memories gradually,” Trudy said. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“A van...there was a van...men with guns.”
Trudy shot a nervous glance toward her husband, but her voice stayed calm. “What color was the van?”
She took another sip of tea. The liquid soothed her throat. “I think it was black...or dark blue.”
“I want you to concentrate,” Trudy said. “Tell me about the men. How many of them? Did they say each other’s names?”
“Four of them. One had an accent... Southern, I think.”
The pastor scowled. He went to a window at the front of the house and peered into the storm, on the lookout for danger.
“Where was the van parked?” Trudy asked.
“At a cabin...a log cabin.”
“And what did this cabin look like?”
“I think the door was painted green.”
“One story or two?”
She cleared her throat. The words came more easily if she whispered. “Don’t know... I couldn’t see it very well through the trees and the snow. Those men...they might come after me. I didn’t cover my tracks very well. I’m sorry.”
“You did the right thing, getting out of the storm, and I appreciate the warning.” Clarence opened the door to the front closet and reached up to a high shelf. “If we’ve got wild-eyed criminals running around in my forest, I sure as heck want to be ready for them. What else can you tell me?”
“Their weapons were HK417 assault rifles.”
“That’s mighty specific, little lady. How come you know so much about guns?”
She shrugged.
“You might be in the military.” He took a hunting rifle down from the shelf and set it by the door. Then he removed a long wooden box from the closet and carried it to the table.
A sign flashed in her mind. “Peterson Air Force Base.”
“That’s not too far from here. Is that where you’re stationed?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Another image replaced the first. She was staring into the maw of a tunnel large enough to drive a couple of semitrucks through. This huge half circle abutted the mountain, Cheyenne Mountain. It was the entrance to the underground NORAD complex, and she wasn’t supposed to talk about it—not even with nice people like Trudy and the pastor.
She’d said too much already, should never have given her trust so freely. What did she really know about Pastor Clarence and his wife? Nothing! The pastor unloaded a SIG Sauer and two Colt revolvers from his wooden box. Plus there was the rifle by the front door. These two definitely weren’t helpless woodland creatures.
“Honestly, Clarence.” Trudy rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to play with your guns, put down some towels so you don’t scratch my table.”
He put the revolvers away in the box and tucked the SIG into his waistband beside his suspenders. “I’m going upstairs. The windows up there make better vantage points.”
“Before you go,” Trudy said, “would you please call 911? I’d like to get the sheriff up here. And an ambulance.”
“Not for me,” she said.
“I’m afraid it’s necessary, dear.”
She didn’t want to go to the hospital. Turning herself in would violate her mission. Her mission? What mission? “I’m already feeling a lot better.”
“Except you can’t remember your name.” Trudy leaned forward to pour. “More tea?”
“Yes, please.” She studied the older woman. Trudy’s movements were disjointed, her right arm seemed stiff, and her hands were twisted in a knot. Under her flannel gown and robe, she was very thin, possibly sickly. “If I can borrow a coat, I’ll be on my way.”
“Don’t be silly.” Trudy’s voice was sharp edged. “In this weather, you won’t make it a mile. I didn’t haul myself out of bed and help you get warm only to have you go running outside to freeze again.”
“You’re right.” She sank back against the sofa. “I’m sorry...for waking you up.”
“I wasn’t sleeping, just lying down. It’s too early for bed.”
“She has rheumatism and a nerve disorder,” Clarence explained as he picked up his cell phone. “There’s only so much we can do to alleviate the pain. The one thing that relaxes her is music.”
“I used to be a music teacher,” Trudy said with a wistful smile. “And I’m still the choir director at our church.”
When she’d first entered the cabin, she’d heard a symphony from upstairs. “You didn’t have to turn off your CDs because of me. I adore classical music.”
“You’re sweet to say so,” Trudy said.
She sat up straighter on the sofa, roused by a vivid memory. “I play the violin.”
“Do you?” Trudy lightly applauded. “I’d love to hear you play.”
If it would keep them from sending her to the hospital, she could play all the Mozart concertos with Beethoven thrown in on the side. She’d do whatever was necessary to evade the danger that encroached on all sides. From the thugs in the van to the vicious storm to her unnamed fear of being hospitalized, everything appeared to be against her. She felt as doomed as a skier racing downhill, trying to escape a churning, roaring avalanche. Her chance of survival was slim.
Through the ragged curtain of falling snow, FBI Special Agent Spence Malone spotted headlights approaching. “About time,” he muttered.
Spence wasn’t running this operation, but his directions had summoned two vans—one for the local SWAT team and another from the FBI—to this isolated mountain cabin with a dark blue van parked in front. It had been twenty-seven minutes since he called for immediate emergency backup.
His tension was epic. When it came to making sharp, street-smart decisions, he trusted the instincts he’d learned at an early age in foster care. But this assignment was different. Not only was he dealing with a global situation, but his partner was the woman he loved.
Spence feared that he’d made the wrong decision by not going after her when he found the van. He could easily have followed her tracks into the forest. But he’d wanted to make sure these four thugs were apprehended and secured. Backup was required.
He bolted from his rented SUV and charged toward the vans. The SWAT commander and an agent in an FBI jacket joined him on the road. A wall of pine trees separated them from the cabin.
After introductions, Spence filled them in. “My partner is missing, and I think these men grabbed her.”
“Her?” Ramirez, the agent, yanked off his FBI watch cap and combed his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Agent Angelica Thorne is NSA, not FBI. We’re partners for the duration of this assignment.” And the assignment was top secret. They didn’t need details about Angelica. “I followed her tracking signal to the van and checked inside, where I found evidence.”
“Evidence?” Ramirez questioned.
“Her prints and hairs,” Spence said dismissively. “Trust me, she was in that van.”
“But not anymore,” Ramirez said.
“As far as I can tell, she’s in the wind. But she left these four goons behind.