visibility. They fell. Injured, unable to move, unable to stay warm—they didn’t stand a chance.

      Carine reminded herself she had a change of clothes in her pack. Food. Water. A first-aid kit. A jackknife, flashlight, map, compass, waterproof matches. Her clothes were made of a water-wicking material that would help insulate her even when wet.

      Her boulder would protect her from gunshots.

      The woods settled into silence. Maybe the shooters had realized their mistake. For all she knew, they—or he, since there might only be one—were on their way up her side of the ravine to apologize and make sure she was all right. More likely, they were clearing out and hoping she hadn’t seen them.

      Three more shots in rapid succession ricocheted off her boulder, ripping off chunks and shards of granite. Carine screamed, startled, frustrated, angry. And scared now.

      A rock shard from her boulder struck her in the forehead, and her mouth snapped shut.

      Good God, were they aiming at her?

      Were they trying to kill her?

      She curled up in a ball, knees tucked, arms wrapped around her ankles. Blood dripped from her forehead onto her wrist. She felt no pain from her injury, but her heart raced and her ears hurt from the blasts. She couldn’t think.

      Once again, silence followed the rapid burst of shots.

      Were they reloading? Coming after her? What?

      She tried to control her breathing, hoping the shooters wouldn’t hear her. But what was the point? They had to know now, after she’d screamed, that she was behind the boulder.

      They’d known it before they’d shot at it.

      She couldn’t stay where she was.

      The low ridge crested fifteen feet above her. If she could get up the hill, she could slip down the other side and hide among the trees and boulders, make her way back to her car, call the police.

      If the shooters tried to follow her, she’d at least see them up on the ridge.

      See them and do what?

      She pushed back the thought. She’d figure that out later. Should she stand up and run? Crouch? Or should she crawl? Scoot up the hill on her stomach? No scooting. She’d be like a giant fluorescent worm in her orange vest. Take it off? No—no time.

      She’d take her day pack. It might stop or impede a bullet.

      Or should she stay put? Hope they hadn’t seen her after all?

      Every fiber in her body—every survival instinct she had—told her that she’d be killed if she stayed where she was.

      She picked out the largest trees, a mix of evergreens and hardwoods, their leaves shed for the season, between her boulder and the ridgeline. The hillside was strewn with glacial boulders. It was New Hampshire. The Granite State.

      Inhaling, visualizing her exact route, she crouched down racer-style, and, on an exhale, bolted up the hill. She ducked behind a hemlock straight up from her boulder, then ran diagonally to a maple, zigzagged to another hemlock, then hurled herself over the ridge crest. She scrambled downhill through a patch of switchlike bare saplings as three more quick shots boomed in the ravine on the other side of the ridge.

      A whir, a cracking sound over her head.

      Jesus!

      They were shooting at her.

      A crouched figure jumped out from behind a gnarled pine tree to her left, catching her around the middle with a thick arm, covering her mouth with a bare hand, then lunging with her back behind the tree.

      “Carine—babe, it’s me. Tyler North. Don’t scream.”

      He removed his hand, settling in next to her on the ground, and she jerked herself away, although not entirely out of his grasp. “Was that you shooting at me? You jackass.”

      “Shh. It wasn’t me.”

      She blinked, as if he might not be real, but she was sprawled against him, his body warm, solid. Tyler…Tyler North. He was at his most intense and focused. Combat ready, she thought, feeling a fresh jolt of fear. He was a PJ, an air force pararescueman. PJs were search-and-rescue specialists, the ones who went after pilots downed behind enemy lines. Carine had known Ty since they were tots. She’d heard he was home in Cold Ridge on leave—maybe the shooters were firing at him.

      She tried to push back her fear and confusion. She’d been taking pictures, minding her own business. Then someone started shooting at her. Now she was here, behind a tree with Ty North. “Where—where did you come from?”

      “I’m hiking with a couple of buddies. We saw your car and thought we’d join you for lunch. Figured you’d have better food.” He frowned at her, peeling hair off her forehead to reveal her cut, and she remembered his search-and-rescue skills included medical training above the level of a paramedic. “Piece of flying rock hit you?”

      “I think so. Ty, I don’t know if they were aiming at you—”

      “Let’s not worry about that right now. The cut doesn’t look too bad. Want to get out of here?”

      She nodded, thinking she had to look like a maniac. Bloodied, twigs in her hair. Pant legs soaked and muddy. She was cold, but a long way from hypothermia.

      Ty eased her day pack off and slung it over his shoulder. “We’re going to zigzag down the hill, just like you came up. That was good work. Hank Callahan and Manny Carrera are out here, so don’t panic if you see them.”

      Hank Callahan was a retired