he was running for his life. He’d waited months for an opportunity to break free. He’d shot and killed the last man who tried to stop him. If he had to do the same to Caleb or Ted, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Hurting women didn’t sit well with him, though.
That was why he’d never go back with Gonzales. He was going to escape or die trying. God help anyone who got in his way.
“You smell like peroxide,” Faith said, interrupting his thoughts.
Another problem with women: they were intuitive and observant. He shouldn’t have been standing so close to her. By gazing at her appreciatively and acting flirtatious, he’d invited her to ask him personal questions.
Denying the obvious was no use, so he tugged the beanie off his head and braced himself. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad.”
Stupidly, he regretted the dye job. He wanted her to think him handsome.
“Did you lose a bet?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
She reached up to touch his hair, rubbing a few strands between her fingertips. He could see down the front of her tank top, which was disconcerting. “I could fix it,” she said, dropping her hand. “I’m a hairdresser.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Color’s my specialty. I do mine.”
He evaluated her pretty brown eyes and honeyed skin tone. “You’re not a natural blonde?”
She laughed, swatting him on the shoulder. “That’s for me to know.”
The guide presented a pair of life jackets, dispelling the mood. Any clothes they wanted to stay dry had to be placed in waterproof sacks. Javier removed his T-shirt, watching Faith pull her tank top over her head.
Coño.
Before she put on her life jacket, he got an eyeful of her breasts, covered by little scraps of fabric. They looked real. He wasn’t the type of man who cared either way, but he’d seen so many strippers lately that her subtle curves seemed exotic in comparison.
Tearing his gaze away, he shoved his T-shirt into his backpack and placed it in the plastic. His shorts weren’t for swimming, but they’d have to suffice. She stared at his bare chest, her lips curving into a smile.
Bring on the cold water. He needed it.
* * *
WHEN SAM PUT his arm around her, Hope buried her face in his shirt, shuddering.
He was a jerk, but his strength felt reassuring. She’d almost peed her pants a second ago. His heartbeat thumped against her cheek, alive, alive, alive.
“Any chance this was self-inflicted?”
She forced herself to move away from him and take a better look inside the cockpit. There was a handgun on the seat next to the pilot, and shells from two different weapons. It looked like a close-range gunfight. “No.”
Sam turned his back on the wreckage with a grimace, keeping his distance while she photographed the scene. Or maybe he was keeping watch. She noticed his eyes scanning the mountains and trees nearby.
There were few clues inside the fuselage. She didn’t see any illegal cargo or formal identification. From what she could surmise, the 9 mm next to the pilot wasn’t responsible for his death. He’d returned fire with his killer. She took pictures of the weapon and a pair of bullet holes on the opposite side of the fuselage.
She was about to report to headquarters when static buzzed over the plane’s radio. Her heart seized at the sound of a man’s voice. “Del Norte, come in. Ya, contesta.”
Hope rushed forward to pick up the receiver. Swallowing hard, she pressed the button to speak. “This is Ranger Banning of Sierra National Park. I need some information about this aircraft and pilot, over.”
The man ended the communication.
She replaced the receiver, her mouth dry. Careful not to touch anything else, she exited the fuselage.
“What was that?” Sam asked.
“Someone called on the plane’s radio. When I answered, they hung up.”
“You answered?”
“Yes.”
He thrust a hand through his short hair. “Fuck!”
“What?”
“I don’t like this. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She wasn’t a big fan of the situation, either. There had never been a murder at Angel Wings. It could be days before a thorough investigation was organized. The logistics of processing a crime scene on a remote mountaintop were dizzying.
They also had a killer to find. He must have left the area on foot.
She walked away from the plane, examining their surroundings. A hiking trail led down the backside of the mountain and ended at the Kaweah River Campsite. Where she’d dropped off Faith this morning.
“I have to go after him.”
He gaped at her in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious,” she said.
“You’re not a homicide detective.”
“No, but I have to protect the park’s visitors, and it’s my job to investigate any crimes committed here.”
“Alone?”
She frowned at his incredulous tone. Tracking a single assailant by herself wasn’t against procedure. Park rangers often worked solo, especially in the backcountry. But it was unorthodox, and perhaps unwise, to hunt down a murderer without help. “He’s got to be headed for the Kaweah. Faith is there.”
“Who’s Faith?”
“My sister.”
Hope would do anything for Faith. She loved her with the fierce protectiveness of an older sibling and the deep loyalty of a best friend. Faith had always meant the world to her, but their connection had become even stronger after a heartbreaking incident in her past. Hope had lost someone precious to her, and she’d vowed never to let it happen again.
Sam swore under his breath. There was no way he could talk Hope out of pursuing the suspect. “You can’t make it to the river before dark. Let’s rappel down, go back to Mineral King and call for help.”
She shook her head, stubborn. “I have three more hours of daylight. I won’t waste it by traveling backward.”
“You can drive to the Kaweah camp faster!”
That was true, but Faith wasn’t at the campsite. She was rafting down a river that intersected the killer’s path. “I might not be able to pick up his trail from there. I know I can track it from here.”
“You should wait for backup.”
She didn’t have time to argue, so she radioed Dispatch and relayed the details. “Send a couple of rangers to look for any suspicious activity at Kaweah. We need to contact the sheriff’s department, monitor the exits and put all park employees on alert.”
The dispatcher repeated her instructions and signed off. Although the ground was too dry and rocky for footprints, Hope noticed signs of a disturbance. “Drag marks,” she said to Sam, following them down the trail. They led to a pair of boulders about a hundred feet away. There was a crack between them large enough to hide another body.
While Sam watched her, his face taut as a bowstring, she removed her gun from the waistband of her pants.
In her five years as a ranger, she’d drawn her weapon only a handful of times. She’d aimed it once, last summer. A drunken idiot was shooting at marmots near the Giant Forest Campsite. When she’d