Hunted (Reeve Leclaire 2) (32 page)

He slows, approaching cautiously, and peers through the trees to see a black Toyota Highlander, parked with its nose sticking out from beneath a canopy of pine boughs. Dr. Moody’s stolen SUV.

He moves up beside it and places a hand on the hood. Cold.

He knows he needs backup. He needs the bureau to scramble a team and rush up here. But in the meantime it’s snowing, and if the roads close . . . what about the girl?

Bender unholsters his gun and his heart begins to race.

T
he ground is so cold and hard that Flint is getting blisters. Even after all this digging, he has only managed about two feet. Not deep enough. Three would be better. Three is always best.

He’d thought about making the girl walk out here and help him dig, but then reconsidered. She’d be whining and crying and trying to get away the whole time. Not worth the trouble.

What’s that sound?

He looks up, scans the trees, the lake, the shoreline, the flat water. Nothing.

It’s snowing harder now. Big flakes dust his hair, fall under his collar, and melt on the back his neck. He hates this part, but his muscles are strong and warm and he’ll be done soon enough if he just keeps at it.

He wields a pickax to break up the hard earth, then uses the shovel. He always hated digging. For grunt labor, it was always better to have two men. Wertz had prided himself on his ruggedness, whereas Daryl was more artistic. By nature, he was much better suited to slipping into the night for rendezvous with his targets, camera in hand. But over the years, Wertz had made a point of toughening him up.

Stepping down inside the grave, Flint takes a wide stance, trying to work the shovel deeper, but flings out only a cupful of dirt. He spits out a curse, jabs the blade in, shifts his grip on the handle for maximum leverage, and heaves. The handle snaps and he cries out as the momentum dumps him on his backside in the freshly turned earth.

He flings the broken shovel aside, his curses carrying though the wintry air.

M
ilo Bender freezes, locating the sound. He peers all around. Up ahead, a trail of smoke scribbles low across the cloud ceiling. He rushes forward, tripping over rocks, slipping on icy pine needles. He spies a chimney between the trees . . . a rooftop . . . a cabin. He veers between the pines, his heart jumping in his throat.

If Jenna Dutton is still alive, this could be his only chance.

Cautiously, he circles the cabin, staying in the trees, watching for movement. Snow moistens his eyeglasses, blurring his vision. He stops and listens but hears only the whisper of snow. The gun is cold as ice, and he blows warm air on his frozen fingers.

Seeing no one, he creeps out of the trees and crosses the clearing toward the front door, conscious of every footprint he leaves behind.

F
lint takes the shortcut back to the shed, straight up from the lake. He’s not happy about having to fetch the other shovel, which has a wider, flatter blade. Better for snow, not as good for digging. If he has to, he can switch handles. Or, if need be, he can drive into town, buy a new shovel, plus a six-pack and some beef jerky for his trouble.

Just as he’s edging past Moody’s SUV, he sees footprints and stops short.

Shit!

He drops into a crouch and looks around. Nobody.

Quietly, he opens the door of the SUV, and for a moment considers climbing in and driving off. He has the vehicle packed and ready to go.

Think, Daryl. Think, think, think!

He studies the direction that the footprints lead through the freshly fallen snow. Just one man? He looks around, listens.

He needs to handle this. The pistol is loaded. He retrieves it from beneath the seat, gently shuts the door, and starts following the tracks toward the cabin.

B
ender creeps closer, watchful and alert. The smoke drifting upward remains the only movement.

Maybe the cabin is empty or maybe the girl is inside. What are the odds? Fifty-fifty. She might be dead, but if there’s any chance she’s breathing, Bender has no choice but to enter through the front door.

Hard or soft entry?

The man’s curses seemed to come from farther off, to the left. If the man is off in the woods, his accomplice might be inside with the girl, perhaps armed. But a hard entry is a loud entry. Has to be soft.

He creeps up to the door, aware of every shudder of sound. Gun ready, he places his hand on the knob, turns, and the door swings wide.

Darkness greets him. He steps inside and sweeps his gun through the shadows.

Nothing but furniture, heat wafting from a woodstove.

He closes the door and moves deeper into the cabin with slow, cautious steps. At the far end, he finds a bed with sheets, a sleeping bag, and a jumble of frilly clothes.

Bender’s mouth goes dry.

He looks for blood, for gun shells, then sees the padlocked door. He steps up close and whispers, “Jenna? Jenna are you there?”

A tremulous voice answers, “Who is that?”

“FBI,” he says, knowing the lie will calm her. “Stay quiet, okay? I don’t know where he is. Let me find a way to get you out of here.”

Movement inside. “Oh, thank god. Hurry!”

Knowing Flint is right-handed, Bender searches to the right and finds the key on the windowsill. A moment later, the padlock clicks open and the girl tumbles out. She’s small and naked and pale, except for her many tattoos.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyes are frantic. “Get me out of here!”

Bender pulls the sleeping bag from the bed and wraps her in it, noting her bare feet. “Where are your shoes? It’s snowing. Can you make it?”

She nods fiercely as she clutches the sleeping bag around her.

“Stay close. I’m parked about a mile away.”

Bender holds his gun steady and his chest tightens as they move toward the door.

F
lint, crouched low in the trees, watches the cabin door swing open, sees a man and the girl scurry out. The man carries his pistol and scans the trees like he knows what he’s doing.

Flint doesn’t move. The man’s gaze skips past. His face looks familiar.

They dart for the trees. The girl is barefoot and the man shepherds her forward. It would be easy to follow as they stagger along, but Flint concocts a better plan. He eases back and cuts through the trees, heading for a bend farther down the path. He moves quickly through the pines, silent as a fox.

When he’s sure he’s far enough ahead, he finds a good spot to wait in ambush and steadies himself against a tree trunk. He hears them coming. His pulse quickens. He watches the road, raises his gun, and braces it with both hands.

Steady . . . steady now as they appear . . . first the girl . . . now the man. He sights along the barrel, aiming for the man’s chest, tightening his finger, squeezing the trigger.

The blast rips through the air and the girl screams and runs as the man spins, raising his weapon. Flint squeezes the trigger again and another gunshot explodes, punching the man off his feet.

Gun smoke hangs in the silence, then Flint dashes out to kick the man’s gun away.

When he gets up close, he sees that he needn’t have bothered. The man’s face has gone slack. He lies still while blood pools, melting a pattern in the snow. Flint marvels at the oozing redness, then pulls his eyes away.

He studies the man for a moment and recognizes that face. “Agent Bender,” he mutters.

He quickly straightens, looking around. The girl has vanished. He could chase her, but if other agents are nearby they’ll have heard the shots. He inhales sharply and dashes back through the trees.

J
enna Dutton drops the sleeping bag and runs naked, oblivious of the cold. She runs blindly and fast and scorched with panic.

Where to go? Where?

She races on, her ears ringing, terror thudding in her chest. Her feet fly across rocks and snow. She slips on the icy pine needles and abruptly halts in a patch sheltered by dense conifers. For a crazy instant she imagines climbing a tree, but all the branches are much too high. She spins around, searching for someplace to hide, but sees only trees and more trees. She chooses a direction and rushes on in a panic, gasping. She must hide, but—

There! A rotted stump with a gaping hole in its side catches her eye. She rushes over and drops down on her knees. The hole is a black, toothless maw, just large enough to hold her. She pushes herself into it butt first, the wood scraping and jabbing her skin.

She hears something and struggles to push herself deeper into the cavity, trying to disappear. The sound draws closer. A car engine. She tucks in tight, squeezing her knees to her chest, praying that she’ll be spared for the sake of her son.
Dear lord, please!

A black SUV flashes through the trees, and then it’s gone.

She holds still and listens as the engine noise grows fainter, gradually diminishing in the distance until all she can hear is the hush of falling snow.

Aching with cold, she inches forward, unfolds from the tree stump, and crouches there, shivering, wondering what to do.

The man had said his car was parked nearby. She stumbles forward, hunched over and shivering. Her feet have turned numb and clumsy, but she forces herself to keep moving.

She staggers along, and after what seems like miles, at last finds the narrow road. She follows the tire tracks downhill, splashing through icy puddles, expecting to see a car but seeing nothing. A sob catches in her throat. She spins, searching, and glimpses something uphill. A vehicle there in the trees?

She lurches up to the minivan, shaking with fear and cold. Her frozen hands won’t obey, but at last her thumb connects and the door opens. She climbs in, pulls the door shut and collapses, so numb that the cold seat barely registers on her backside. Her teeth are chattering and her thoughts are slow, but she rouses herself to search for keys.

No keys.

She continues searching and finds a cell phone in the glove box that she manages to turn on with trembling hands, but her hope disappears when she sees there’s no service. She slumps down on the seat and moans a low, pitiful sound, thinking of the man shot in the woods. Dead, surely dead. She moans again, slumps lower and tucks her legs in close, so cold she can’t think.

T
he windshield wipers beat aside the wet snow as Flint speeds away from the cabin behind the wheel of Dr. Moody’s SUV. The snow-covered roads are slick as he winds down out of the wilderness, but soon after he reaches black-top, the snow turns to sleet and then to rain.

He has the precious metal box on the seat. The gun is ready at his side, but he meets not a single vehicle as he winds past the old bridge. And when he passes the Granite Reach Mini-Mart, he hoots in elation. He has done it again. Too smart, too quick for all of them.

Just outside of Cle Elum, the gas gauge dips low and the warning light comes on. Cursing, Flint veers off the road into a gas station on the left side of the road. He pulls up to the pump, parking nose out, ready to go, then puts on the camouflage hat and the horn-rimmed glasses.

While filling the tank, he keeps his eyes on the road, ready for trouble, but sees nothing special. Five pickup trucks and four beat-up sedans drive by, totaling nine, three threes, which is a good sign.

The gas pump clicks off, and just as he’s replacing the nozzle, a massive black SUV flashes past. He freezes.

A second black SUV appears and zooms past, followed by a third. All identical. All with darkly tinted windows and two men up front. All going too fast.

Flint knows what that means. How long until they find their fellow agent in his pool of blood? And what about that girl with the hideous tattoos?

He keeps checking the road, but no more black SUVs come racing past. No flashing lights, no speeding sheriffs.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

But the cabin is blown. And since the cabin is blown, then the Olympia house is probably blown, too.

Maybe not so lucky. He growls in frustration, holsters the nozzle, and climbs back into the vehicle, his mind spinning like a turbine. He needs to get off the road and start Plan C. He needs to take cover until nightfall. He has Wertz’s instructions waiting inside the metal box. And Moody’s camping equipment is still loaded in back. That could prove useful, if only for the short term.

He turns the key. The engine sparks to life and he grips the steering wheel with both hands, still watching, in case a fourth vehicle speeds past.

When it doesn’t, he shifts into gear and eases down on the accelerator, carefully signaling that he’s turning left into traffic.

A pickup truck flashes past and he nearly chokes, because unless he’s fullout hallucinating, he would swear up and down and sideways that the pretty red-haired passenger zooming past was none other than his own little cricket.

Flint stares after the green pickup, certain that he’s seen it before, certain that Milo Bender’s son was at the wheel.

He equivocates for only seconds before turning right and heading back the way he came. He continues north, passes Granite Reach Mini-Mart, and follows the green pickup at a safe distance until he reaches the bridge. Then he turns off, crosses over Shadow Bark Creek, and bumps along slowly until he reaches the far side of Shadow Bark Lake.

B
right flares sputter with red tongues, marking a wide circle. The cloud cover lifts as if swept away by a merciful hand, and a sudden thrumming overhead grows louder as the helicopter beats down from the sky. Agent Nikki Keswick watches it settle onto a meadow near the crime site.

A heartbeat later, JD Bender appears, hurrying alongside the gurney that carries his father. Another gurney, carrying a pale but wide awake Jenna Dutton follows, with Reeve LeClaire trailing behind.