Perhaps by some innocuous sound or smell, maybe something I saw, or my subconscious was simply bored and began thumbing through memories like the pages of a photo album, it opened event that I hadn’t thought of in years. But there it was as unannounced as a door-to-door salesman. No doubt faded by time, it nonetheless retained it’s essence.

To the best of my recollection, it was July, 2012. At the time, we were living on a four acre plot of land with the house having been built next to a main county road. The only thing separating us from the farm equipment thoroughfare (and illegal drag strip during summer months) was a lateral ditch, strip of grass, and six-foot wooden fence. With all the elbow room of living in the country, neighbors closely bordered us on both the left and right.

Per our routine, my wife and I sat peacefully watching the nightly news, which made the time around ten o’clock or a little thereafter. Our three older dogs were lounging with us in the living room while our two pups were outside doing whatever it was that pups do at night. We didn’t hear the impact, although neighbors farther from the road did. No, the first indication that something was wrong came when pups erupted in a barking frenzy. As I rose to see what the commotion was all about, they rocketed through the dog door and raced to the front door, barking the entire way. Then whirling around, raced back outside, now followed the three seniors who had joined in on the barking.

Stepping out onto the back steps, I saw a car parked on the side of the road directly across from our house. It’s headlights silhouetted a person running towards the neighbor’s house screaming something unintelligible. My first thought was that someone had hit a dog, which was unfortunately a too-common occurrence.

“Something happened,” I said as I headed for the front door with all five barking dogs crowding me. Pushing my way past them, I went outside to find the car driverless but idling. Not far away lay a dark, crumpled mass centered in the road.

They said the boy was 16, but upon approaching him, my guess was closer to ten. He looked so small, so young, as he lay on his back, arms and legs splayed, his head resting in a large pool of blood. I had no doubt that he was dead, this not being my first encounter with a corpse. Looking down upon him, I could feel the body empty and lifeless. Even had he been alive, his condition was well beyond what my basic first aid training equipped me to deal with.

Assuming that a 911 call had been made, I stood over the body to - hopefully - ward off any oncoming traffic. Our neighbor on the opposite side had a beautiful pit bull who trotted over to investigate, and was quickly retrieved by his owner who carried him back home. Neither of us spoke.

Within a couple of minutes came the wailing siren and flashing lights of the responding Sheriff deputy. I flagged him down, and no sooner did he begin working on the body than an ambulance arrived and EMTs began their futile attempts to resuscitate the boy. After giving my statement, I was returning to the house when a gut-wrenching shriek stopped me.

Yeah, the boy’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, as they had broken up just minutes before, running hell-bent down the middle of the road screaming the entire way. The victim and his friend had left her house just minutes before. Originally investigated as a homicide, the friend was initially suspected of pushing him in front of the car; it was later determined a suicide.

The blood stain remained for weeks as a grim reminder, and neighboring dogs attracted to the scent, investigated. The following month, a car pulled up to the spot where the boy had been killed and I watched as parents, and probably friends or family, reverently nailed a white cross to the nearby power pole. Each year, a bouquet of flowers would be placed at the foot of the cross commemorating that tragic night.

Part 3 - Lugar de Arcilla Blanca

Rachael wiped a spot of blood from her tender jaw where Shotgun’s ring cut her. The car sped away with a squeal of tires, leaving a cloud and smell of burnt rubber. Her hands shook, making it difficult to button her shirt.

“He’s gone,” she said in a soft, husky voice.

Seconds later Galen was speeding across the parking lot towards her. Light-headed, Rachael stumbled into the front seat and buckled herself. She sat kneading life back into her stiff, cold hands. Galen said nothing, staring grimly down the streets he drove. Rachael cast a glance back at SWAT women, both of whom sat with solemn expressions and eyes averted. She wondered what had been discussed in her absence, not that she cared.

Swaying in the deep cushioned seat, her head rocked back and forth in rhythm with the vehicle. Pain slowly faded, leaving a light sting as reminder, and she lapsed into a nightmarish state of semi-conscious exhaustion. Groggily, Rachael came to her senses when the car came to a stop. She followed Galen back inside the squat brick building, flanked by the two women.

“Come with me,” he ordered and led her to the conference room. A plate of fruit, protein bars, and bottles of iced drinks and water set in the table’s center. The two SWAT women continued directly to the armory to doff their guns and gear.

Rachael’s stomach grumbled and her mouth watered at the temptation the snacks presented, yet the thought of eating made her nauseous. She did drink two bottles of water while waiting. Eventually the SWAT and CIRG members filtered in, followed by special agents Galen and Booker.

Booker cast a hard look at Rachael. “Obviously, our civilian volunteer chose not to follow the script.”

Her face flushed.

“As we have all heard, she has thrown Operation Artemis into a royal cluster. Dammit, Rachael! All you had to do was obtain information! Why the hell didn’t you follow the script?”

“Your script stunk. The story was full of holes and would only lead to questions I couldn’t answer! If I didn’t believe it, he sure as hell wouldn’t!”

“We’ve been developing the girlfriend angle long before you showed up!”

“It didn’t occur to you that I should have been brought up to speed before throwing it in my lap and saying here it is?”

“That’s it,” he thundered, throwing a wicked glare around the room. “We’re calling this off.”

“Wonderful! Throw away these kids just like you did in Texas. Go on, blame the judges, blame me, blame your washed-up undercover agent, find any excuse you want. Just chalk it up as a setback and move on, is that right? You win some, you lose some, no big deal.”

“You obviously don’t know who I am, little lady...”

“Nor I don’t care! Whatever type of people you’re used to dealing with, I am most certainly not one of them!”

“Out!” He demanded, stabbing his finger at the door.

A silent, uncomfortable tension filled the room of people clearly not accustomed to seeing him challenged in such a manner. Rachael furiously unbraided her hair and raked the wire from it, threw it on the table.

“Fine!”

“Wait. Listen to her,” said the CIRG woman who seemed if anything, to be Rachael’s advocate. “She has proven herself both perceptive and innovative. Furthermore, she is right. These children’s lives at stake, and we have very little time.”

Rachael stood seething in rage. Slowly, she returned to her seat.

“Bring her up to speed on the situation,” she ordered Galen. Rachael felt the woman’s emotions rising when he didn’t answer. “Now!”

Galen removed his glasses to wipe them, put them back on and said, “if I fully disclose the situation, will you agree to help us?”

“That depends. No more intimidation or strong arm tactics, and no more of your condescending bullshit. Period. Now tell me about the boy. Six or seven years old. Black hair, blue and white shirt, khaki cutoffs.”

Stunned to a person, they stared at her in disbelief. Booker wiped nervous sweat beading on his forehead and Rachael feared having said too much.

“What do you know of the boy,” a balding CIRG man said to her quietly.

“He was crying. Not just crying, worse. Much worse. That was Sunday night.”

“You heard him?”

“Heard him and saw him. It woke me up Sunday night. Early Monday morning, actually.”

“You saw him?”

“That was the image I saw.”

Booker leaned forward. Rachael felt the heat emanating from his body.

“Kian told you about him, didn’t he?”

“Kian couldn’t have known...” Galen said.

“He had to! She’s screwing with us! She’s playing games, going off script, what do you want, Ms. Winterhawk, A reward?”

“I don’t want a damn thing from you. If you don’t believe me then cut me loose right now!”

Their eyes locked, neither backing down.

“It’s way too late for that,” the woman stated.

“Tell me, Mrs. Winterhawk,” Galen said accusingly. “Does this happen often?”

“More than I like,” she said, breaking eye contact with Booker.

“We’re not risking everything on the word of someone who claims to be a damn psychic.”

“I am not a psychic and never claimed to be one! You brought me here and you’re the ones keeping me here, I didn’t volunteer for any of this!”

Galen sighed, wiped his glasses again thoughtfully. “Let’s all just settle down. You are right about the boy, impossible it may be.”

Heaving a sigh, Galen began. “We are investigating a child trafficking network. Kian, the man you met last night, was our undercover man. The transporter. He was having difficulties. Not checking with his handler, providing us with general, even vague, information rather than details, becoming erratic and undependable. He had been in too deep for too long and we were losing him. We had to find a way of recalling him without raising suspicion. Thus, we introduced the narrative of Chloe Moon, who was to replace Kian once we got him out. The script you didn’t follow?

“Last Saturday, Kian transported nineteen children from California to Texas. We are working with the Texas locals and had a judge and D.A. on hand to sign a warrant the minute we learned where the kids were being delivered. Unfortunately, our judge and D.A. chose to attend a fund raiser rather than making themselves available. Sure, they had the warrant and all they had to do was sign it, but, well, let’s just say they were caught up in the moment. By the time we obtained a signed warrant, we had lost our opportunity. The kids and traffickers were gone and Kian was already on his way here.”

Rachael blinked, sickened by what she heard.

“Kian lost it when he learned that he had driven those kids into slavery. He cracked. Worse, a six year-old boy was found in a shallow grave. The boy you described.”

“Why...” she choked. “Why was Kian blaming the cops?”

“He didn’t know the situation. He assumed one of the locals tipped them off.”

“So, he was at the bar last night to meet Shotgun.”

“That’s what we believe. Your intervention may have been fortunate. Who knows what Kian would have said in his condition. We knew they were planning something else but until now, didn’t know when or where. That’s where you’ve been instrumental.”

She read the pain in his face and on those around the table. It did nothing to quell her mounting rage.

“So let me get this straight. You let a boy die and eighteen others hauled off into slavery because of PAPERWORK! Because you didn’t have SIGNATURES! You spineless damn cowards!”

“It makes me sick, too, but we had no other option.”

“You did have other options!” Rachael all but screamed. Launching herself out of her chair and toppling it with a loud clatter, she threw a look of pure hatred around the room. “Those children are lost forever because none of you had the balls to save them! Your jobs and your careers and your damnable bureaucracy are more important than their lives!”

Her head pounded, visioned pulsed. Galen righted her chair and gently seated her.

“She’s too unstable to use,” Booker said.

“You,” she quietly demanded, spearing a finger at him “you keep your mouth shut. Hell, your own NCIC reported over three hundred thousand children went missing last year, not to mention some thirty thousand illegal immigrant kids that the government lost, and this is the best you can do? Incapacitated by paperwork and bureaucracy, seriously!”

“I realize...”

“You realize nothing! You are no better than the pedophiles and slave traders you hunt.”

“We lost them, Rachael. We’re sick about it...”

“Not sick enough, believe me!”

“We may still be able to help these children.” The CIRG woman softly intervened. “The trafficking network is unaware of the failed attempt in Texas.”

“I’ve done all I’m going to do. You people make me sick.” Rachael said, and pressed her palms to her temples where a throbbing headache announced its presence.

“For whatever reason, you saw the boy. Without your help, it will happen to others. And it will keep happening.”

How long she sat regaining her composure, Rachael couldn’t tell. Sickened, enraged beyond belief, she only knew that it took a long time in coming. She finally looked up and said, “Galen, will you pull up your map of the area?”

“A recon was sent out and we received a number of photos,” he said, tacitly giving her credit. The projector came to life.

“Do you have one of the cement factory? That’s the only place they’ll be able to conceal themselves.”

Galen handed her the laser pointer and scrolled through the photos, stopping at one of the cement factory taken from an altitude of 2,500 feet.

“The photo doesn’t really show it, but this gulch,” Rachael softly said, indicating a long thin line of dirt and rocks east of the factory, “is about eight feet deep before it plays out. Between it and the factory is a thick growth of brush. North, south and west is nothing but shallow rocky washes.

“If anyone is at the cement factory, they will be in the bunkhouse or administrative building, here and here. Any vehicles will probably be in the homogenization stock buildings here, and here. If I remember right, the other buildings still house abandoned equipment.”

“Excuse me,” said a young SWAT member turning towards her. “There’s no evidence that anyone is even there. Nobody has even mentioned a cement factory. It’s all speculation.”

Rachael fired a look at him, saw that he was sincere, and softened. “Kian had a note with the name ‘Place of White Clay’, or 'White Clay Place', however you want to translate it. That’s officially the unofficial name used by locals, and this is the only ‘Place of White Clay’. The cement factory is in the general vicinity, and it is the only facility with easy access. Every other building in the area is either an abandoned farmhouse, cabin or barn. Most are at least partially collapsed and all are difficult to reach. Galen, can you zoom in on the administrative building?”

“What if you’re wrong?” The SWAT man persisted.

“Then a lot of kids are going to die. Or worse,” she callously responded.

Galen did as asked, and within a tall patch of sagebrush behind the administration building came a glint of metal. He continued zooming in until it became clear.

“Is that a generator?” He mused.

“Can’t be,” Booker said.

The SWAT Lieutenant, a large graying man who until now expressed little interest in the meeting, spoke for the first time. “There, on the right. Zoom in. Is that a cable snaking in through a broken window?”

Still, the young SWAT man pushed the issue. “I’m not putting my life on the line because of a civilian’s say-so.”

“Suit yourself, but this isn’t just my say-so. I grew up in southern Utah. My cousins and I spent a lot of time in this area dirt biking so I know this country better than you do. Aside from personal experience, I have a Master’s in structural engineering and a Bachelor’s in safety engineering. I'm not some dumb schmuck off the street, I know how to think, and analyze, and consider risks. Anyone have an issue with that?”

She then continued. “Due to the wildlife, I doubt there’ll be any alarms until you reach the fence. There’s no cell towers or wifi, so everything will have to be satellite enabled. It’s at least an hour-and-a-half drive from here and I’m supposed to be there at ten.”

“Then we need to get moving,” Galen said. “Rachael, are you up to this? They will be expecting you and only you. You’re going to be on your own and no one knows how it will turn out.”

“I thought I already made myself clear about that.”

“That being said, Artemis a go.”

Galen continued without hesitation. “Stephanie, gear up and grab a van for Rachael. You’ll ride with her to the cement factory access road. Rachael? When you make the turnoff, don’t stop for more than a second or two, just long enough for Stephanie to bail. We’re putting you in harms’s way and that’s something I really don’t like doing, but you’ve got the best of the best right here in this room and we’ll keep you safe. You’re going to be our ears on the inside.”

“Don’t go making promises. You just focus on the kids, I can handle myself.”

“For the rest of you, let’s start the briefing.”

With Rachael driving, the wire once again braided into a Dutch side braid, Stephanie rode in the passenger seat armed with her AR-15, Sig Sauer, and night gear. The big van was noisy and drafty, and Rachael struggled to imagine it full of terrified children on the road to a life of hell. No wonder Kian lost it.

Not until they left the glow of Henderson city lights and entered into darkness that Stephanie spoke.

“You really hate us, don’t you?”

“Not at all. I highly respect what you do.”

“Then why the attitude?”

Rachael didn’t immediately answer. “I have premonitions. They’re cryptic and I struggle to interpret them. Then again, maybe I’m not meant to understand them until the proper time. Regardless, I feel helpless and it pisses me off. This last one really set me on edge.

“The boy who died in Texas, I heard him. I saw him, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was angry to begin with and when Booker and Galen accosted me, they didn’t even bother identifying themselves. They get things done by bullying people and throwing their weight around, and that’s something I don’t tolerate. As you can imagine, the situation went from bad to worse.”

Stephanie smiled, her face lit by the dashboard lights. “Nobody has ever, and I mean ever, popped Booker in the mouth and got away with it.” Realizing what she had said, Stephanie whipped her head around to Rachael, eyes wide, and pointed to the side of her head.

Yeah, everyone was listening, Rachael grinned as Stephanie’s faux pas cutting through the seriousness. “I told him there was more where that came from and he knew I wasn’t kidding. Seriously, though, my husband’s a detective and has worked with SWAT on several occasions, both local and Feds. They’re generally fine people performing a very important service, but people change when they move up the chain of command. They compromise their ethics and become part of ‘the system’, or they get thrown out. I’ve known good people forced into retirement, fired, or demoted because that very thing. Something for you to keep in mind.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I am damned impressed with what you did, and are doing now. You’re a special person, don’t believe anything else.”

“Thanks.”

“I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth,” Stephanie said after a time. “My parents would be considered big wheels your ‘system’ and the only reason they had me was because having a child was in vogue. I was given everything you could ask for, but I was raised by nannies, brought out like a trophy to show off to business acquaintances. I spent more time learning proper etiquette than playing, and of course, my only friends were those my parents strategically hand-picked.

“When I outgrew my cuteness, they hid me away in camps and private schools. Instead of showing me off, I was brought out to flirt and schmooze with somebody’s son or daughter, to grease the wheels on whatever business deal.” She smiled to herself. “In spite of themselves, they gave me a worldly education and this is the career I chose, much to their horror. They haven’t said so, but I think they basically disowned me, which is no big deal since I hardly know them, much less love them.”

Slowing down, Rachael took an off-ramp.

“At first, I did this to spit in their faces. I guess I also did it as a release for all those years of built-up anger. Then something changed and my parents and my old life ceased to exist, and this became my life. I haven’t seen them in maybe five years, haven’t spoken to them in three.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No reason to be. I don’t miss them. I’ve been living a life without them since I was a baby and you can’t miss something you’ve never had.”

Two miles down the frontage road brought them to a narrow, paved county road. Jack rabbits darted across the road with such frequency that Rachael moderated her speed in spite of her fast-approaching deadline.

“Five more miles and we turn off,” Rachael said. “I hope your team has night vision because if anyone’s on the towers or silos, they can see our headlights.”

“We’ve got it covered. No one said so, but your input has been invaluable.”

“Thanks.”

“I know you’re scared to death, but we have a good team. Trust them. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

“I didn’t see anyone protecting this afternoon while I was getting slapped around.”

“Of course not. If you would have seen us, they would have seen us. Trust me when I say that we had a bead on Shotgun and the driver the entire time.”

Rachael gave her a questioning glance.

“Thermal imaging scopes.”

“Ah,” Rachael said, letting up on the gas to make the turn onto the gravel road.

“The cement factory turnoff is in half a mile,” she said as the van rattled and bounced over the washboard road. “Get ready, because I’m only stopping for a second. There’s a culvert you can hunker down in. Watch out for scorpions because there’s no moon and they’ll be active.”

Stephanie crawled over the seat into the back of the van and waited. Rachael hit the brakes upon turning, tires slid on gravel. Stephanie was out the side door, quickly and quietly closing it behind her. Heart pounding, Rachael threw gravel in starting up again. As of now, she was entirely on her own.

Skeletal structures rose eerily above the black, mountainous skyline in the distance. Headlights reflected first off a tall chain link fence, then the two men guarding an open set of gates. Both were big and bald, and ready to open up with their automatics at a moment’s notice. Rachael rolled to a stop, heart hammering double-time as they warily flanked the van with guns trained on her. She clicked on the dome lights and turned off the headlights. One man covered her from the passenger side while the other opened her door, his rifle still trained on her.

“I’m R...Chloe Moon. Shotgun knows me,” Rachael said in a shaking voice.

He leaned across her, unbuckled her belt, grabbed her arm and dragged her from the seat. Caught by surprise, Rachael hit the hard packed roadbed with a grunt of pain. The impact knocked the breath from her and her bare arm scraped across rock and dirt, sending a fiery sting from wrist to elbow.

He pressed her head to the ground with the rifle’s muzzle while the other man searched the empty van, then climbed in and threw it in gear. Tires spun and peppered her with dirt and rocks.

Rachael was roughly pulled to her feet and marched into the compound, towards the administrative building. The van roared into a large homogenization stock building and everything became quiet, save for the crunch of gravel under their feet.

The administrative building sat dark and silent. He shoved her against the wall and pinned her with one hand while opening the door with the other, then pushed her into darkness. Grabbing her braid, he steered her through a series of hallways before coming to a room with light spilling through cracks in the door.

He knocked twice, twice more, than once. Movement. Footsteps. The door opened and Rachael was pushed into a room well lit by electric lamps. Aside from the self-appointed doorman, three sloven men sat on wooden chairs covered by blankets. Two cradled Uzis, two, AR-15s.

A wiry, bearded man sat working a laptop with an Uzi slung over his shoulder like a man purse. Probably their technical support person, Rachael surmised. The laptop set on a mouse-chewed desk nearly a century old and looking it. A CAT-5 cable ran from the laptop to a rolling server rack containing a router, external modem, network gear, security box and small blade server. Aside from the whisper of fans from the server equipment and hum of the generator through the broken window, all was silent.

Setting his gun down, Rachael’s captor spun her around and began pulling up her shirt. Slapping his hand away with indignation, she was backhanded with a blow that sent a flash of lights across her vision and knocked her to the floor. The room pitched and spun as he pulled her back to her feet.

“Then you do it,” he ordered in a low gruff voice.

Thoroughly pissed at being slapped twice in the same day, Rachael nonetheless pulled her shirt off. He gave Rachael a contemptuous grin as he firmly slid his hands around the curve of her bra, before giving a nod to her feet. Keeping a wary eye, Rachael pulled off her shoes and socks, then dropped her pants. These he bundled and gave to another man who carried them out.

“RF scan to make sure you and your van aren’t wired. Hell, they can even sew them into your clothes these days and obviously we can’t scan it here with all this equipment. Don’t worry, you’ll get them back if you’re clean. If not? Well, I guess it won’t matter.”

Rachael stood in bra and panties, defiant and determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

“Take a seat and wait.”

“That’s one helluva way to greet someone you’re working with,” Rachael said and defiantly took a seat.

“We’re not working with you, you’re working for us. Maybe, that is.” Perching on the desk over her, he gave her an apprising once-over before continuing. “Quite a little vixen aren’t you? Three possessions with intent to sell, one misdemeanor eluding, and two involuntary manslaughters. Just how involuntary were they?”

Rachael shrugged.

“Yeah, we checked on you. No matter.”

“I already went through this with Shotgun.”

“Now you’re going through it with us. Why haven’t we heard of you?”

“Same reason I’ve never heard of you.”

“That smart mouth of yours’ll get you a beating.”

Rachael settled back into a chair. “What about my payment?”

“What did Kian say?”

“He wasn’t in any condition to talk.”

“Same as always. We transfer Bitcoins on delivery.”

“Delivery where?”

“Albuquerque. We’ll give you an address when you get there.”

Rachael nodded. “When do I need to be there?”

“It’s an eight hour drive. You get there between seven and nine tomorrow morning. Shotgun’s riding with you the whole way.”

“Of course he is.”

They sat in silence before her captor ordered the other two to accompany him. For what purpose he didn’t say and she didn’t ask.

“Aren’t you worried about someone stumbling onto this little setup?” Rachael said to the computer jockey.

“Pumping me for information?” He said and slid the Uzi slung over to his other side.

“I need to know the situation.” Rachael said, becoming comfortable.

“You do what you’re told, that’s the situation. If I tell you to shut up, then that’s the situation. If I bend over the desk, then that’s the situation. Got it?”

“I get it. Kian’s not coming back after bailing like he did.”

“Damn, woman, would you just shut up? Keep opening your mouth and I’ll stick something in it.”

Rachael tensed, turning away fearing her expression might betray her.

“Don’t worry, you’re way older than what I prefer, know what I mean? ” he chuckled. “But it’s hard to turn down something free, right?”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever yourself.” He busied himself at the keyboard for a few minutes then turned to her saying, “maybe you’re right, seeing’s you’re gonna drive for us. See, we’re only in any one place for a few hours. That’s why everything here is mobile. Tonight it’s this cement factory. We got people looking for places all the time. Same with Albuquerque and all along the line. When you’re not driving, you’re laying low and keeping outta trouble. Now Kian, he got in trouble. We got people who’re gonna make sure he never gets in trouble again. Don’t make the same mistake.”

He returned to the task of monitoring the alarms, Rachael watching with discreet interest. The screen was split into a dozen frames from wireless cameras that covered the entire facility. Whoever set them up knew what they were doing. Maybe ex-military, computer security geek, or Intelligence.

He suddenly jolted forward in his seat yelling, “Shit, shit, shit!” Expanding one of the cameras to full screen, they watched two SWAT members in night gear cutting the fence outside the bunkhouse.

Their reactions were simultaneous. Rachael launched from the chair as he grabbed for the radio. Having watched Mark and Dakota practice enough football to know good tackling techniques, she hit him hard, driving her shoulder into his exposed ribs. They toppled, the radio went flying. She drove him hard to the floor.

He grunted in pain, twisted, rolled her into the server rack sending it bumping against the wall. Throwing his elbow, he hammered Rachael’s ribs. She lost her grip and her breath, then he was on her, straddling her waist. Unslinging his Uzi, he brought it down with his full weight behind it. Twisting her head to one side, Rachael escaped the brunt of the blow but the gun put a gash along the side of her head. Bucking her hips, she threw him forward and drove a nukite into his throat. Her acrylic overlays were only half an inch, but that was enough to cut into his flesh. Pain shot down her index finger as a tendon in the first digit ruptured.

Choking, he reared back.

Outside, two loud booms rattled the walls. Flashbangs meant to stun and disorient the opponent. A torrent of gunfire followed.

Rachael’s shoulders scraped painfully across the rough floor under his weight. Nonetheless, she grabbed for his throat. Sweeping her arms aside, he drove his thumbs into hers and put his full weight behind it.

Rachael mouth worked like a beached fish as she choked for air. Unable to loosen the grip, blackness crawled across her vision. She pounded the side of his head with depleting strength, then slapped his ear hoping to burst an eardrum. Yellow-brown eyes gleaming back wickedly, his eyes maniacal, exhilarated at the sight of her life fading away.

Desperately, Rachael swung with what little strength remained and drove a fingernail into his ear, hooked, and ripped it back out. Screaming, he wrenched away. Blood trickled down the side of his face as he crawled off, holding his ear with one hand. Rolling onto her feet, panties askew and falling out of her bra, Rachael grabbed a wooden chair and hoisted it. The blanket flew as she brought it down on him with all her strength. It didn’t shatter quite like the breakaway furniture in movies, but the back tore loose and one mouse-gnawed leg broke off.

Staggering, coughing, Rachael grabbed his Uzi. Swinging the heavy, compact weapon by it’s thin shoulder strap, she slammed it onto his head and shoulders over and over. His face and scalp ran red from blood, spreading dark and wet through his hair, seeping from deep gouges in his face. His nose split, leaking dark crimson down his face and into his beard. Covering himself with his arms and hands, screaming for mercy, he cowered as the seven pound weapon bruised, punctured, and tore skin.

Nor did her rage abate. The children whose lives she had been unable to save filled her thoughts. She was their surrogate in exacting vengeance. He would suffer as they would.

Shaking, semi-conscience, mewing weakly, he no longer posed a threat and Rachael, exhausted and hurting, ceased her onslaught. She shuddered at the carnage. Her arms and body were spattered with congealing blood and the Uzi dangled loosely in her hand, it’s strap wet and sticky. As her emotions subsided, she now heard approaching gunfire. Whatever was going on outside was making its way towards her.

He rolled onto his stomach, torn and bloodied fingers scratched at the floor as he tried crawling away. Tucked inside his waistband was a beautiful Beretta. Now that was a gun she knew how to use for something other than a club.

Running footsteps outside the door. A staccato of gunfire. Pausing. Then a long loud burst. Pulling the Baretta from his pants, Rachael dropped the magazine, saw that it was full, slammed it back in and thumbed the safety lever.

Two long bursts of automatic fire just outside the door followed by a heavy thud, more pounding feet, then the door flew open. A man, the same bald guy who pulled her out of the van, burst inside. His eyes swept the room and he momentarily froze, shocked at the sight of her standing spattered with fresh blood, gun in her hand. Then flew into action, firing even as he swung his automatic towards her, stitching the wall with holes and filled the room with a deafening roar. Rachael swung her gun up. It exploded and bucked twice in her hand.

The first shot blew through his shoulder. The second slug tore through his side, shattering ribs and throwing him against the door. Collapsing, his body blocked it shut. Gasping, gurgling, blood trickling from his mouth, he stared at Rachael through unseeing eyes. Specks of pinkish membrane rimmed the bullet hole in his ribs.

Rachael swayed. Sagging, she caught the desk. A stark, cold sensation swept over her. Shock was coming on and she didn’t know how to stop it. Stuffing herself back into her bra, exhausted, now chilled, she righted the computer jockey’s chair and fell into it.

The laptop continued playing the ongoing action from multiple cameras. Two men lay dead in the compound, three more writhing from gunshot wounds. An SUV roared out of the compound under a cover of tracer bullets streaming from its windows. Gunshots became sporadic, then ceased altogether.

A hammering on the door, but it didn’t register in her mind.

“Rachael! Rachael!”

Running feet. A minute later, a bright little red dot danced on the wall, the door, then disappeared when it centered on her shoulders scraped raw and seeping blood.

“Rachael! Rachael, are you okay?”

Turning, she looked at the rifle tuned on her. Two dark figures moved behind it. Rachael looked down at the Beretta in her hand and dropped it on the desk next to the laptop.

A big, heavily armed figure slipped through the window followed by Booker, clumsily crawling over the window sill.

“What the hell..?” he muttered in amazement.

She followed his gaze to the small bearded man lying on the floor next to her, looking more like road kill than anything. The room was stuffy with the acrid odor of burnt powder and metallic smell of blood. The SWAT man checked him, then her gunshot victim whom he, as gently as possible, pulled from the door.

Booker grabbed her arm, his eyes wide with alarm.

“Rachael, are you okay?”

Smiling weakly and whispered, “peachy.”

“We’re getting you out of here. I’ll have a Gurney...”

“Not for me. These men first. I don’t want them dying on my account.”

“Stay here, I’ll get you some clothes.”

“Appreciate your sense of modesty, but I’ve modeled in as much. Maybe not covered in blood, though. Help me up?”

Booker, reluctantly at first, gently assisted Rachael to her feet and guided her out the door. She found comfort in the way his big, strong arm wrapped around her waist. They stepped over a body in the hallway, an AR-15 lay nearby and the floor was thick with spent cartridges.

Outside, warm dry air greeted them and Rachael paused to suck in the desert perfume. It smelled good, felt good, but she couldn’t stop shaking. Flashing lights from multiple ambulances and police vehicles silhouetted a BearCat, and unmarked FBI vehicles, and lit up the cement factory with a variety of colored strobes. A departing helicopter was making a beeline for the distant glow of Las Vegas while two more set on the ground. Funny she hadn’t heard them.

“Take her,” Booker said, and Rachael looked up to see Stephanie approaching at a fast jog. Another small group of headlights lit the desert several hundred yards up the access road.

Stephanie slipped her arm around Rachael’s waist, held her tight. Booker hurried back inside. Across the compound, Rachael heard several children crying and looked up to see medics leading a small group to several waiting ambulances. Dark, armored figures went about their business of searching for potential escapees.

“We’ll get you some clothes. Get you cleaned up,” Stephanie said, directing Rachael to a nearby ambulance.

“Are the kids okay?”

“Not a scratch. Their mental and emotional wounds are deep.”

“Take me over there,” Rachael said, indicating a patch of hard packed sand.

“But...”

“There. First.”

Stephanie assisted Rachael to the patch of sand. Pulling free, she swayed for a moment before dropping to her knees. Raising her face to the sky, Rachael voiced prayers for forgiveness, of thanksgiving, and mercy for both child and enemy. Ending in a moment of silence, she allowed Stephanie to help her back to her feet.

Rachael’s clothes were found blood-soaked under a body, and Stephanie ordered a new change to be found. A medic assisted her onto a Gurney and Stephanie prepared a bottle of water flavored with hydration powder, then scrounged a protein bar. Rachael unbraided her hair and pulled the wire free, handing it over to Stephanie.

The day’s events came crashing down both mentally and physically and she sat shivering, fighting shock while Stephanie sponge bathed the blood from her. Perhaps inappropriate, but over the past several hours they had formed a strong bond and Rachael welcomed her touch. Not that it was anything new to her. There was a time when she had been accustom to the primping of hairdressers and makeup artists. This, however, felt more like the tender caress of a daughter longing for a familial intimacy she had never known.

The medic returned to dress Rachael's injuries which, although painful, were superficial. The gash on the side of her head took three stitches and her finger with the torn ligament was splinted. The greatest pain came when her raw shoulders and arm were cleansed and dressed with antibiotics and bandaging.

The two men whom she had brutalized were wheeled on Gurneys to a waiting helicopter. IVs and oxygen were keeping them alive for now, and someone called out the time of ten forty-two. Rachael was assisted into an armored vehicle along with Stephanie and two other SWAT members she hadn’t seen before. Passing a bullet-riddled vehicle on the way out, she asked Stephanie if that was the result of her work.

It was.

As much as Rachael wanted to go straight back to the hotel, she had to first relinquish her Chloe Moon identity, collect her wallet and hotel keycard, then provide a lengthy statement. It was a little after two a.m. when she slipped into the room. Pain killers were wearing off and her body ached from strained and bruised muscles. Her shoulders and arm burned with a deep stinging sensation, head throbbed, and finger ached. Regardless, she just had to take a shower to wash the blood from her hair and filth from her mind.

’Lyss remained soundly asleep as Rachael carefully undressed, threw her blood-spattered bra and panties in the trash. The hot pressured water burned like hell through the waterproof bandages, yet she found it therapeutic to her bruised body.

Hurting too much to sleep lying down, Rachael pulled on her swimsuit coverup and spent the remainder of the night on the balcony in a patio chair. Haunted by flashbacks, she was unable to sleep, and passed the night tortured by her thoughts. Dawn was creeping across the eastern sky when ’Lyss groaned and slowly came awake.

“Rache?” She called out at seeing Rachael’s empty bed.

“Out here.”

’Lyss pulled the drapes aside and gasped. “Rachael! What in the world happened to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Okay, so tell me what the hell happened to you!”

“No, please,” Rachael said, pressing her palms to her eyes for a moment. “You’re not ready to hear and I’m too emotional right now to go into it. Can you give me some time to process it all? I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Don’t worry, I’m not in trouble with the cops, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking a whole hell of a lot more than that.”

“Please,” Rachael said and slowly, painfully, rose to her feet. “I hurt. Everywhere. I’m starving. Let’s get some breakfast and you go to your meeting. Stop worrying about me, I’m fine.”

“You’re a long ways from fine. You’re sure about this?”

“Yes. Maybe I’ll get a nice, gentle massage. This afternoon, we’ll grab a couple of lounge chairs, lay out in the sun - like you promised - and I’ll tell you all about it.”

"Do you seriously think I can sit through more sessions with you like this?"

"Yes, and I insist on it. Look, I'm fine. I need time to wrap my head around everything, then I'll tell you. Right now, it would be one jumbled story that wouldn't make sense. Please?"

’Lyss signed with resignation. “Okay. I know how stubborn you can be. You know, I thought this was going to be a fun, relaxing trip.”

“Well, other than yesterday, it was. And considering my premonitions, it couldn’t have been any other way. You knew that.”

’Lyss stood staring at her friend, dumbfounded.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Rachael said. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Lady, you have no idea what you look like.”

Part 2 - Down the Rabbit Hole

Following a leisure continental breakfast with Alyssa and several of her colleagues, Rachael sat idly enjoying yet another cup of exquisite coffee, the serenity of her surroundings carrying her thoughts like a bird flitting from bush to bush. Did the residents appreciate this European style community as much as she? Or he attorneys now crowding into the conference center, for that matter? Or had they become so jaded by work and travel that aesthetics meant little or nothing. Would she still appreciate the ambiance tonight while ’Lyss was attending a series of debates, or would this become as mundane to her after two short days as with the residents and attendees?

She had traveled extensively during her days of modeling and stock car racing, but despite the demands of her job, had always found time to appreciate each new locale. Even here in Las Vegas where she has spent so much of her time. Whether it was trying new restaurants, unique shops or museums, exploring little-known attractions, her time, her job, the benefits that came with it, were all gifts to appreciate.

The soft clatter of dishes and low conversation of staff lulled her into a light doze. Hot desert air drifting through the open, folding glass wall and caressed her face. Rachael sipped her coffee and let her mind drift back to last night. It was kind of an anticlimax to her premonitions, and she was glad that they resulted in nothing more than hauling a drunk out of a bar. Yeah, it didn’t seem like much, but then a person was not always aware of the impact that a small gesture of kindness had. A feather-light brush of fingers across her cheek. Glancing around, she saw no one within fifty feet of her.

Premonitions. Perhaps this time she was seeing ghosts where only shadows resided.

Rachael thoroughly enjoyed another morning of working out, swimming, and napping under the sharp southwestern sun. After showering and re-dressing into a lighter change of clothes, she joined ’Lyss and several associates for lunch, then contentedly watched them trail off to an afternoon of lectures, debates, and legislative training sessions.

Desiring something sweet, Rachael remembered the vending machines in the lobby of their building. Retrieving her novel, she descended to the building’s small lobby to pass the time. Really no more than an alcove with three wingback chairs and two vending machines that softly hummed.

Having bought a soda, she made herself comfortable in one of the wingbacks under the soft draft of the air conditioner. Everyone was doing fine, Mark assured her on her second phone call. Maybe she was becoming bored after all. As a person who always needing to be doing something, Rachael found inactivity a waste of time and could only be tolerated in small doses.

She tried reading but couldn’t get into it. It was too quiet and she felt isolated. Setting her book aside, she gazed across the sculpted lawn and shrubbery, and the meandering sidewalks leading nowhere in particular. Two men several shades lighter than ’Lyss and dressed in dark three-piece suits approached from the nearby parking lot. Not large men per se, but solid built. The man on the right wore a flattop buzz cut and stood a couple of inches taller than his buddy. The smaller man was more compact, hair styled into a short Afro, and wore gold wire rim glasses that reflected the sun in metallic gold. The larger buzz-cut man had once been muscular but time had filled in his definition with adipose tissue - now that’s a term you don’t hear every day, Rachael thought with a smile. She named them Buzz-Cut and Glasses.

Moving fast with purposeful strides, Rachael’s smile faded when she realized that the lobby was their destination. Although she didn’t sense danger, neither did she want to encounter them. Taking up her novel and fingering her pocket to make sure the keycard was still there, Rachael rose to leave. They picked up the pace.

Alarmed now, she had no more than turned towards the stairs before Glasses was swinging the door open. Buzz-Cut made no pretenses of cutting her off from the stairs. Glasses moved to cut her off from the long hallway leading the other way.

“Please come with us,” Glasses said in a silky voice.

“Oh hell no. Take another step and I’ll scream.”

“That would be bad.”

Buzz-Cut man pulled a Taser from his jacket and sent a miniature lightning bolt between the probes.

Rachael neither backed away nor flinched.

“Now,” he said. “Will you please come with us?”

Rachael snapped, surprising herself as much as Buzz-Cut. With no forewarning, no preliminary tense of muscles, she drove a back fist into his arm, hitting the pressure point as Mark had showed her. The Tazer flew from his hand and bounced across the carpet. Stepping in, she threw a fist towards his face. As explosive as her assault, he recovered even faster, grabbed her arm, wrenched aside. Her second punch however, took him by surprise. Lacking the strength of a man, Rachael nonetheless had smaller fists that concentrated her power. Driving from her hips, her fist found the corner of his mouth and rocked his head back, then she shaved his shin with a stomp. Twisting her wrist, ripping it from his weakened grasp, Rachael whirled.

Strong hands clamped onto her arm and slung her into the wingback, which would have toppled had it not been for the wall. Before she could right herself, Glasses pinned her shoulders. Struggling, kicking wildly, swinging without making contact, Rachael stopped only when he exerted enough pressure to send sharp pains through her chest and shoulders. Gasping, her back popping under his weight, Rachael relented and sat glaring through eyes dilated with rage.

“One more outbreak like that and I’ll fry your ass,” Buzz-Cut said as he ground his Taser into her face.

“Now,” Glasses told her, “you will either come willingly or we’ll carry you out.”

“Somebody’s going to see you.”

“Yes or no.”

“Where you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk.”

“Talk here.”

Buzz Cut dug his Taser into her face with even more force.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go,” Rachael said, fighting the rising panic.

Survival Rule number one was not to allow kidnappers to take you from the scene. Once they do, they have total control. Addendum: if they have a Taser, it’s better to go consciously than unconsciously. Rule number two, make yourself valuable to them. There’s no guarantee you won’t be raped and tortured, but a valuable hostage will be kept alive.

So what do you do when all the above fails?

Glasses roughly hoisted her to her feet. Her arm reddened under the iron clamp of his fingers digging into her soft flesh. Buzz-Cut brushed a small trickle of blood from a split lip that was already swelling, and followed with a noticeable limp.

With professional efficiency, Rachael was bundled into the passenger seat of a black Ford Excursion with barely legal window tint. Glasses climbed in behind the wheel while Buzz-Cut strapped her in, then climbed into the seat behind her. Doors locked, tires squealed, the Excursion shot out of the parking lot.

Apparently, they didn’t care if she knew where they were going, and that wasn’t good since it usually meant the victim wasn’t coming back. Rachael sat quiet, stunned. Kidnappings happened to other people, people in the news, people she didn’t know and would never meet. She fought panic rising at the thought of Mark and the kids leading a life without her, and the guilt that would haunt ’Lyss for the rest of her life. Already she felt the public embarrassment of being a victim.

How bad would she be hurt if she threw herself out the door at 85 mph? No, they wouldn’t allow that to happen. The alarm would sound the moment she unbuckled her seatbelt and Buzz-Cut would fry her ass as promised.

After a lengthy and silent drive through the city, Glasses pulled into the parking lot of a large, squat, brick building with no sign or markings. Several cars were parked in the ample lot. Considering that the Mob had run Las Vegas since Bugsy Seigel, hope faded with every passing second. Maybe a bullet to the head and dumped in the desert? An instant death would be best. Maybe they’d take her for a swim in cement shoes, an oldie but goodie. Not the best way to die but at least it was better than being kept for slavery or prostitution.

Rachael allowed herself to be handily escorted inside the building, then into an interrogation room consisting of three chairs and a table. The overhead window was barred. Even so, Rachael could saw that it was one-inch bullet resistant glass. Air conditioners hummed, forcing a chilling draft upon her.

Glasses and Buzz-Cut left her for a period of time. Returning, they settled into the chairs across from her. Both men silently appraised her and Rachael answered with an unwavering glare.

Glasses was first to speak. “This interview is being recorded. This isn’t how I wanted to introduce ourselves, but you gave us no choice.”

“You gave me no choice.”

Presenting their IDs, Rachael saw they were FBI, Undercover and Special Operations Unit. Buzz Cut’s name was Special Agent Booker Unger and Glasses was Special Agent Galen Silla. The fact that she was in custody of the Feds didn’t ease her mind. At least if it was the Mob, then theoretically the police could protect her, or at least look for her body. There was no protection against the Government and her death would be a sanctioned coverup.

“You pack a helluva punch,” Galen said, casting a sarcastic glance at Booker.

“What do you expect? You didn’t identified yourselves.”

“Nor are we required to. Moving along, we need to ask you a few questions.”

“Fine. You have my undivided attention.”

“Last night, you met a man in a bar,” Galen said.

“No, I didn’t meet anyone. I helped some nameless drunk out of the bar and waited for the cops to haul him away. That’s all. Period.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not all. Can I get you something to drink? Pop? Water?”

“Trying to sneak some DNA?”

Galen flickered a condescending smile. “Hardly. I know you’re not happy with us, but you did assault a federal officer.”

“Not being happy’s an understatement. I’m infuriated with you and your strong arm tactics, so go ahead, press assault charges. Good luck getting that past a thousand lawyers.”

“Rachael, please,” Galen said leaning on the table. “You have no idea how grave the situation is. Did Kian - the man you met in the bar last night - say anything to you?”

“Yeah, he said a lot and none of it made any sense. He was drunker than shit and passed out, so yeah, he talked.”

“And..?”

“And what? He was pissed off at some cops. He said it’s all about money, and he’s done with it. Washed up. No longer a part of it. Can’t do it anymore.”

“What can’t he do?”

“I have no idea but I got the impression it was the shit-end of a bad deal. I thought he was suicidal, so I stayed with him until the cops hauled him off.”

“And that was all? Nothing more?”

“That was all. Nothing more. Are we done here?”

Galen sat thoughtfully, taking his glasses off to wipe them. Booker sat silent with his eyes locked on her.

“Can you tell us how you happened to be in that particular bar last night?” Galen said, putting his glasses back on.

“My friend is attending the National Lawyers Conference. You know, the thousand lawyers I previously mentioned? She had two tickets to a play. The play was terrible, so we were killing time while waiting for our bus.” She let that sink. “I’ve had a craving for a Bloody Mary since Monday. Not just any Bloody Mary, a specific one, and I saw a waitress with that exact drink. Two seats at the bar were available, one of which was next to Kian, your drunk.”

“So your being there was simply coincidence?”

“Call it that.”

“And all he talked about were cops, and not being able to continue doing whatever it was he was did.”

“That’s all.”

“Is there anything else you can think of? Anything you might have seen or heard, no matter how insignificant it might seem?”

Taking him at his word and hoping that a full disclosure would end their little session, Rachael described as best she could the play, attendees, lounge patrons and staff, the piano band, gamblers who caught her eye, the wandering tourists and shoppers. To their credit, Booker and Galen patiently listened.

“Then there was one guy who came out of the lounge while I was waiting for the cops. He had hard eyes. A hard look. A round but narrow face if that makes any sense, blue collar type man. We made eye contact then he hurried off. There was something odd about the way he acted, but I blew it off.”

“Shotgun?” Booker whispered as he and Galen exchanged looks.

“Get a photo,” Galen told him.

Rachael reclined in her chair, extended her legs under the table to wait. Five minutes later Booker returned with a photo in hand.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Rachael said, taking a quick glance and handing it back.

Galen cursed, removed his glasses and needlessly wiped them.

“Ask if Kian mentioned that place to her,” he told Booker as he put his glasses back on.

“No.”

“We don’t know when or where, and we have nothing to go on.”

“Why not ask this Kian person yourself?” Rachael said.

Galen’s reproachful look was answer enough.

“We don’t have time to screw around,” he said to Booker.

Booker scowled and pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of his jacket, handed it to Rachael.

“Did Kian mention this place?”

The scribbling was barely legible. “Lugar de Arcilla Blanca,” she read then handed it back. “The Place of White Clay, or White Clay Place. I know where it is. My People have a different name for it, but I know the place.”

“Can you show us on a map? You’ll be doing your government a great service.”

“I don’t give a whit about your government on my best day, and this is far from being my best day. Furthermore, I openly disdain the political mafia you represent. In my opinion, Washington and Hollywood are the cesspool of American society and I trust nothing that comes from either. So no, I don’t give a damn about helping your government.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But please, if we show you a map, can you at least point out this white clay place?”

His conciliatory tone accomplished what he had hoped and Rachael answered, “I’ll do that. Then you will take me back to the hotel.”

“Show us where it is, and we will take you back.”

“First things first. I gotta pee. I’ll also take you up on your previous offer. Get me a coffee and make it a good cup, not cheap slop water.”

Galen escorted her to the Women’s room while Booker addressed her request for coffee. From there, she was taken to a large conference room with over a dozen men and women seated around the table. Roughly half were FBI SWAT dressed in black. The others were professional-looking in muted suits and dresses. All sat mutely staring at her.

“Please, have a seat,” Galen said, indicating an empty chair. Belittled in front of those present, Booker gently set her coffee before her.

“This is Rachael Winterhawk,” Galen said, as Booker took his seat. “She is providing us with local Intel. Rachael, this is our SWAT and CIRG team. You’re all fully aware of the situation, so I’ll let Rachael take it from here.”

Nodding curtly, Rachael took a sip. The coffee was very good. Taking a tissue from a nearby box, she dabbed her forehead and neck of nervous perspiration.

With a deep breath, Rachael took stock of her audience, then began by asking Galen to pull up a satellite image of Clark county. Galen brought the projector to life, handed her a laser pointer, then logged onto a laptop which gave her time to collect her thoughts. Moments later a satellite image appeared on the wall.

“Lugar de Arcilla Blanca, the place of white clay. This area,” she said, circling a mountainous region south of I-11 with her pointer. “It’s an arroyo of pure white clay that my ancestors used for face and body painting. We still hold small ceremonies there. There’s a handful of abandoned homesteads and farms scattered around the mountains and desert. This,” she said indicating an abandoned facility, “is an abandoned cement factory.”

“How can you be so sure?” Said a severe-looking woman, one of the CIRG members.

“I grew up in this part of the country,” Rachael said. Indicating a box canyon roughly five miles distant, she continued. “The box canyon ends with a ten-acre meadow where my People hold ceremonies. The main road passes the cement factory but it’s a rough, gravel road, and it’s the only way in or out.”

“I see that the road continues northeast. That’s a way in and out,” said a short, balding man from the CIRG team.

“Only on ATV or smaller, such as dirt bike or horseback. The California earthquake in ’99 sent a lot of rock and boulders down onto the road. Since the road was already abandoned, the debris was never cleared.”

“Maybe it’s been cleared since you were there.”

“Hardly. I was there four years ago. There’s no reason anyone would go to the expense of clearing an abandoned road that leads nowhere. As you can see, the road meanders into the mountains before ending in a series of trails.”

“Any questions?” Galen said.

“I appreciate Ms. Winterhawk’s assistance,” one of the CIRG men said. “But we need to send in a team to verify that what she is telling us is correct. With all due respect, we can’t just take her word for it, and this satellite image is a couple of years old.”

“The road goes nowhere.” Rachael said. “If anyone takes any of the trails, it’s eight or ten miles of rough country before they come to any kind of driveable road. They’ll be more likely to get lost than find their way out.”

“Not to be dismissive, but we’re the experts in these types of operations. If anyone gets into those mountains, there’s probably caves or places to hide.”

“Well, not to be dismissive, but I spent half my childhood running barefoot through these mountains. Sure, they could make it out but it would be tough. Once they do make it to this dirt road here,” she said, indicating with the pointer, “it’s another fifteen miles to pavement. Twenty after that to the first house. But, as you said, you’re the expert. Do what you want.”

“This location makes no sense. I don’t believe Kian was on the level, and he’s not talking,” Booker said.

“It’s the only thing we have to go on,” said the stern looking CIRG woman.

“It’s not enough. We back off and regroup.”

“And potentially lose more children. No. Ms. Winterhawk, what are your thoughts?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rachael said. “I’m just telling you, this is the place that was written down on the note that was showed to me. There’s an abandoned cement factory that was built solely for the Hoover Dam construction. The mountains are rugged and are only used by off-roaders and hunters. That’s all I can say with what little I know.”

“I think we need to discuss this further,” Galen said. “Rachael, will you come with me?”

Rachael was led to a comfortable office. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay for a little bit longer,” Galen said. “Can I get you anything?”

“My cell phone. I need to check in or people are going to start looking for me.”

“Be sure that you don’t divulge any information.”

“Yeah, like I know what’s going on.”

Rachael’s first call went to ’Lyss, where she left a message that she wouldn’t be back until tonight. Her next call went to Mark. He wasn’t so easily convinced, but she eventually persuaded him that she was enjoying herself and no need to worry.

Rachael sat staring out the window in boredom when Booker stepped into the office.

“Ms. Winterhawk?” He said, closing the door behind him. “We’ve already asked too much of you, but... Kian’s cell phone received a text not long ago. He has a meeting with Shotgun - the man you saw last night - at five o’clock this afternoon to arrange the next transfer.”

“The next transfer..?”

“Children. Abducted children.”

Rachael locked eyes onto him with growing apprehension.

“The team has already discussed this. Shotgun has seen you and knows that you are somehow associated with Kian. Certainly not in the way he imagines, but we have no other options. There is no way we can introduce him to a complete stranger this late in the game. We would like you to meet with him. It’s a risk, but we will have people in place to ensure your safety. You’ll be wearing a wire.”

She licked her lips nervously.

“We don’t ask this of civilians, but we’re in a very bad place right now.”

“Informants are civilians, aren’t they?”

“This is different. We don’t pull civilians off the street and put them in harm’s way.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll give you a script and new identity. All you need to do is find out when and where it’s taking place.”

“How simple,” she said sarcastically.

“As I said, we’ll have people in place. You don’t have to do anything that you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I’ve been uncomfortable ever since you kidnapped me.”

His eyes were hard, yet pleading.

“If I do this, I need to know what’s going on.”

“He won’t have questions that you can’t answer from the script. This is a quick and dirty meeting that’s likely to catch him off guard, and Shotgun is the type of person who follows orders and absolves himself of all responsibility. Meaning, he’s not going to take ownership of this meeting.”

“Meaning, he won’t be questioning me extensively?”

“That’s correct. I can’t tell you any more at this time, but once he sees you in person, he’s not going to care who and what you are.”

“I don’t like it,” Rachael said. “But okay, I’ll do it.”

He regarded her for a moment before asking, “I thought you'd put up more of a fight. Why are you so willing to put yourself at risk?”

“You seem surprised. No, I’m not willing and it’s the last thing I want to do. But it’s something I have to do.”

“Are sure you’re okay with this? It will take a little bit of acting on your part.”

“Naturally.”

He heaved a sigh. “I’ll get your script. Your name is now Chloe Moon.”

It took some time to braid the wire into her hair and Rachael - Chloe - was given a Dutch side braid that allowed the mic to hang close to her mouth. After thoroughly testing the device, Galen drove her and two SWAT members to the mall where the meeting was to occur. Rachael estimated that the two women, a blonde and a brunette both heavily armored and armed, to be in their late 20s or early 30s.

Staring out the window as Galen drove through seemingly endless neighborhoods of pale, beige stucco and adobe homes, all with barred doors and windows, Rachael recited the script, putting herself in the mindset of Chloe Moon. Chloe Moon, Kian’s sometimes-girlfriend and heavily involved in other illicit activities that didn’t - yet, anyway - involve human trafficking. According to the script, California got too hot for her and she had to leave the state for a period of time, and coincidentally, just happened to run into Kian last night. Ready to rekindle their on-again-off-again relationship, as it were.

But if that was the case, how could she explain hauling Kian out of the bar and waiting for the cops? After all, Shotgun sitting inside was watching the whole thing. And why didn’t they arrest her - Chloe - when they took down her contact information?

The more she embraced the character Chloe Moon, the more trite it seemed. Undoubtedly they had altered the script at the last moment to explain last night and in her mind, the Feds hadn’t thought it out thoroughly. Rachael didn’t see how she could pull it off.

Eventually businesses began appearing sporadically, all, as with the homes, were barred with iron grating. The area improved as businesses became more plentiful. Their destination was a business park that Galen circled twice before letting Rachael out of the car, half a mile away.

“We already have men in position, and I’m here to pick you up if there’s a problem. Ready?”

Rachael gave a curt nod and climbed out of the vehicle’s controlled climate, into the dry desert air stuffy with the thick odor of exhaust and humanity. Mentally, she was quick on her feet, but what if this Shotgun person started pumping her for information? They said he wouldn’t. Chloe Moon was a one-dimensional story that wouldn’t bear scrutiny and she feared it would lead to questions that she couldn’t credibly answer.

Crossing the street, Rachael veered to an empty back lot where the meeting was to occur. She swept the empty lot nervously. Maybe Shotgun was suspicious and decided not to show, she hoped. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go through with this after all. On the other hand, what about the kids? What if those kids died, or worse, because someone screwed up? Because she screwed up? Traffickers were merciless. They had to be in order to do this to children. Not children, a commodity.

Rachael glanced nervously at her watch. Two minutes to go.

Her wait didn’t last long. A silver Escalade slowly rounded the corner of a distant building and cruised across the parking lot. Shotgun was expecting Kian, not her. Maybe they would gun her down and drive off. Was the FBI really protecting her? After all, she was the government’s commodity just as the children were the traffickers’ and neither special agents Booker or Galen would lose any sleep over her demise. They already had contingencies in place for that.

The car crawled to a stop before her. Shotgun stepped out and brushed his shirt aside to reveal a .45 Auto tucked in his waistband.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

Rachael hesitated. She never saw the head slap that knocked her against the vehicle. Her shoulders hit the molding, sending a jarring pain down her back. Pain flared across her face and lights danced in her eyes.

“I won’t ask again,” he said. Digging his hand into her pocket, he pulled out her wallet.

Rachael unbuttoned her shirt and spread it open.

“Chloe Moon, huh?” He said as he inspected her body. “Kian never mentioned you.”

“He never mentioned you either. My wallet?” She said extending her hand, trying hard to ignore the slap-burn on her face and sharp pain running down her back.

Shotgun grabbed her arm and spun her against the vehicle, pinning her against the vehicle’s hot exterior with one hand and pulled the back of her shirt up past her shoulders.

“Okay. I guess you’re clean. Get in.”

She quickly complied to avoid further abuse. Shotgun dropped into the seat beside her and tossed her walled onto her lap, then ground the muzzle of his .45 Auto into her temple.

“What’s your thing with Kian?”

“We have a complex relationship.” One slip of the finger, one twitch of anger and her brains would paint the car window red. Would it hurt? Or would she be gone in a moment of shock? She’d heard that people who’ve been beheaded were still conscious for moments afterwards, did the same happen when your brains were blown out?

“We were supposed to meet," Rachael said without thinking. "Maybe he was going to introduce us.”

“Hardly. What’d he say?”

“Nothing, really. You saw the condition he was in, nothing made sense. All he did was name where...”

“Shut up! You never know whose listening, stupid bitch!”

“It’s a big area and I need to know exactly where!”

“There’s only one place and if you ain’t smart enough to figure it out, then you ain’t smart enough to drive for us. So why’d you turned Kian over to the cops, and you’d damn well better be straight with me.”

“Yeah, I tuned him over,” Rachael fired back. “The bartender had already called the cops and they were on their way. What do you think would happen if they went in and dragged him out? Maybe Kian sees you and yells something he shouldn’t. Maybe a cop recognizes you sitting there with your thumb up your ass. I did you a favor by getting him out and it didn’t change anything that wasn’t already going to happen. Capisce?”

He stared into her eyes, digesting what she had said, looking for an excuse to knock her around some more.

“Kian lost it. He cracked.” Rachael continued. “That means you deal with me or find someone else.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“And I don’t know you and that’s how it needs to be. Or you do you call it off?”

“We got a schedule to keep, you know that.”

“Fine. Then give me some details.”

“Kian didn’t tell you?”

“Of course not! Shit, buddy, ain’t you been listening to me?”

“Don’t get smart with me, bitch. You’re gonna be driving sixteen.”

“Where?”

“We’ll tell you when you need to know. Ten o’clock tonight, and don’t be late.”

“Then look for me in a conversion van.”

“Whatever. If you’re not driving it - alone - a lot of people will have the worst day of their short little lives including you. Get my drift?”

Part 1 - Las Vegas

The crisp, early morning breeze penetrated Rachael’s loosely woven sweater, fingered her long black hair, and caressed her exposed legs. Savoring the cup of steaming coffee nestled in her hands, deep in thought, she endured the morning’s invigorating breath while Sally, their Chocolate Lab, snuffled the multitude of scents that had deposited on the deck overnight. Aside from her long, drawn-out huffling and the white noise of city traffic, all was silent.

It hadn’t been spring’s ambiance that brought her outside that particular Monday morning, rather, a deep sense of pensiveness from the cry that had awakened her last night. Not the squall of a sick child, the scream of one frightened, nor the angry bawl of a tantrum. No, this was a long, piercing shriek that knifed her very soul and screamed in her ears. Silenced the moment she awoke, it left her wondering whether it had been audible, mental, or spiritual.

Rachael lay in bed staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, heart hammering her chest and pounding her temples while Mark lay next to her sleeping soundly. A tear slid down the side of her face. Her breath came quick and shallow from the image invoked by the long wail of desperation, of hopelessness, a spirit ripped of innocence and then of life. A small boy with short black hair, wearing a blue and white striped T-shirt, khaki cutoffs from which spindly legs protruded, tattered leather shoes, and lying on... she couldn’t tell. His eyes locked onto her with a final, desperate plea.

Rachael had climbed out of bed and descended the darkened stairs carefully, not trusting her balance. She stood on the front steps listening, wiping cold trickles of tears from her face. When night’s chill drove her inside, she moved to the back deck. It had taken her hours to go back to sleep, from which she awoke time and again in a state of panic.

She remained in bed as Mark rose, dressed, and went to work. Listening to his every move as he made a fried egg sandwich - two eggs, on of which served as Sally’s appetizer - then filled his travel mug with coffee and left through the front door. His police issued RAV 4 started up and she listened to him drive away. Meanwhile, Anna and Dakota rose, made small talk as they got ready for school, had a bowl of cereal each and from the lapping sounds, the leftover milk served as Sally’s second appetizer. Then hurried out to catch the bus. Anna had completed driver’s ed but they were still working out the details of her car, which, in her opinion, was taking far too long. Dakota had already picked his car, but Rachael knew that he wasn’t ready for the horsepower he wanted. That would be a fight in the making.

The cry came again with such suddenness that Rachael startled, slopping her coffee. Adrenaline sent her heart into rapid, staccato beats, her throat tightened. This was no latent memory or figment of her imagination, she heard it just as clearly as last night and it went on, and on. Then, as with last night, suddenly and forcefully silenced. She glanced at Sally for affirmation, but the ever-attentive Lab went about her business uninterrupted.

A cold gust of wind nudged her,and dormant shrubbery rattled to get her attention. Scraps of garbage and empty sacks flew across the grassy common area. Sally lifted her nose and sifted through the myriad of scents before turning and giving Rachael a puzzled look. Her coffee turned cold and bitter, acidic with aftertaste.

Time to go inside.

She had two hours to shower, dress, and feed Sally before ’Lyss, or Alyssa, picked her up for their road trip. All things considered, it would do well to keep herself occupied.

Until last night, Rachael had been anticipating the next few days of lounging in the warm Nevada sun and doing nothing other than eating, drinking, and being as lazy as she dared. Now staring at herself in the window’s reflection, she found herself at a dubious crossroads. That was the problem with the spirits: they offered insight without guidance. She oftentimes didn’t know whether she was running into a situation or from it, but then again, that may be as intended.

“Spoiled brat,” Rachael lightly scolded Sally, who positioned herself at her feet demanding breakfast. What a blessing to be a carefree animal.

To Sally’s dog food, Rachael added several slices of roast beef that wouldn’t survive another day, then stood surveying the refrigerator’s contents as the Lab greedily wolfed down her food. The well-stocked fridge contained nothing appetizing. What she really wanted was a Bloody Mary. Maybe two. After all, it was an acceptable breakfast drink and the pulpy, spicy, tomato juice filled her as fully as a plate of ham and eggs. Unfortunately, if she wanted one, it would have to be made from scratch since there was no mix in the house, and unless she wanted it virgin, she’d have to use the Devil’s Cut bourbon Mark used for cooking Pheasant and grouse. Had there even been Vodka in the house, Rachael didn’t want just any Bloody Mary. It had to be the perfect Bloody Mary, spicy enough to offer a solid burn, and garnished with shrimp, bacon, sweet gherkins, garlic-stuffed olives, celery, and pickled asparagus. A tall glass of decadent, deep scarlet elixir infused with a salad of condiments.

Sighing with disappointment, she mounted the stairs to shower and dress. Although ’Lyss was in no hurry, she didn’t want her best friend to wait just because she couldn’t get her act together.

Six weeks ago, ‘Lyss invited Rachael on a trip to Las Vegas where she would be free to enjoy all that Sin City had to offer, while ‘Lyss attended the National Lawyers Conference. As her guest, Rachael would accompany ’Lyss to socials, dinners, and events. Registration was at noon tomorrow, followed by an afternoon meet-and-greet. Rather than leaving at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning, they decided to leave today and spend the night with Rachael’s parents in Ivins, which was a little over half way.

Rachael showered and dressed for comfort. Their formal evening gowns and business attire were already hanging in the back seat of Alyssa’s car.

’Lyss, or Alyssa, was Larry’s beautifully curvaceous wife with an even more stunning personality. Standing a couple inches shorter than Rachael, whose lean shapely figure spoke of her earlier racing and modeling careers, the two turned heads when out in public. Husbands Mark and Larry worked in the same precinct where Mark was detective and Larry a lieutenant. Both men were senseis in the same karate club, often hunted together, and did all sorts of man-things that didn’t make sense to Rachael. Tucker, ’Lyss and Larry’s only child, was a year behind Dakota and three behind Anna.

Rachael climbed into Alyssa’s Cadillac CT6 after stowing her luggage in the trunk. Small talk carried them through the city and once they began their southbound journey on I-15, Rachael asked about the children living in their gated community, even though she knew all the kids through Anna and Dakota.

“I know Doreen has two kids, but they’re three and four. Renee and Pete have a boy who’s graduating. Why?”

“I heard a little boy screaming in the middle of the night.” Rachael forced herself to admit. “Maybe six or seven years old, I guess. I heard it again this morning while I was having coffee.”

“What do you mean, ‘was’ about six or seven?”

“Did I say that?”

“Past tense, honey. Maybe someone’s babysitting a kid.”

“Maybe. It didn’t feel like it, though.”

“The Funks have three kids about that age, five, seven and eight, but I saw them catch the school bus. There’s a couple of families on the opposite side with kids about that age, but that would be too far away to hear.”

Rachael sat unresponsive.

“You’re not having another one of ‘those’, are you?”

Rachael continued staring ahead.

“If we need to go back...”

“Oh heavens, no! Don’t even think of it.”

“Well then, I don’t know what else to say, except ask Larry or Mark to have a looky-loo.”

“No. I’d hate to make a fool out of myself. Besides, it may not have happened yet.”

“Wishful thinking?”

“Hardly. I’d rather know about something that’s already happened, rather than worry about what to do when it does. I just hope I’m not jinxing our trip.”

’Lyss gave Rachael a critical look. “Is this the first time you heard it?”

“Yeah. It hit me last night. And I mean hit.”

“You said it was a boy, did you see anything or just hear him?”

Rachael described her vision, softly adding, “I think he died. I think I was with him when he did.”

“Damn. That’s never happened before.”

“No. Not like this. They’re never this obvious, they’re always more cryptic. Not as graphic.”

“Why would this different?”

Rachael shook her head. “Impact? Making sure it was nothing I could explain away or brush off, maybe?”

“Still, if you think we need to go back.”

“No, we’re going on this trip. I’m hungry,” Rachael said, changing the subject. “I couldn’t eat anything.”

“If you’re sure about it. Let’s stop in Provo for an early lunch. We won’t be in Ivins until one or two this afternoon and I’m already famished.”

“Good idea.”

Following lunch, the drive to Ivins passed quickly. Although they were neighbors and best of friends, Rachael and ’Lyss didn’t spent a great deal of time together, occasionally going weeks without talking. To be sure, they shopped together, met for an occasional lunch or dinner, and worked out in the same Yoga class at the community clubhouse when it fit their schedules. Other than that, they lived separate lives which, when they came together such as this, the conversation flowed.

’Lyss pulled into the driveway of a manicured adobe house and Rachael speculated, as she always did, on how small it really was. As a child it seemed palatial when in reality, it was a simple three bedroom, one bath home that set on an acre of land. Behind a large lawn that was only now starting to green up from the winter, set an even larger garden area. Every year, as far back as Rachael could remember, they planted peppers, chilies, corn, pole beans, squash, a few melons, and a large patch of tomatoes.

The master bedroom was not large, but seemed so in comparison to the two small bedrooms that Rachael and her two sisters once shared. Ellen, the oldest, had a bedroom to herself while Rachael and Cara shared the room with bunk beds. When Ellen left home, Rachael as the next oldest moved into it, then finally Cara, when Rachael moved out. Their parents now kept the bunk beds for visiting grandchildren.

‘Lyss had no more pulled into the driveway when Cara slung the front door open. Of the three, she was the most animated and wore her heart on her sleeve. Round face beaming with joy, short black braid bouncing on her shoulders, she all but ran to greet Rachael. Cara stood several inches shorter and had a more matronly figure and was, in Rachael’s opinion, the more beautiful of the three sisters. Yvette, Rachael’s mom, followed. Her long salt and pepper hair glistened with a silky quality under the bright afternoon sun, and Rachael noticed that her face had weathered a little more since her last visit. She embraced ’Lyss warmly as Cara and Rachael stood clamped together in a hug, as though it had been years, not months, since they had last seen each other.

Casting aside Rachael and Alyssa’s obligatory protests, Yvette and Cara brought in their luggage.

“I’m sorry you missed your dad,” Yvette said. “He and Dwight are looking for a couple of horses over at Jacobs Fork.”

“Whose?”

“They’re ours,” Cara said. “A flash flood took out a section of fence and the two paints in the east pasture got out. Dad went with Dwight and the kids to find them. Rache, it’s so good to see you!” She said, giving Rachael’s hand another squeeze.

“You too, sis. How’s everyone doing?”

“Couldn’t be better. We’ll have to get together this summer for a reunion, just the immediate family.”

“Perfect. But you know it’s never ‘just the immediate family’,” Rachael reminded her.

“Semantics. I’ll start planning.”

Once they were settled in and the excitement abated, Yvette offered to show ’Lyss her weaving room.

“I would love to see it,” Alyssa said, adding with a hint of playful sarcasm, “Rachael’s told me about it but apparently somebody isn’t willing to take pictures.”

“Pictures. Phaw! Come and see for yourself. We’re in the middle of spring break and the tourists over in St. George are thicker than flies. It happens every year but of course, I’m never ready.”

Leading them into a workroom that had been skillfully added onto the back of the house, one would think from looking at it, that it had been part of the original build. Large tinted windows and a skylight let in ample light and offered a nice view of the back yard, garden, and hillside beyond. A large loom held a half-finished woolen blanket while four beautifully finished blankets set folded on a table next to several large bags of wool skeins.

“Those are beautiful!” Alyssa exclaimed.

“I’ve been busy weaving blankets and ponchos so I’m getting low on yarn. If you have time, maybe tomorrow we can go over to Mitzi’s and pick up some wool she just finished dying for me.”

“We’d love to,” Rachael said, “but ’Lyss needs to be in Las Vegas by noon,”

“A lawyer’s conference, didn’t you say? What are you going to do while ’Lyss is conferencing?”

“Being lazy.”

“You be careful, the city’s changed a lot since you were a kid.”

“It hasn’t changed that much, mom.”

“More dangerous now. It was safer when the Mob ran things. They made the rules and enforced them. Now, all that’s on the news now are robberies, rapes and murders, and that’s only what gets reported.”

“Mom, I’ll be fine. I grew up here, remember?”

“You’ve also been away for a long time. Remember?”

Rachael awoke the following morning heavy with nostalgia. Her old bed was still comfortably uncomfortable, and fresh dewy air still wafted through the open window overhead, carrying the fragrance of the desert and chirps of nearby quail. The sharp aroma of coffee gradually filtered through the house, and the muted conversation from the kitchen could have been her mom and sisters from long ago. When the savory aroma of potatoes, sausage and eggs reached her, Rachael reluctantly climbed out of bed and made her way to the kitchen, where ‘Lyss sat at the table over a cup of coffee while Yvette busied herself at the stove. Her mom resolutely rejected Rachael’s offer to help, treating her as a guest rather than family. Pouring a mug of coffee, she joined ’Lyss at the table.

Roughly two hours of drive time to Las Vegas, then another hour negotiation city traffic put them at the convention center in the midst of registration. More than a convention center, it was a European style community surrounding a small manmade lake. Central to the community were meeting rooms, lounges, restaurants, and casinos. A small indoor mall contained various shops and a tiny grocery store. With three gyms and two swimming pools, the village was essentially self-contained, as was the intent.

“You can hang out, explore, have fun, whatever you want,” ’Lyss said as they unpacked. The third floor room was beautiful and had a small balcony offering a great view of the manmade lake ringed with a white sand beach.

“I need to register and then there’s the opening session this afternoon, but I should be back by four o’clock. I was planning on attending the meet-and-greet this evening, if you want to go.”

“Absolutely.”

“You haven’t heard the little boy again, have you?” ’Lyss cautiously asked.

“No, not a sound.”

“Maybe it’s over? Maybe it won’t happen, then?”

Rachael shook her head. “Not a chance. I still feel it out there. But forget about it, I’m here to have fun.”

Rachael walked ’Lyss to the convention center then wandered through the shops and community to familiarize herself with her surroundings. Returning to the room, she slipped into her swimsuit and threw on a coverup before hitting the gym and then doing a half-mile of laps in the larger of the two pools.

Relaxed, she took a short nap and was lounging on the room’s tiny balcony with a novel when ’Lyss returned.

“Rache?” She called.

“Out here.”

“Hey lady, how was your afternoon? Any more about your premonitions?”

“Yes, it was wonderful, and no, not a single supernatural occurrence. How was yours?”

“Great. I have your visitor pass for tonight’s social which starts in a couple of hours. It’s business casual. Also, we won’t need to worry about dinner since there’s promised to be tables of decadent hors d’oeuvrs and desserts. I also got two discount tickets for tomorrow night’s show, which is playing just off the Strip. They say it received rave reviews back east.”

“Lady, you are spoiling me.”

“You and me both.”

Rachael’s apprehension faded as she meandered through the crowd of lawyers, enjoying a variety of foods, many of which she hadn’t seen since her days of modeling. Food she hadn’t been allowed to eat. Along with three types of pepper bruschetta and four versions of scallops, Rachael was introduced to baked oysters, Asian duck salad wonton cups, shrimp shooters with mango sauce, and a dozen or more appetizers she couldn’t identify. Wines, liquors and beers were readily available and tables of desserts including chocolate truffles topped with edible gold leaf, mint chocolate eclairs, miniature bundt cakes drizzled with European chocolate, which she considered far superior to American chocolate, white chocolate spheres, and the list went on.

Still, her quest for the perfect Bloody Mary continued. Disappointed by what were otherwise excellent drinks, Rachael left her half-finished glass on the bar and wandered, attuned to passing conversations.

Drawn into a discussion among lawyers specializing in engineering, Rachael was able to talk intelligently on the subject and from then on, the evening flew by.

Rising quietly the following morning with the little boy’s cry on her mind, Rachael pulled on her swimsuit and coverup, and went for an early morning swim. She returned to find Alyssa still sleeping, so she dressed and made her way across the bridge spanning the small lake to the convention center. The aroma of breakfast keened her hunger but she resisted, opting for a large coffee. A continental breakfast of fruit, fresh baked pastries, mini quiches, and bowls of protein bars were set for attendees, however Rachael decided she could wait until Alyssa joined her.

With Wednesday being the first full day of conferencing, ‘Lyss spent it attending sessions, lectures and debates. Thursday, however, promised to be relatively open since the only session ’Lyss planned on attending was a birds-of-a-feather roundtable. Rachael invited her to go sunbathing, insisting that she needed at least half-a-day of vacay.

“Besides,” Rachael coaxed with a smile, “there’s a few hot guys strutting their stuff around.”

“What will Mark say when he finds out you spent the week scoping out other men?”

“He’ll never know. I’m the one with ESP, remember? Besides, who says men are the only ones that can look?”

“Lady,” Alyssa chastised, “are you telling me that it only took one day to corrupt you? Maybe I should send you back on a bus before you get us both in trouble.”

“It’s not like I’m watching them in a sexual sense of the word. It’s more like... appreciating their physique, the way I appreciate a well-designed building.”

’Lyss gave her a sidewise look and said, “Evaluating their structure, no doubt.”

“So what do you say?”

“Fine, but I want you wearing sunglasses. I don’t want to be embarrassed, or worse, give someone the wrong idea.”

“I’d never embarrass you.”

“Right. Where have I heard that before?”

Following breakfast, Rachael spent the day being a good girl, in her opinion anyway. She spoke with Mark twice, shopped for trinkets, relaxed with a novel, then joined Alyssa for lunch. Her afternoon was spent working out, swimming, and taking a long, luxurious nap. Thoroughly refreshed, she met Alyssa and three colleagues for dinner before returning to their room to shower and change into formal attire, then climb onto one of two tour busses commissioned to take the group to the acclaimed play.

Their destination was not far off the Strip, a collection of four buildings interconnected by glass breezeways. The main entrance consisted of a lobby, 24-7 fashion shops, a runway for shows, and piano bar. They took the left breezeway to the theater. The middle led to a night club, and the right to a casino.

Rachael and ’Lyss entered a darkened, intimate chamber along with roughly one hundred other conference attendees, all in suits and evening gowns. Deep purple drapery hung from the walls and the four sections of seating looked down upon a theater in the round. By the time the show began, the theater was at its 160-person capacity.

The play had been given rave reviews and was three weeks into a four-month Las Vegas venue. Waiting for it to begin, Rachael scanned the program and wondered why, if it was such an acclaimed production, they weren’t playing in one of the large auditoriums on the Strip. The answer came once it began, and Rachael quickly lost all interest in the production. The first half was tortuously slow and more than once, she resisted the urge to walk out. Neither was ’Lyss enthralled, as her eyes roved about the audience and she reread the program time and time again.

“What do you think?” Rachael said as they exited the chamber for a fifteen minute intermission.

“Let’s just say it’s not my cup of tea.”

“I don’t know if it’s a play, a concert, or a light show, but whatever it is, it makes absolutely no sense to me. I can’t go back in there for Act Two.”

“That makes two of us. We could call a taxi, but I don’t think we want to fork out sixty or seventy dollars when we have a free bus ride. Do you want to do a little gambling?”

“No. I’m too antsy to sit in front of a slot machine. Besides, they’re not fun anymore, not since they began spitting out tickets instead of change. It just doesn’t have the same allure.”

“There’s always Blackjack, or Craps.”

“Craps is Mark’s game. I wouldn’t mind playing Blackjack, but just try to find a table for a buck a hand. I mean, I almost always win with a single deck but I’m still not forking out ten or twenty bucks a hand. And those are the cheap tables. Sorry to be such a stick-in-the-mud, but I don’t feel like myself tonight.”

“You’re not sick are you?” ’Lyss said with concern showing in her eyes.

“No, it’s not that. I’m on edge, jittery.”

“Let’s do some window shopping.”

“Sorry for being such a pain in the ass,” Rachael said, her eyes wandering. “I’m probably not much fun.”

Taking her arm, ’Lyss said, “lady, don’t even think about it. Now, if you insisted on watching the second half of the play, then I would say you were a pain in the ass.”

Returning to the main entrance, they had a chance to look more closely at the small indoor mall of high fashion shops. The runway was closed until Mother’s Day, but still displayed posters from last Valentine’s Day lingerie show. Across the lobby-slash-sitting area set the cocktail bar that, despite it’s neon lighting, was dark and crowded. A rumble of conversation provided background for a piano band set up on a small stage playing ballads sung by an older woman. While she couldn’t be called a good singer, her untrained voice gave the songs a rustic, folksy blues timbre.

Waitresses in revealing outfits delivered trays of drinks and finger foods while two bartenders serviced the bar and kept the drinks coming. In the back corner, three tables had been pulled together where a group of raucous, inebriated college students sat laughing and shouting to one another.

“Should we surprise our men with new teddies?” Alyssa said, pausing before several scantily clad mannequins.

“That would be a waste of money. Mine wouldn’t stay on long enough for Mark to appreciate it.”

Laughing, ’Lyss pointed to a statuesque Adonis with a large bulge between his legs. “Then how about surprising them with an easy access thong?”

“That’s an idea. I can see Mark hanging out of both sides,” Rachael said with a chuckle.

“That’s the point, but it’d be embarrassing if the kids found it. Or worse, their friends. Can you imagine finding your parents’ sex paraphernalia?”

“That’s not a pretty sight.”

Turning around, they headed back towards the cocktail bar when Rachael lurched to a halt and grabbed Alyssa’s arm.

“There!”

“What, what, where?”

“That’s it! See?” Rachael said, pointing to the lounge.

“Honey, I’m looking but I’m not seeing.”

“That’s the Bloody Mary I’ve been craving all week! See? The waitress there?”

“What in the world has gotten into you?”

“Come on,” Rachael said, leading her to the lounge.

“Rache..? What is up with you?”

“I’ve been craving that exact Bloody Mary since Monday. You don’t have to join me but there’s nothing else to do until the show lets out.”

“Okay then, just one drink. Okay?”

“That’s all I want, just one. There, at the bar. Two seats together.”

Of the only two contiguous empty seats, a young man on the verge of passing out sat next to one. Unkempt fuzz coated his chin and he had the unappealingly gauntness of an addict. He sat quietly, morosely regarding his shot of tequila. Next to the other open seat sat a young woman wearing dramatic makeup, grossed in intimate conversation with another young woman, both of whom wore semi-transparent, form fitting dresses.

“Fine,” Alyssa said, “but you’re sitting next to the drunk.”

Perching themselves on the bar stools, Rachael gave a passing smile to the man who regarded her with unseeing eyes.

“What’ll it be?” The head bartender asked.

“Rum and Coke,” Alyssa said pleasantly.

“Bloody Mary. The kind I saw your waitress serving: shrimp, olives, celery, asparagus, the works.”

“Coming up,” he said with a nod.

“It’s a nice place,” Rachael commented, looking around.

“Shithole place,” the drunk grumbled, his eyes never leaving the drink. “Vega’s shithole place. Tex’s shithole place. Th’all shithole places.”

He tossed down the drink he held and slurred another order.

“Buddy, you’ve had too much,” the bartender said and took the empty glass.

A guttural hiss escaped his clenched teeth.

“Job iserve me drinks! Not... tell... me... how... MUCH... I... can... drink!”

“Keep that up, pal, and I’m calling security.”

“Gimme bottle’n I’ll go.”

Fumbling through his pocket, the man pulled out a thick wad of fifties and hundreds and slapped it on the counter. By Rachael’s estimation, it amounted to thousands.

“No trouble, ’k?” He said, weaving in his seat. “Be good. Sit here f’while. Take it all, do you more good’n me.”

“Get out of here and take your money with you.”

“I be good.”

The bartender gave Rachael a questioning look. She shrugged it off.

“Okay,” he mouthed and turned back to making their drinks.

Although not entirely unconscious, the man sat staring blankly at the counter, mindless of his money wad. Tears seeped from his eyes and drool from his lips. Rachael kept a watchful eye on both him and his money, but other than that, she and ’Lyss enjoyed a pleasant time.

“We should be going,” ’Lyss said, finishing her second Rum and Coke. Rachael was still working on her second Bloody Mary.

“I could sit here all night drinking these things,” she answered, flipping her hair to one side.

“The bus will be here shortly.”

The drunk came back to life and vociferously demanded a bottle of Schnapps.

“Buddy, you’re not getting another drink,” the head bartender said. Peeling off a hundred and fifty bucks, he slammed the remainder on the counter. “That’s about even. Now get out or I’ll call the cops.”

“Cops!” The drunk slurred and caught himself from falling over. “Cops’r useless!”

With quickness that belied his condition, he snatched the bartender’s shirt and jerked him close.

“Y’wanna know ’bout cops?” He said, spittle flying. “Worth’ss all acause amoney! This money!”

With a sweep of his hand, he sent the cash flying across the counter, with most of it landing behind the bar.

“That does it!” Wrenching away, the bartender hit the speed dial on his cell phone.

“Go’head won’t be ’live anyway.”

“’Lyss,” Rachael said. “I’ll give you my card. If you’ll pay the tab, I’ll take him out.”

“Whatever for? Let the police handle it.”

“I’ll just get him to the lobby before he hurts himself. Did you hear what he said about not being alive?”

“Rache, stay out of it. Let the cops handle it.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. But I’ll pay for it. Get him out of here and that’s all, okay? Nothing more. Don’t get involved.”

“Right. Nothing more.”

Hooking her arm under his, Rachael pulled him off the stool and labored through the lounge bearing his weight.

“Can’t take it no more. Can’t do it no more. Not aft’ this.”

“Can’t do what?” Rachael said as a few catcalls and jeers from the college crowd followed them out.

“Can’t do no more. No more.” Looking at Rachael with pleading eyes and anguish carved into his face. “It wasn’t enough. Lost them ‘causa cops an’ I can’t do it again. No more.”

Rachael bore his weight to a nearby divan, thankful he wasn’t a big man. Dropping him onto the cushions, he sprawled, snoring and gurgling on phlegm. Rachael turned back to the lounge where ’Lyss was still inside settling their tab. A man leaving the lounge, blue-collar type from the looks of it, gave her a hard look. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before he quickly turned away.

Rachael wished ’Lyss would hurry. The show was ending and the audience was now filtering out, conversing about the show and impact it was bound to have. Still, ’Lyss hadn’t come out and Rachael was becoming anxious. Two officers arrived to collect the man, took a brief statement and contact information, then hauled him off to the drunk tank.

Worried about missing the bus, Rachael breathed a sigh of relief when ’Lyss finally joined her.

“The bus is loading, we need to go,” Rachael said. “What took so long?”

“I couldn’t get anybody’s attention. Is he gone?”

“Yeah, cops hauled him off.”

“Lady, you’re one very interesting date. I’m going to have to bring you more often.”

“Just call me Miss Excitement.”

Next: Part 2 - Down the Rabbit Hole

One-thirty a.m. and a September heat wave, having rolled up from southern California, covered the valley under a heavy blanket of rainless clouds. The city broiled in sweltering, acrid humidity from which the night providing no relief.

Neither was there any relief outside the city where a Matte black Ford Expedition parked, all but invisible behind a sparse growth of Russian Olive trees. Occupied by Antone Smilie, Mila Lords, Erik Blackman and Peter James, it was stifling even with the windows rolled down. Body armor trapped heat as effectively as an overcoat, and any breeze that found its way into the vehicle did nothing more than stir up the heavy musk of sweat.

With her signature ponytail, Mila appeared more like a teenager than a thirty-four-year-old. Experienced beyond her years, she earned the position of team lead thanks to her high level of competency. Contributing to that competency was her fluency in four languages, including Portugese which, tonight, would likely come in handy.

Antone, a beefy man with sharp angular features, sat behind Blackman. He moved only to brush away the sweat beading on his brow, and run a hand over his militaristic, quarter-inch buzz cut. Blackman and James were smaller but deceptively strong. Sporting a mustache and short beard, Blackman was naturally bald while James’ faded, blond hair gave him the appearance of a young John Denver. However, “Peter James” and “Sweet Surrender” had never been used in the same sentence.

Still, no one complained or squirmed in discomfort although, out of boredom, James clicked his rifle’s laser off and on like an incessant blinker.

Fifteen feet away set an identical vehicle, likewise dark and silent. Occupied by J’vore Nelson, a.k.a. Mond for his verbose hatred of Mondays, and Patrick Tanz. Behind them sat two moderately large men and one tall, tough woman who played fly-half for the Salt Lake Slugs WRFC. Tactical Medic Providers, or the TMP crew, on loan from the FBI.

Silently uncomfortable, their thoughts focused on, aside from the heat, the upcoming operation innocently named Sweet Tooth. Nothing about the operation was sweet and no one looked forward to it, yet all were eager to get it over with.

But to everyone involved, just another day at the office.

Two a.m. rolled around and a pair of headlights approached along the nearby access road, several hundred feet away.

“Hang tight,” Mila whispered. Grasping the steering wheel for leverage, she twisted against her seatbelt to watch the slow moving headlights. “We’re standing down.”

No one muttered the displeasure they felt. Antone donned his night vision goggles, as did Blackman, and watched the white panel van pass by. Continuing for another hundred yards or so, it turned into the entrance of the Ojito Sugar Products facility and came to a stop. A twelve-foot chain link fence surrounded the perimeter and the gate was secured with a heavy log chain.

The team should have been in position long before now.

“Okay,” Mila whispered, not that it was necessary. “We blew our chance. When the boys downtown get their little snafu fixed, we’re going in diamond formation.”

No one voiced their thoughts aside from Blackman, who commented that he was keeping his Remington rather than swapping it for an AR-15.

The original plan had been to post Tanz and Blackman on each side of the front gate, twenty yards out, armed with 260 Remingtons. Mond and James were to be stationed twenty yards up the driveway on each side of the berm, while Mila and Antone snuggled in the spotty grass ten yards back from the gate. Geared up with body armor, body cams, and night vision, everyone was armed with knives, Glocks with four mags, AR-15s with four mags, concussion and smoke grenades, and a medic drop bag in case the TMPs ran into problems. Or the carnage was more than they could handle. The exception being Blackman who insisted on keeping his Remington, and Mila, whose weapon of choice was her Weatherby PA-549 shotgun loaded with G2 R.I.P. rounds.

Although Mila was as proficient with the Remington and AR-15 as the rest of her team, she was more comfortable packing her Weatherby in close quarters, such as tonight.

Authorizing Mila to pack her Weatherby, and a Glock 43 to fit her smaller hands, had been an eighteen month battle that Captain Marcus Tillen fought hard to win. The commitment and dedication he had for his people was reciprocated in loyalty.

When the van, which intel claimed would be transporting abducted civilians, likely including children, stopped for the gate, Mila was to announce themselves and order their adversaries to the ground. At the slightest hint of resistance, Mond and James would take out the driver and whoever was unlocking the gate. Mila and Antone would rush the van and take out the guards inside while Blackman and Tanz eliminated anyone escaping out the back.

Dangerous, absolutely. But Mila’s team had walked it down dozens of times to ensure the safety of the civilians. In addition, they had run force-on-force exercises using MILES gear. Now, they could only sit and watch the van disappear into the sugar factory.

After waiting a few additional minutes, Mila made her call.

“What’s your status?... I guess we don’t have a choice, do we?... Well, we just lost our opportunity... For me, pretty please?... Ok, call me... Fifteen minutes and we’re going in whether you’ve got it working or not... Thanks, appreciate it.”

Mila placed a second call, and a responding light appeared within the other vehicle. “The security techs promised that our mics and cameras will be up and running within fifteen minutes. We’re going in diamond formation and I’ll be on point.”

Mila gave the technicians an additional five minutes which proved to be the right call, as she was notified that everything was up and running. Giving her team a terse go-ahead, the six quietly exited the vehicles leaving the TMPs behind. After calling for an equipment check on her mic, which came through the ear pieces loud and clear, Mila called Command for a video check. Everything was in working order.

“We’re on,” she said and led the team quietly, quickly, to the main gate.

Bolt cutters were deemed too bulky for the operation, but using his flexible wire saw, Tanz had the lock cut within five minutes. Feeding the chain through the gate slowly, carefully so as to minimize the rattle, it coiled at their feet like a large, metallic snake.

Mila swung the gate open and led her men inside. Senses heightened by the unknown and the delicacy of the operation, the team proceeded cautiously, slowly, appearing as no more than black shadows on a cloudless night, should anyone be watching.

Ten months prior - late 2017 - an unassuming reporter working for a small, independent news organization broke a bombshell story that Ojito Sugar Products was, in fact, being maintained by a Brazilian cult. President and CEO of Ojito Sugar Products had long-term business dealings with the Governor, two state representatives, and a congressman in a hereditary relationship passed down through three re-elections. Ojito Sugar Products suspended operations five years ago and had since been in maintenance mode, yet continued receiving government subsidies that were justified by political word salad.

Shortly after breaking the story, the reporter disappeared along with her source evidence. A collusion of lawsuits put the news organization out of business and effectively buried the story. Fortunately, there were enough conscientious individuals who pursued the right channels that eventually resulted in tonight’s Operation Sweet Tooth. An endeavor that cost of several careers and left a trail of hard feelings.

In what was originally their operation, the FBI’s involvement was nixed and that was when the real infighting began. In the fallout, it was decided that local Special Forces - Mila’s team - would conduct the operation and the FBI would provide the TMPs. Doing so allowed the politicians and Feds to distance themselves if things went sour, yet share in the credit if the operation was successful.

Months of surveillance indicated that three to four guards armed with H&K G36s roamed the grounds. A lot of fire power just to protect a shut-down sugar factory. To complicate matters, these guards didn’t follow a set patrol, rather, they roamed the grounds at will and were often observed disappearing in a building only to appear somewhere else on the grounds. Guerrilla warfare in which Mila also exhibited competency.

Approaching the electrical shop, Mila froze, as did the entire team. Dropping to a crouch, they waited, listened. A quick gesture sent Mond around the back of the shop. Moments later came a scuff of feet on gravel and a guard stepped around the corner.

Surprised by the sudden encounter, his reaction was instantaneous.

“Polícia! Levante as mãos onde eu possa vê-las!” Mila commanded even as he swung his gun into position but never got the chance the fire. Flinching twice, he slowly folded to the ground like a deflating balloon. Mond wiped his knife on the fresh corpse before rejoining the team.

“Someone had to have heard that,” Mila whispered into her mic. “Spread out but stay in formation.”

Approaching the mechanical building on their left, Mila brought the team to a gradual halt. Listening, looking. No one moved, other than their heads, as they slowly surveyed the area through a two-tone of green and black.

No sign of anyone either visually or audibly, yet no one questioned Mila’s actions. While trivializing her instincts as “woman’s intuition”, it was an ability they highly respected. Waiting, exposed, and all the while becoming more concerned, they searched for what had brought her to a halt.

Painstakingly, as though progressing through her Tai Chi, patterns, Mila began moving once again. Whatever had stopped her hadn’t gone away.

With her Weatherby ready to fire at a moment’s notice, she crept forward making not even the slightest sound of placing her foot, her weight, on the packed gravel. No sudden movements that might draw attention.

Passing the electrical building, a sudden explosion of gunfire blew glass from the metal door’s small window. James grunted and dropped. Mila took a hit to the chest, gasping as it knocked the wind out of her. Staggering backwards, she let go with three quick blasts from her Weatherby. The recoil continued propelling her backwards as the G2 rounds blew holes through the door and everything behind it.

Hugging the ground as bullets whistled over their heads from a second guard, Blackman’s Remington exploded with a pounding concussion. The 130 grain slug, traveling at 2900 feet per second tore flesh, shattered bone, and threw the man off his feet.

“Any one hit?” Mila said, catching her breath.

“I got a through-and-through in my leg,” James said, matter-of-factly.

“Stay here to evac.”

Then, scuttling over to James, Mila found small trickles of blood leaking both the entry and exit wounds.

“Get going,” he told her. “I can wrap it.”

“Move,” Mila ordered and called in the TMPs.

Mond scurried to the door from where the first shots came and put his shoulder to it. After taking a quick look inside, turned to Mila and gave a slit-throat gesture.

Hurrying now, still highly alert, the team double-timed it to the boiler house. The main door was locked, but as with the gate, Tanz made short work of the handle. Retracting the deadbolt with his knife and carefully extracting the latch, he eased the door open.

Only upon entering did they realize that it was equipped with a contact alarm.

“Shit,” Mila grunted. “We just ran outta time.”

The warehouse-size building was maze of tanks, electrical and steam generators, and processing units. Moving grates that carried fuel to the now silent boilers, along with a network of pipes and conduit snaked overhead where flues breached the ceiling to expel gasses, steam and smoke. Cement steps lead to an upper level that was terminated by large roll-up doors. Windows that lined the upper walls were blacked out. Stairwells on each side of the area led to the basement, however the light escaping from below was not enough to interfere with the goggles.

“Everyone’s equipment still operational?” Mila whispered and received quiet affirmations.

“Tanz, Antone, take the left stairwell. Mond, the right. Blackman, you and I will recon. After that you’ll post yourself at the door and I’ll follow downstairs. Keep your head on a swivel but work quickly. We don’t know where the alarm reported to or how long until someone responds. Now move it!”

Tanz, followed by Antone wove their way through the machinery to the far stairwell. Steep and narrow, it was constructed of metal grated steps and the floor’s overhang prevented Tanz from seeing much past the foot of the stairs.

“We can’t risk going in blind,” he whispered.

“We don’t have time to recon,” Antone answered.

Voices below became loud, agitated. Orders were barked in a foreign language that only Mila would have understood. Then the lights went out, plunging the basement in darkness.

“I just killed the power, so step on it,” came Mila’s voice in their ears.

“Sounds like five, maybe six unfriendlies,” Tanz whispered. “Mond, you get that?”

“Loud and clear.”

A muffled shout from below and Mond sent two short bursts of his AR-15 into the stairwell.

“I’ll draw their fire,” Antone said and thundered down the stairs.

Reaching the bottom, he paused just long enough to spray a burst of fire across the ceiling. The muzzle flash of two weapons turned on him while a third gunman sprayed the stairwell below Mond. Even the rolling concussion of gunfire didn’t drown the screams.

Just to make sure the pitch black stayed that way, Antone popped a smoke grenade from his belt and rolled it across the room as Tanz hit the floor next to him. Hard, but with control.

Mond’s rifle continued thundering from above, it’s echoes reverberating in the small space.

The scene unfolded in the bright green of their night vision. Originally a storage room fifty feet square with cement walls, floor, and ceiling, there was a set of double doors straight ahead leading to a freight elevator, another double set on the right wall leading to the mechanical room. A hole had been carved through the wall next to Antone, large enough for a person to walk through upright.

Directly before him set a row of ten beds, and another ten on the opposite side of the room where Mond was throwing lead at two gunmen. One unfriendly attempting to escape via the freight elevator ,whirled and sent a stream of tracers across the room at head level. Antone stitched him from hip to shoulder with a burst of fire. Two hard rounds punched him in the chest with rapid succession, preventing him from firing on the two men clambering through the hole in the wall.

Mond, along with Tanz’s crossfire, quickly took out their opponents with prejudice. The ear-shattering roar of gunfire echoed to an end, but the horrific chorus of screams didn’t.

Of the ten beds lined up in front of Antone, six were occupied by victims chained to the bedframes. Five kids lay strapped in beds on the other side of the room, all screaming, convulsing, and tearing their wrists and ankles on the restraints. It impossible to tell whether any had been hit by any of the flying lead, or if they were consumed by mindless panic. A wave of empathetic nausea swept through Antone and he turned away.

Mila charged down the stairs and ordered Mond to check the freight elevator and Tanz the victims. Antone followed his orders of pursuing the escapees while Mila assigned herself the mechanical room.

The room into which Antone stepped was large and sectioned with load-bearing cement walls. Doorways had been cut through them and naked lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling, spliced into wiring that was obviously not to code. A light switch hung before him, likewise spliced into the overhead wiring.

Empty boxes and sacks lay scattered about, and adjacent to the opening through which he entered set one pallet of canned goods and another of bottled water, apparently sustenance for the captives until their appointed sacrifice.

Antone negotiated the maze of cement walls, treading quietly on the moist dirt floor as he searched not only for the escapees, but escape routes, arms cache, or, and he didn’t want to think about it - charges for blowing the building.

Working his way through the utter darkness with the aid of his night vision, alert to every sight and sound, he deftly negotiated the rubble and scraps of building supplies. The muffled bang of a slamming door reverberated from somewhere ahead.

Coming to a wooden box with a hole in the middle, he kicked it aside to find a small pit that served as a latrine. Casting a glance into the shit-hole, Antone decided that it didn’t appear to be a viable means of escape.

Continuing, he reached the exterior wall and stopped before a fire door that wasn’t on any of the blueprints or building plans. Painted around it were graffiti and drawings in blood. Old blood. Dried. Black.

After briefly considering his options, he put a long burst into the latch blowing it to pieces, then yanked the door open, acutely aware that he was taking a chance on it being rigged with explosives. Instead, he was met with a loud and painful grating of hinges.

The door opened to a small sacrificial chamber roughly fifteen feet square. Cement steps framed both sides of a stone altar rising just over eight feet high and decorated with carved symbols he didn’t recognize. A bright, naked light bulb, apparently from a different power source, hung above a stone bowl that was affixed to the center of the altar. Momentarily blinded, he sent a short burst into the light, plunging the room into darkness.

The two men he pursued, lay across each side of the altar with their wrists slit and hanging over the bowl to catch their blood. No telling how many innocent lives ended in similar fashion, but judging from the amount of blood spatter and drips, it was considerable. One of the men slowly turned his head towards Antone and stared with unseeing eyes. He was already dead but his body didn’t yet know it. Legs jerked spasmodically and he slid off the altar, crumpling down the steps.

Only then did Antone notice the woman behind the altar, late seventies although it was hard to tell considering her condition. She hadn’t been there when he opened the door, he was sure of it.

A tall, gaunt hag with long grayish hair, she held him as tightly as a WWF bear hug with her dull, glowing eyes. Antone couldn’t tell if she wore clothes or not, as her body and what appeared to be robes, transformed from one to the other separate but one and the same. Wavering as seaweed in a gentle ocean current, her movements were fluid, hypnotic. With that same fluid movement, her face darkened with disdain. Dark crusted stilettos for teeth lined her gaping maw as she sucked in air as a dragon preparing to blow fire. Then erupted with the shriek of a thousand voices.

Pressure stabbed his ears and tore his body, shredding his soul, she bound herself to him, and broke the trance in which he was so tightly held. Antone let go with a burst of fire that blew the stone bowl of blood all to hell. Bullets puckered the dead man’s body, knocking him off the altar and chipped holes in the wall and altar. Stone and cement shrapnel flew in all directions, adhering to the walls with congealing blood.

He remembered no more.

***

Outside the tall picture windows of his great room, Cottonwoods lined a narrow creek of sculpted river rocks that was, in reality, a picturesque storm drain residents fooled themselves into believing was natural. Sprinkles of green leaves that hadn’t yet turned, punctuated the bright, golden leaves of those that had, the ripest of which were picked by fall breezes and deposited on Antone’s deck and patio furniture.

The ground-level floor of his townhouse consisted of a single-car garage and his man-cave. A room partitioned in half, the first of which was a fully equipped gym complete with stereo, treadmill, universal, weights, and dumbbell sets; the other a well-stocked kitchenette, pool table, and living room furniture strategically placed in front of a big screen TV.

Antone’s main living area was on the second floor. An open concept great room, dining room and kitchen there was a utility room and large pantry just off the kitchen. Master bedroom and bath took up the back half of the floor. Third floor contained a bathroom and three small bedrooms, all of which served as various office spaces. Visitors were rare and if anyone did spend the night, it was in bed with him.

On each floor set a well-stocked gun safe and another holding his thousands of rounds of ammo. Guns was his life, his comfort, his security. Now, they beckoned him as a wine cellar or beer cave taunts an alcoholic.

Staring at the idyllic fall setting just beyond his deck without enjoying the view, Antone’s face turned dark when his security system chimed. Still in the same sweats he had been wearing for the past week, he rose slowly from the love seat and gingerly walked to the glass patio door, staggering to maintain his balance. Sliding it open, he waited until an unexplained wave of fear subsided before stepping out. Gripping the railing, he peered upon a new Orange Metallic Burst Chevy Bolt EV. He knew the car. He knew the driver. For a brief moment, he considered leaping from the deck and dragging Mila out of her eco-warrior-chariot that she was so proud of, just to see if she’d still be proud of her little pumpkin after hammering her face on it a few times. He trembled with excitement at the what it would do to that cute little face of hers.

No. The neighbors would see or hear. Wait until she comes inside before doing anything rough.

Mila stepped out of her car appeared even more adolescent in her t-shirt, slip-on shoes, and form-fitting leggings that didn’t reach her ankles. Antone and most of the other guys looked for opportunities to work out with her, as she was prone to wearing thin and tight-fitting biker shorts and sports bra. Just to tease, no doubt. Now she had come to his home for the first time in the six years he had known her, uninvited, unannounced. Tonight all that teasing would come to an end and she’d have to pay up.

“Look at her,” the voice said. “She could be a little girl.”

A shudder of revulsion, and eroticism, raced through him.

“You know what she wants. Demanding it like she demands everything else,” the voice continued. “Why else would she come here? Alone, strutting her stuff. Daring you to take her down. Take her down hard.”

Oh, I’ll take her down all right, Antone silently answered. He glanced at his clenched hands clenching the deck railing, knuckles white. One good punch would knock her out cold.

“Where’s the fun in that? Fight makes it all the more satisfying.”

She’ll scream, he answered.

“Then shoot her if you must. You have three guns with silencers and she doesn’t need to be alive for what you want to do.”

Did he have time to unlock the safe, grab a gun, pop in a loaded magazine, and get back before she got tired of waiting for him to answer the door? Where would he hide the gun until the right moment?

No, he didn’t have time for all that. Besides, a bullet was too quick and clean, and sharing his pain was the only way of relieving it.

Reaching for the doorbell, Mila stopped abruptly as he remotely unlocked the door.

“Coward!” The voice spat.

“We’re team mates, bitch!” Antone said in a low, violent voice. Team mates have each other’s back. If I shoot her, then I’d have to shoot myself and that’s what you really want, isn’t it? Self-destruction.

“You WERE team mates. Not after today. Has she ever treated you like one? NO!”

Clamping his hands over his ears, Antone still couldn’t muffle the voice pounding in his head and staggered back to the love seat as Mila called out a tentative “hello” from the stairway. Waiting for her to appear, he poured another glass of Fireball cinnamon whiskey. It took both hands to guide the glass to his mouth. Taking a long slow drink and savoring the burn, he listened to her softly mounting the stairs. Slowly. Perhaps already aware of what she was stepping into, but women were like that and Mila’s intuition now frightened him. What if she read his mind, knew what he was thinking, planning, would she willfully sacrifice herself to him? After six years, she owed it to him.

Mila stopped in surprise at the sight of him, face drawn and pale, mussed hair, eyelids sagging.

“My God, Antone!”

“Look like shit, don’t I?” He said with a sneer.

A surge of violence ripped through his body as he stared at her. It took every ounce of willpower to control himself, keep himself from charging her. After obsessing over this very moment for the past week, he couldn’t decide on how to fulfill the ultimate gratification. Every fantasy that came to mind was better than the last and they flashed through his mind like movie trailers.

“I wouldn’t say you looked like shit, but what happened to you?”

“What happened to me? You mean since Operation Sweet Tooth? Took you long enough to check on me, didn’t it?”

Another surge of anger came from nowhere and slowly faded. Slopping a few drops of whiskey from his next drink, he tried acting nonchalant. Acting. That was a good term. He was memorizing the lines and actions of a different person because he was clearly not the same person who had accompanied Mila through the sugar factory over a week ago.

“Maybe Mila won’t put up a fight,” the voice offered. “Look at her. Here, alone, dressed in clothes that can be quickly and conveniently torn away. Demanding to be dominated and subdued.”

He looked down at himself and crossed his legs.

“Antone?” Mila’s voice, not the one in his head.

“Why the hell are you here anyway!”

Flinching as if slapped, she blinked in disbelief. The urge passed, leaving him with thoughts of mere seduction as his eyes nested on her leggings, tight against he crotch.

“Sorry,” Antone said and forced himself to look away.

“Sorry hell! I’m outta here!” Mila fired back.

“No! Wait! Please.”

His thoughts were wrong and he knew it. Knew that he couldn’t get away with it. Yet the voice told him it would be worth it. Satiating that violent lust was something he’d remember for the rest of his life, it would be his and his alone to relive over and over.

Maybe pity would draw her in close enough..

Squeezing the glass of whiskey to the point that his fingers turned white, Antone carefully set it on the end table out of fear that it would shatter in his grip. He cradled his head in his hands.

“Please,” he repeated as she turned to leave. “Stay. I’ve got to tell you something.”

Mila paused before warily approaching, more confused than angry. Keeping the love seat between them, she drew a stool from the breakfast bar and strategically placed it on the far side of the love seat. Antone smirked at her caution.

“Talk to me then,” she ordered.

“Something happened at the sugar factory.”

“You’re sure as shittin’ right about that.”

“No. Something really bad. It was in the hospital with me. Followed me home. I haven’t been myself ever since.”

“They had to restrain you.”

“I know. I woke up strapped to the bed.”

Clasping his hands before him, Antone looked upon purple bruises encircling his wrists.

“They did MRIs, CAT scans, toxicology, neurological, you name it and they tested you for it. They found nothing.”

“How do you know that?”

“Figure it out. You list Captain Marcus Tillen as your emergency contact so he has access to your medical information. Me being team leader, we discussed you, and don’t give me any shit about violating HIPAA.”

He looked at her face for the first time since his outbreak. Took a swig of cinnamon whiskey that brought tears to his eyes.

“Is there anyone you can call?”

“What, you finally ask about my family life after six years? The answer is ‘no’. My commanders were emergency contacts when I was in the military. Now I list Tillen. What do you care anyway?”

“What’s wrong with you? You’ve never acted like this before.”

“So what? This is the new me.”

Fighting the urge to leave, Mila continued the conversation. “I’m sure you’ve been asked enough times already, but what’s the last you remember?”

“Two guys with their slit wrists and the old woman. She’s here now. Somewhere. Maybe not alone. I think there’s others, the voices are different, anyway.”

“There was no woman, young or old. You weren’t at the debriefing, but we reviewed the entire operation and everyone’s videos.”

“I don’t give a damn about what you reviewed.” Patting the seat next to him, he said, “here, put your sweet little ass next to me and I’ll talk.”

“I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”

He shook his head, a shiver ran through him. “Old woman in robes standing behind the altar. I opened fire on her. Blew that bowl of blood all to hell and made Swiss cheese outta the wall where she stood. Don’t remember anything after that until I woke up in the hospital.”

“What you are calling a woman is nothing more than a distortion in your video. Considering the comm and camera issues, it’s totally explainable. Besides that, Tanz and I followed as soon as we secured the other rooms. That was within seconds of when you opened fire the second time. By then, the TMPs had arrived, we had the area secured and Blackman was still posted at the door upstairs. No one, especially an old lady, could have, or did, slip past us.”

“You wouldn’t have seen her, but I saw what I saw. She was at the hospital and now she’s here. All of them. Watching me. Putting thoughts in my head.” He added, “you have no idea what she wants me to do. She opened my eyes and showed me Hell. Showed me what really I wanted. What I have to have. Mostly from you, and you wouldn’t think it was pretty.”

Mila tensed. She could outrun him to the stairs, but down the stairs and out the door?

“I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s ‘no’.” Antone continued. “I know I’m irrational. We’ve all taken aberrant behavior training. I know that and still I can’t control myself. Not when I’m awake, and not when I’m asleep.”

“What do you mean asleep?”

Antone picked up his glass, took a drink and daintily returned it to the table.

“I get these uncontrollable fits of emotion when I’m awake. I feel like one wrong step and I’ll fall over some cliff I can’t see. I’m not dizzy and don’t have vertigo, but I get that intense anxiety people with acrophobia get in a skyscraper or on the edge of the Grand Canyon. One wrong step, one nudge, will send me over the edge. They’re showing me what’s going to happen. When I do manage to go to sleep, I have nightmares I can’t remember, but I know she’s causing them. Maybe the others, too.”

Antone smiled wryly. “I’ve developed apnea and sleep paralysis on top of everything else. Maybe I’m having mini heart attacks. That’s what it feels like, anyway.”

Mila watched as Antone carefully picked up his glass, fondled it thoughtfully, then quaffed it as though it were lemonade. Something about the way he moved.

“I feel her,” he eventually said. “The old woman. She’s here. I don’t know how to make her go away.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No, but I know it’s her. The same way that you know it’s your boyfriend making a noise somewhere else in your house. Or your cat playing with a toy even when you can’t see it. Sometimes she brushes against me, just enough to remind me that she’s here. Or she’ll make a noise somewhere in the house, a natural sound but it’s unnatural. But mostly, they talk to me. Not just talk, hypnotize. Never shut up, driving me insane.”

A tickle of nervous perspiration crept down Mila’s arm. “Can I open the windows? It’s so hot in here.”

“One wrong step and I’m on you like there’s no tomorrow.” He chuckled. “No tomorrow, that’s good.”

Mila talked her way through opening the windows. The patio door, she left open. If the situation became desperate enough, she could leap from his deck.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said, returning to her stool. “Especially from you.”

Antone poured the last of his whiskey and washed down a hand full of pills with it.

“Who said it’s coming from me?” He said, clearing his throat. “It’s happening to me, not coming from me. I’ll never go back to work. Not after this... this little mental breakdown. Maybe that’s all it is. I simply snapped. I’ll never make it past the shrink, and I sure as hell will never pass another MMPI.”

“A nine-year-old girl died in the hospital last night.” Mila said, changing the subject. “A girl we rescued. Rumor is that she died from apnea, although the autopsy hasn’t come back yet.”

“Strange, wouldn’t you say? Has anyone else either on our team or anyone we rescued experienced any strange maladies?”

“Maladies,” Mila chuckled. “No.”

“So, what happened after I went AWOL?”

“You were totally catatonic. I took your magazine and ejected the shell in the chamber, then went back for the TMPs. You were brought up in the freight elevator with the others. Wherever the boiler room door alarmed to, a carload of reinforcements arrived and we exchanged a fire. I think our guys hit a couple of them. They didn’t expect our level of resistance.”

Antone sat for a long time looking at his bottle and wondered out loud why he didn’t just drink from it. “I’m wearing down,” he said. “Slowly losing control. I can’t trust myself around other people. I can’t trust myself around myself.”

“Do we need to remove your guns?”

“You’re real funny, aren’t you? There’s a thousand ways to kill yourself and I’ve considered every one of them. I don’t have much else to think about. Even know how to swallow my tongue if I have to.”

“Speaking as a friend, you check yourself in somewhere. Whether you come back or not, you have to get better. You know that I have to report our conversation. I can’t cover for you.”

“First off, we’re not friends and never have been!” Antone whirled to face her.

“You know what? Maybe you’re right,” Mila fired back. “I’ve called, texted, emailed a dozen times over the past week and you haven’t responded to a single one. No, we’re not friends but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for you as a person.”

“You care for me AS A PERSON! That makes me feel a helluva lot better!” Veins bulged across his temples, his thick arms rippled, knuckles turned white as he fisted his hands. Glaring, lips quivering, the moment of rage passed and he continued calmly. “Let me tell you ‘friend’, there was something down there. A hallucinogen, poison, virus, hell, maybe that cult really did have a personal relationship with demons and now they’re pissed because I shot up their altar.”

“Friends or not, I’ll check in on you first thing tomorrow morning.”

***

Mila startled at the sight of Trent standing before her. Deep in thought, she hadn’t heard him enter the room.

“You’re jumpy tonight,” he said. “The funeral got to you today.”

“Yeah. On top of that, the detective investigating Antone’s death was there. I’m unofficially a ‘person of interest’.”

“You had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t do anything to prevent it. On top of that, he’s a novice, a two-year-old detective so how good can he be?”

“You’re going to be fine. You lost one of your team members, it’s not the first time.”

“Well thank you so much for trivializing it,” Mila said, wiping her eyes to keep the tears from spilling.

Trent stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her protectively. For the two years they had been living together with marriage an on-again off-again subject. Mila now feared that it was too late, all things considered.

“Is anyone local? Maybe someone you can talk to? Figure out what’s going on?”

Mila said quietly, “just the girl who died in the hospital last week. Now I heard another kid we rescued has died, kidnapped from Mexico. Why kids? Over eight hundred thousand kids go missing in the U.S. every year. Eight million kidnapped worldwide. Why? For this kind of shit? We rescued half a dozen and now two are dead. What’s the point?”

“Go to bed. This past week has been rough, you’ll feel better tomorrow.” He said and kissed her on the forehead.

“I don’t feel like sleeping. I’m going to get a snack.”

“After all you ate today?”

“So what, you’re counting calories for me!” Mila fired back. “You know, just leave me the hell alone.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way.”

Trent hugged her tight, reassuringly. Mila stood without responding. Watching him crawl into bed, she went cold as his heat dissipate from her body. Sunshine, their large yellow tabby, promptly took her position between his feet. Curling in a loose ball, she stared at Mila with unblinking eyes.

Normally, Mila would have climbed into bed and read herself to sleep but tonight, hairs prickled on the nape of her neck and along her arms. Uneasy. Jumpy. Perhaps the presence Antone had spoke of had followed her home as well. Or the power of suggestion. More likely her imagination, and she was going to prove it was that and nothing more.

Quietly making her way through the small living room and wishing Sunshine would accompany her, Mila paused in the kitchen, listening, waiting, then into the dark hallway leading past the utility room where her reflection in the stacked washer and dryer windows gave her a start. Still refusing to turn on the lights just to prove her point.

The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Still, she refused to turn on the light. The day she was afraid of the dark, especially in her own house, would be the day she turned in her badge.

Mila didn’t enter the spare bedroom. Headlights of a passing car sent shadows running across the walls an ceiling, followed by a cold, musty draft. She backed away. She wasn’t about to pay credence to her fears by checking the closet and under the bed.

Mila returned to the bedroom, to the light, to Trent, and to Sunshine. If anything, she crawled into bed more troubled than before. A floor joist creaked in the spare bedroom sending a jolt through her. A window creaked with the sound of strained glass. She held her breath waiting for it to break.

Were these the normal sounds of the apartment cooling down? Or settling? Maybe from the neighbors overhead? Sounds that she had never paid attention to in the past?

Mila awoke with a start, although she didn’t think that she had been asleep. The closet door stood partially open but her attention was drawn not from within the black interior, rather, the dark corner of the room next to the door. Ambient light filtered in through the open window and the curtains waved slowly, just enough to send faint shadows moving across the wall. A bright moonbeam played across the floor thanks to a separation between the curtains.

The shadowed corner felt deep, cavernous, an opening into which she was about to fall. The moment of vertigo passed but the presence remained. Watching. Knowing Mila was now aware of it, moved so slightly that she thought it was her imagination. The power of suggestion, thank you very much, Antone.

Mila tried to turn on the light but her arms didn’t respond. Tried turning her head but was unable so much as flex a muscle.

A ripple of lighter darkness from the shadowy hole, like strands of floating cobwebs, weaving into a cohesive form. Mila’s eyes went wide although she fought to clench them shut. Shutting her eyes would shut out the entity, something so primal, as old as Creation itself. Playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse before the final kill. Heart racing, lungs paralyzed, she gasped for breath, her chest convulsing. Mila struggled to turn on the lamp, to break the spell, but could do no more than twitch.

Seventy, maybe eighty years old, long dirty silver hair that, like the robes covering her body, waved as if the air were an ocean current playing with it. Spindly arms ending in long narrow hands and thick jointed sticks fingers, pronounced ribs, skeletal neck, she moved towards the bed. An aged, grayish face that nonetheless appeared taut but certainly not youthful. Beak nose, deep set eye sockets that housed two dull glowing embers. At times she robes obscured her body and at times her nakedness revealed as they dissipated, only to reappear.

Sunshine issued a low throaty yowl and rose to her feet, back arched high, hair like a halo. Hissing violently, Sunshine leapt from the bed and darted out of the room with the crumpling noise of claws on carpet. Trent lay sound asleep.

The figure disappearing into the beam moonlight then reappearing much nearer.

Mila screamed but had no voice. Tried moving her paralyzed body. Sweat beaded on her face, collected under her arms and breasts. The thing strengthening by the moment, pulling her into the abyss of which Antone had spoken, that black opening in the corner of the room, sucking her soul from the shell of a body.

Grinning through cracked lips dripping spittle, the hag savored every painful convulsion as Mila’s body cried for breath that didn’t come. Pulling itself onto the bed, floating, yet dimpling the covers under her weight. One hand painstakingly placed. Then the opposite leg, so carefully set down. Gray wet teeth glistened around the black gape of her mouth. Now the other hand. Blankets puckered and tightened across Mila’s body and the hag savored every moment. No need to hurry, she had the entire night to enjoy Mila.

What little air remained in her lungs was forced through a clenched throat, body wracked with seizures from lack of breath, and the only sound a rattling hiss. Her screams were heard only in her mind. Kicking, thrashing, throwing her arms up for protection, and for all her effort, came to nothing more than muscle twitches.

Trent would have to feel the mattress sink under the demon’s weight. He would have to awaken!

No, she realized. They had slept together long enough not to be disturbed by a shifting of the mattress. Rolling, tossing, turning, getting out, getting in, they had learned to sleep through it all. She could die at his side and he’d never know. Suffocated, and he would be the only suspect.

Cupping Mila’s breasts with burning cold hands, forming a bone encrusted bra, the woman climbed onto her, digging her knees in Mila’s abdomen like a bull rider securing himself to his mount. Leaning forward, her long hair enveloped Mila’s face and blocked out all light and pulled Mila into her vast depths of eternity. Eyes inches away, glowing deep dull red, her mouth working as if she were mouthing words. Raunchy breath hung like a poison over Mila’s face.

Heavier and heavier the woman grew, compressing Mila’s lungs. Ears roaring from the mounting pressure, she sucked in breaths, each more shallow than the previous. Blackness filled her vision. A numbing, light-headed sensation swept through her. Chest cramping spastically.

Mila stopped breathing.

The conference room into which Ron peered, had been cleared with the exception of one table, and chairs lining three of the walls. Men sprawled in one position or another while the women sat in a more dignified manner, and the overflow congregated around the two doorways.

Three suited men ranging from Supervisor to Department Director stood behind the table that served as their podium, all smiles. Between them was a beaming Justin who shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his fingers in self-conscious acceptance of their accolades.

Justin hoisted his swag with proud embarrassment and thanked his superiors and co-workers for all their support over the years, how fulfilling his career had been, and that he sincerely wished everyone the best of luck. The Director then instructed each person to stand and give their memories of working with him.

Leslie, a short, blond office roommate, sidled up to Ron and peered in. Five years his junior, she was on an unending quest to stem the appearance of aging.

“Talk about hypocritical,” Ron whispered and eased back a step. After taking a look inside, Leslie stepped back as well, not wanting to be invited into this adult version of show-and-tell.

“He wanted a big retirement party, I’m glad he got it,” she said.

“I wouldn’t call this a party, but Justin did want a big sendoff. Ironic, though. Management is gushing over how much he meant to the company, what a valued employee he was, and how he’s leaving a lasting legacy. He’s all smiles over how much their support meant to him, but everyone knows he’s retiring is because they turned him down for that supervisor job. Over thirty years experience and they give it to someone with only four years experience. But now it’s all hugs and kisses.”

“So, is this is how the company’s doing retirements now?” Leslie said. “It’s so... procedural, if that’s the right word. Structured. Impersonal.”

“Yeah, and that’s why he threw his own retirement party last week. Had to buy his own cake and ice cream, and nobody from management even attended.”

“I was too busy serving to notice.”

“I didn’t stay long. I tried talking to him but he just looked past me, like he was taking a head count or searching for his inner circle of friends. Anyway, I’m done with attending retirement parties. Everyone wants a big attendance but they only visit with their buddies. Now we have formal ceremonies like this.” Ron said with a gesture.

He was answered with scattered laughter as a co-worker relayed some humorous event and added a friendly insult.

“You went to Gerald’s retirement party last summer, didn’t you?” Leslie said, resuming their conversation. “I thought about going but didn’t.”

“Yeah, and that was strange. It was more like a funeral than a party. I mean, Gerald was only middle management but, as we know all too well, he had a lot of influence. Bigwigs attended and they all sung his praises, then sat there smiling stupidly while he gave them a peepee-whacking for forcing him into retirement the way they did.”

“I know a lot of people didn’t care for him, but I got along with him just fine.”

“I asked him what his plans were and he blew me off with, ‘I always got plans.’ so I gave him a big hug in front of everyone.”

“You didn’t!” Leslie gasped and broke out laughing, attracting the attention of several people seated just inside the doorway.

“Absolutely. I mean, I’ve known him since the day I was hired. We worked well together and accomplished a lot, and then to blow me off like that? Before he began climbing the corporate ladder, we used to play basketball during lunchtime, go to lunch together, and actually had a lot to talk about back in the day.”

“That’s too bad. So, are you going to have a retirement party?”

“It’s pretty much expected, but I’m just inviting our organization and several others who’ve told me they wanted to attend. I won’t do what Bill or Fiona did, that’s for sure. Just haul their shit out the last day without so much as a ‘goodbye’.”

“Neither left on good terms.”

“Whose fault is that? I mean, refusing to attend your own retirement party is insulting. It’s the last time you’ll see most of the people that you spent years working with.”

“Not necessarily. Look at Sean. He retired for eighteen months, the company re-hired him for eighteen months, retired for six months, now he’s back working again. Or John. After they threw him a retirement party, he tells management that he’ll stay if they move him to the training department, so guess where he’s working now?”

“Well, that’s not happening to me. I’m an old-school dinosaur and no longer compatible with today’s younger work force or corporate ideologies. I already told management that when I walk out that door, I’m not looking back.”

“I guess you’re right,” Leslie said. “Retirement parties are going to be a thing of the past, anyway. Half the company is either a hybrid or working from home, and those who actually come to work don’t stay very long. You don’t build relationships with your co-workers anymore, so nobody really cares when the old shuffle out and the new shuffle in.”

“The company has already put me out to pasture. I was told that the reason I didn’t get the last two jobs I applied for, was because they were looking for someone with ‘more longevity’. The same with Justin, here.”

“That’s age discrimination.”

“Yeah, and so what? The way I see it, I’m not forcing my way into a job where I’m not wanted. No, I’ve bucked management enough times that they’ll be relieved to see me go.”

“So,” Leslie said, “you just want a small party? You’ve worked here what, thirty, thirty-two years, and a lot of people will want to say goodbye. You’ve had a big impact and the non-management types appreciate working with you. People say it all the time.”

“I’m not having an open invite like this. No, I’ll go around and say my goodbyes in person.”

The conference room was slowly emptying with attendees and carried the hot stuffy air out with them.

“Anyway,” she said stepping aside to make room for those filing out. “ It looks like the party’s breaking up. Are you going back to the office?”

“No. I’ll wander the halls for another half an hour and then leave.”

“I think I’ll wait for everyone to clear out and wish Justin a final farewell. After that, I’ll have to start working on your retirement party, and it’s going to be everything you hate,” she said with a mischievous smile.

“Knock yourself out.”

Bear with me while I figure things out - here is the reformatted story which should be easier to read.

Mountaintop pines caught the first rays of the morning sun. Shadows clung stubbornly to the forest floor, and meadows lay under a mist with grass and flowers heavily beaded with dew. Soon, the damp, crisp freshness of night would turn sultry under the mid-August sun.

Light breezes spread the sharp aroma of campfires, a perfume that set Mark’s stomach grumbling with the anticipation of breakfast. A shade under six feet, Mark was trim and solid. His features leaned to the round side of oval, nose defined but not sharp, and a mocha complexion from his heritage and the summer sun. Shining raven hair was pulled into a short braid that nestled between his shoulders.

Birds heralded a new day, and the fast-moving Elk Creek gurgled at his feet, splashing over and around rocks. A small, dark, water ouzle disappeared into the fast water only to pop up onto a rock a few feet away.

“We’re not here to birdwatch,” Larry called from the rock on which he perched. “If we don’t catch three more, we’re going to be fishing for lunch, not breakfast.”

Larry, or Lawrence, was always “Lt. Stokes” to Mark. African-American, as was his wife Alyssa, Larry was a quietly powerful man. Having been a collegiate wrestler and a damn good one at that, he was bulkier, taller, and kept himself in top physical condition. He had worn his hair in a Short Afro with Temple Fade since the time they met, over fifteen years ago as rookie police officers. On the job, they were colleagues but outside of work, the best of friends.

“I thought about crossing over and fishing the other side,” Mark called back as Stokes deftly landed his dry fly across a nice deep pool.

“If you can’t cast to the other side, you’re not much of a fisherman.”

“Then my fishing skills match your cribbage skills. You’d think that at your age, you’d be able to count to fifteen.”

Larry ignored the dig.

Day three of their four-day camping trip, and the previous night, Mark and Rachael, Larry and Alyssa, had played four-handed cribbage long into the night. Paired into teams with husbands versus wives, the stakes had been a fish-fry breakfast. Adding insult to injury, the women set the alarm clocks for five a.m. and requested coffee and a blazing campfire before sending the men out to catch the entrée.

Two tents pitched between the Winterhawk’s 32-foot camp trailer and Stokes’ 28-footer, housed the teenagers. Dakota Winterhawk and Tucker Stokes occupied the green tent. Anna Winterhawk and her good friend Brenda had the yellow tent.

“Shut up and fish, okay?” Larry called back. “If we don’t catch at least three more, somebody’s going hungry and it won’t be the wives and kids.”

“Here,” Mark said. Pulling a protein bar from the pocket of his jacket he threw it to Larry.

Mark wore his signature jacket, brown leather with a white breastplate loosely patterned after the Red-Tailed Hawk. He had made several versions, ranging from heavy fleece-lined to the thin leather he now wore.

“Hey, take a look.” Stokes said, nodding towards the nearby dirt road.

A Ford Bronco with bold SHERIFF lettering came to a stop. Moments later, a uniformed man exited the vehicle and strode across the meadow towards them. Older than Mark and Larry, he may have once been fit but now a heavy paunch folded over his belt. Graying at the temples, his face was patterned with sun-damaged wrinkles and his forehead lined with concern.

“Don’t think he wants to look at our fishing licenses,” Mark said.

“Don’t think he’s here to wish us good luck either.”

Reeling in their lines and collecting their creel of fish, Mark and Larry met him halfway.

“We’re looking for a young girl, thirteen years old,” the sheriff said.

“We haven’t seen anything,” Larry answered. Exchanging handshakes, he continued, “I’m Lt. Stokes, Salt Lake City police and this is Detective Mark Winterhawk.”

“Yeah. I talked to your wives a few minutes ago. They said you were up early and might have seen or heard something.”

“Maybe the kid went out for a morning stroll?” Mark said.

He shook his head. “Several people heard an ATV come and go sometime in the middle of the night. The parents are a basket case. She’s hysterical and he’s threatening to buy a rifle and shoot the ex-husband. They’re convinced the woman’s ex has kidnapped the kid. Claims to have a restraining order against him.”

“They don’t think she just took the ATV for a joy ride?” Larry asked.

“They don’t have an ATV and everybody else’s off-road vehicles are accounted for.”

“Our kids were up all night, so they’d have heard or seen anything,” Mark said.

“I didn’t speak to any kids.”

“We’ll go back and ask. You’re thinking she was abducted, then.”

“At this point, anything’s possible. The family went into town for ice cream the other day and girl posted pictures all over social media, so literally hundreds of people know they’re camping here. It could be anyone.”

“Have you started a search?” Larry asked.

“We’re setting up a command center at the Elk Creek Ranger Station. Search and Rescue is on their way but with a few hours head start, it don’t look promising. There’s a helluva lot of country to cover.”

“We’ll help any way we can,” Mark said. “We can be at the ranger station within half an hour.”

“Thanks, but I’m not taking civilian volunteers.”

“We’re a little more than civilian,” Larry said.

Rachael and ’Lyss had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage and sourdough flapjacks sizzling in butter and grease upon their return. That, with the sharp smell of percolating coffee along with the sound of snapping flames sent Mark’s stomach grumbling. Sally, the Winterhawk’s chocolate lab, counter surfed the folding table laden with food yet to be cooked.

Tall and lithe, Rachael Winterhawk wore her long black hair straight accentuating her bronze complexion. Mark met her at a festival when she held a dual career of stock car racing and modeling. Careers that she carried into their marriage until seven years ago, when she left them for engineering. Athletically enough for one and nubile for the other, Rachael maintained those qualities well. Alyssa, or ’Lyss, was roughly the same height as Rachael and had a curvaceous figure that turned heads. Her Shaggy Bob accentuated her figure in an elegant manner.

“Larry,” ’Lyss said, giving him a welcoming kiss. “The sheriff was just here and told us what happened.”

Rachael turned from the griddle of eggs and sausage, saying, “We knew you’d volunteer, but you still owe us.”

“We caught five,” Mark said, eyebrows raised seeking approval. “Consider it a down-payment on tomorrow’s breakfast?”

He set the creel aside and Sally trotted over to inspect.

Larry climbed into the tent that housed the boys. Consensus was that about three-thirty that morning, an ATV came into the campground from the east, idled for about a minute during which time they heard people moving about, then left the same way it came.

Pouring himself a much-needed cup of coffee, Mark said, “they’re setting up a command center at the ranger station. We’re going down there to see what we can do.”

Rachael rotated the grill off the fire. “The poor girl, I hope she’s all right. I could hear her mom and dad calling. Paisley. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”

“Any premonitions?” Mark asked.

She shook her head. Rachael had the dubious gift of premonitions, one that she considered more of a curse than blessing. But at the moment, nothing, which could be a good thing.

“I’m going to get a backpack ready,” Mark said as he folded pancakes over eggs and sausage, taco style. Larry loaded his onto a plate, covered everything with maple syrup, and carried it into their camper.

Quickly loading his solid frame backpack with snacks, bottles of water, rope, and a first-aid kit, Mark stepped out to find Larry with his similarly loaded backpack and his service weapon, a Glock 22 .40 caliber strapped to his hip. Mark strapped on his own service weapon, an STI .45 Lawman ACP. Not that they intended to shoot anyone, but there was no telling if whoever Paisley went with was armed. Besides, this was bear and wolf country.

“Larry thought you should use the walkie talkies since there’s no cell phone service,” Rachael said.

“We’ll see what they want us to do first.”

With that, they tossed their backpacks into the bed of Stokes’ Jimmy, a big Sierra 2500, and roared away. Much to the chagrin of Sally who expected to be invited on every trip.

Three men and two women were inside the ranger station when Mark and Larry arrived, representing Forest Service, Fish and Game, sheriff and deputies. The group was engrossed in a topo map taped to the wall, and introductions were professionally succinct.

“The kids heard the ATV about three-thirty,” Larry announced. “It pulled into camp, stopped for a moment, then left heading east on the Landmark Road.”

“Good info, thanks,”

“As I was saying,” the sheriff – Caden Caprio – briefed Mark and Lawrence. “State police are covering the main roads. Search and Rescue has a bird in the sky and six people on the ground covering Bear Valley Creek, and Wyoming Creek over to Lola Creek,” he said, drawing a circle on the map. “That’s areas 1, 2, and 3. We’ve got more people on the way to cover Collie Lake and Marsh Creek. For now, we’re going out in teams of twos. Robin and Dave, you’re area 4, from NF-568 over to Dagger Creek. Leaman and Ramadi are going to take the North Fork Elk Creek trail, then follow Camptender over to the Silver Moon trail, area 5. ”

“You two,” Caprio told Mark and Larry. “I want you to start at the switchback on Bear Valley Mountain and follow the Mountain Meadows trail to where it intersects with Camptender, then back to Dagger Falls Road. That’s area 6. Most of these trails are wide enough for an ATV, and they crisscross everywhere, so just because they headed east don’t mean they didn’t change course. If they get into the wilderness area, we’re probably looking for bodies.”

“What are their names?” Larry asked.

“The girl is Paisley Macon and she’s wearing Harry Potter pajamas and pink slippers. We have reason to believe the mom’s ex, Arleigh Macon, took her. Mom and dad are Harlow and Bruce Wilder. If there’s nothing else, let’s get moving. Check in when you can. Be careful because we don’t know if he’s armed.”

Within the hour, although it seemed much longer, Mark was leading the way along Bear Valley Mountain in his F-250, with the Stokes following in Larry’s Jimmy. Barren, rolling hills stripped clean from the last forest fire, rolled across the horizon below. Dead fall spread across the landscape like spilled toothpicks, but here and there were groves of pines that miraculously escaped the flames. Distant, forested mountains were a hazy blue-black from the light smog pushing out of the Boise area.

The plan was for Rachael and ’Lyss to remain at the lookout tower on top of Bear Valley Mountain where they could get cell phone service. Mark and Larry would relay information via walkie talkie.

Keeping his eyes on the narrow road that cut along the steep hillside, Mark said to Rachael, “We should have good reception since we’re only going about four or five miles. We’ll let you know when we turn back to Dagger Falls Road. You’ll be okay?”

“For the third time, yes, we’ll be okay. I’ve got my CZ and ’Lyss has her Sig, and we a cooler of snacks and drinks. Besides, if we need anything, it’s not that far back to camp. We’re good, so stop worrying.”

“Sorry. I’ve worked too many years with obsessive compulsive behavior being a job requirement.”

The road made a switchback and ended at the lookout tower. Larry pulled next to him and climbed out.

“You got everything you need?” Larry asked ’Lyss.

“Yes. Again.”

“Okay then, don’t forget to call the kids.”

“I know. Please. Just worry about yourselves.”

“When you call the office, remember to ask for Lt. DellaRoma.”

“I will, I will.”

“Call the office for what?” Mark said.

“I requested a background check on the dad and family since the sheriff obviously isn’t going to share any information with us.”

Hoisting their backpacks, Mark and Larry kissed their wives good luck then walked down the road to the trailhead.

“If nothing else, the hike will do us good,” Mark commented.

“I’d rather be fishing.” Larry said. “Since you’re the tracker, I’ll follow,”

Mark checked in with the sheriff, offered a silent prayer to the spirits and angels, then led the way into Bear Valley.

“Even I can track this,” Larry said, pointing to a clear set of ATV tracks.

“If this is them, there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are they on the west side of Bear Valley Campground, when they left heading east? Did they double back?”

“And if they did,” Larry continued Mark’s train of thought, “where are they going?”

“It makes no sense.”

“Unless these aren’t their tracks. But then, these trails off limits to motor vehicles.”

Two hours at a slow steady pace, with frequent stops to look and listen, brought them to the East Fork of Elk Creek where the trail dropped into a long, lush meadow. Here, they stopped for Mark to reconnoiter and Larry to check in with ’Lyss and Rachael.

“Hey, babe,” he said after a burst of static. “Did DellaRoma have any info on the girl and dad?”

“Plenty. Little over a year ago, mom and dad went through a nasty divorce. Court records show that mom threatened the dad both financially and socially. She got the house and moved her boyfriend in. He’s now her husband. Arleigh the dad, on the other hand, threatened to load the girl into a car and drive off a cliff. He was found guilty of vandalism, but he got off easy when the judge ruled that she had provoked him into doing it.”

“What a wonderful example of parenting. Mom makes threats and dad takes action.”

“It looks that way. Interestingly enough, Arleigh Macon reserved a camping spot at the Fir Creek Campground not far from here.”

“That’s east of us on Landmark Road, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Interesting. Thanks. Love you.”

Lt. Stokes was seated on a log snacking on cheese and crackers, and washing it down with a bottle of water when Mark returned. He quickly updated Mark on the latest information.

“Do you think this is the same ATV that took Paisley?”

“Pretty certain. There’s fresh dust on the grass, powdery where the dew didn’t form, so it had to be this morning.”

Taking snacks and water from his backpack, along with his binoculars, Mark walked up a partially uprooted stump angling towards the sky. With the splintered end rising a good seven feet off the ground, he had a clear view of the surrounding landscape.

“We should be pushing on,” Larry said.

“Patience. Give things time to fall into place.”

“Patience my ass, it’s getting hot.”

A flash caught Mark’s attention. Zooming in, he saw a handlebar and rear-view mirror reflecting the morning sun.

“I got something,” he called back to Lt. Stokes. “Could be an ATV.”

Stokes rose and hefted his backpack.

“It’s on the other side of Elk Creek,” Mark said, “maybe half a mile away, near the upper end of the meadow.”

“He could be watching the trail, and we don’t know if he’s armed.”

“I think they’re in flight mode, not waiting and watching.”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“What say we split up? You follow the meadow and I’ll take the hillside, just inside the timber. If he is sitting and watching, we’ll flank him.”

“Are your betting your life on this?”

“I’m betting both our live,” Mark said and walked back down from the towering stump. “But that’s assuming he’s armed, which I doubt.”

Pointing to a distant, low rise at the upper end of the meadow, Mark said, “the ATV is on the other side of that rise. The trail angles through the meadow lengthwise then loops around the upper end.”

“You’re sure it’s an ATV.”

“The tracks we’re following lead that way.”

In keeping to his word, Mark followed the low domed hilltop to the edge of the burn and entered the spotty pine forest. He didn’t hurry, given that Larry had the longer route. From his elevated position, Mark acted as Larry’s eyes, pausing frequently and for long periods of time scanning with his binoculars.

With a stealth that had been ingrained into him since his earliest memories, Mark moved silently, fluidly, between the trees, through grass and wild shrubbery. Reaching out with his senses, becoming one with the nature around him, listening for disturbances. The angry chatter of a scolding pine squirrel, the raucous teasing of a jay or raven.

Mark found the ATV just beyond a growth of four pines, and after waiting to make sure it was abandoned, began investigating.

“It looks like they hit a rock a couple hundred yards back and bent the oil plug, draining the oil pan,” Mark said as Larry met up with him.

“Then this is where the engine seized.”

“Yup. And look here, I’d say he’s size 11 and she’s still wearing slippers. She was helping him push it.”

“Voluntarily?”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows? Whatever plans they had, this screwed them up big time.”

“The trail splits up ahead. West takes them to the North Fork of Elk Creek. North takes them to Silver Moon. East takes them back to Dagger Falls Road. Anyway you look at it, it’s a long hike, especially for a kid in slippers.”

“I would think that if they were going back to the road, they’d simply cut across country instead of following the trail.”

“Maybe they’re lost.”

“Let’s call in the ATV and location. It’s time for me to really start tracking,” Mark said.

Skirting the meadow, they came to a patch of groundwater that turned the trail soft and dark. Water still seeped into the man’s footprints, and Mark commented on the fact that they were closing in. Hopefully, dad wouldn’t panic and do anything stupid. Or, more stupid than what he’d already done, Mark thought.

The trail turned north and became hard and rocky and Mark wondered how much farther the girl could go in slippers, uncomfortable with how the situation was playing out. Stopping for lunch at the intersection of Mountain Meadows and Camptender trails, Mark took a seat on a fallen log while Larry selected a shaded rock. The day was heating up under the full sun and sapping their strength. The girl and her dad must be suffering even more.

“This is as far as the sheriff said to go,” Mark commented. “From here, we’re to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”

“The tracks don’t go that way. I don’t think we should, either.”

“I agree. I say we check in with the sheriff and keep going.”

“He won’t be happy about it.”

“Probably not. We can follow Camptender over Silver Moon Creek and maybe meet up with the other search team, the deputies. They can take over the search and cover a lot more ground on horseback.”

Continuing, Mark kept his eyes on a trail that was becoming more difficult to follow. An upturned pebble here, loose dust there, a minute scuff on the hardpan was indication enough. The girl was becoming footsore and Arleigh more agitated, as evident where he turned around, walked back, or impatiently waited. Whether she fell or he was becoming rough with her slow progress, Mark saw where she had gone to her knees and struggled to get back up.

A wider, better developed trail paralleled Silver Moon Creek in zigzag fashion, and the open land gave way to forest. Continuing until they reached a copious amount of shade where soft, cool breezes wafted down the canyon, they rested. Judging from the sun, it was close to two in the afternoon and the heat was beyond oppressive. The scent of pines became dull and heavy, birds that had been chattering throughout the morning went silent.

Larry pulled out the map given them by the sheriff, and after a moment of looking, said, “we’re off the search map. It ended where we were supposed to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”

“We didn’t bring the atlas or Forest Service map, did we?”

“Nope.”

The search plane passed overhead south of them, at less than a thousand feet.

“The sheriff must have got our message about the ATV. I’ll call in this time,” Mark said, holding his hand out for the walkie-talkie. Larry tossed it to him.

Mark was forced to walk back to Camptender Trail for better reception. It was Rachael on the other end.

“Hi Rache, it’s Mark,” he said through heavy static.

“Hey, hon, where are you? Is everything okay?”

“Fine. You got a map?”

“’Lyss is getting it with a few other things.”

Several minutes later, Rachael called back with map in hand. Mark described their location.

“Okay, so you’ve left Camptender and are starting up the Silver Moon trail. It continues on for several miles to Prospect Creek. There’s a ranch and landing strip there. Any sign of the girl and her dad?”

“I’m still tracking them. Can you let the sheriff know?”

“He’s very, shall we say, unhappy, with what you’re doing. Tell Larry that ’Lyss is also very unhappy, since the sheriff gave her an ass-chewing over you two not following orders.”

“Ouch. You’re not coming in clear, so we’re probably going to lose contact after this.”

“You take care.”

Mark updated Larry and added, “We’re getting close, so I’ll go first. Follow me about twenty-five yards back. We won’t be together if I get jumped, but you’ll be close enough to respond.”

“I don’t like you taking the lead all the time. Don’t forget, I outrank you.”

“Since this isn’t in our jurisdiction, rank don’t matter. Like you said, I’m the tracker.”

They started off with guns in hand.

Paisley’s feet were now scuffed the ground with every step as someone trying to keep their shoes, or slippers in this case, on. Or perhaps she was leaving a clear trail, Mark couldn't tell. A quarter mile farther he came across a pink slipper patterned with yellow daisies. Dirty, muddy, it’s stitching was coming apart.

Once again the search plane passed overhead to the north, and higher. Arleigh would be growing desperate, not only because the search was closing in on him, but his escape was being slowed by his daughter. If Mark was attuned to the narrowing of the search, how much keener did Arleigh feel it? How would he react? Abandon her? Kill her?

Not far from the slipper, he found the first speck of blood. Barefoot and bleeding, Paisley would slow them down considerably. So close, Mark thought, fighting desperation. With her rescue within their grasp, time was running out faster than they could travel and the thought of arriving a split second too late hounded him. He felt the world around them stop to watch with anticipation. Over and over the image of arriving just in time to witness Paisley’s murder hounded him, spurred him on.

The trail turned rocky and the blood specks became more difficult to find, but Mark tracked with the skill of his forefathers. Not that this was the most difficult tracking he had done but it had the highest stakes for sure. Then the second slipper. Several hundred yards farther, rocks gave way to hard packed dirt and the girl’s footprints no longer appeared, not even a hint of blood. Was he carrying her? Or had he killed Paisley and tossed her body off the trail?

Crouching nose to the ground, Mark found the hint of a heel print and marked it with a small rock. Crawling forward, he found another and marked it. Placing his own heels on the marks he made, it was obvious that the stride was not that of a man carrying a teenage girl and the chill of realization momentarily chased away the heat.

Behind him came a soft scrape of rocks. Whirling, he and Larry stared at one another. Mark gestured “all clear”.

“The girl’s not with him,” Mark said softly.

“Damn. She has to be somewhere between here and that last slipper. Unless he left her farther back and carried it this far to throw anyone off.”

“He’s in a hurry and not thinking. The last speck of blood I found was about three hundred yards back. Dead or alive, she’s close by.”

Throwing caution aside, they hurried back. It took Mark a few minutes to find the blood he was looking for.

“You take the uphill side of the trail. I’ll take the downhill side,”Mark said.

With the uphill side of the trail being softer dirt sprinkled with pine needles, Larry had the easier search than Mark, who had to negotiate knee-high grass. Pausing to listen, he heard the faint gurgle of water below.

He hadn’t gone far before finding several blades of bent and bruised grass. Ahead was a small, natural opening between brush and where found a few more blades of damaged grass. The sound of the stream became louder as he approached. By the sound of it, Silver Moon Creek was no more than a trickle of water perhaps six inches wide and three or four deep. Then came another sound. A small, plaintive wail.

With his every sense alert, Mark crept through the sparse brush and trees. Twenty feet away sat a small hunched figure, hair disheveled, sobbing. Wearing only Harry Potter pajamas, Paisley sat crying, soaking her feet in the trickle of water.

Mark swayed with relief. He crouched, watching for a few moments to make sure she was alone, then he re-holstered his gun.

“Paisley,” Mark said softly.

Screaming, lurching to her feet, she stumbled and fell.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m a police officer,” Mark said.

“Go away!” She screamed. “Leave me alone!”

“You know I can’t do that. Can we sit and talk for a little while?”

Shaking, she stared at him with indecision, weighing her options.

“There’s no place to go and you won’t get far barefoot. I’ve got food and water.”

She stared back indecisivel,y then dropped back to the ground. “I don’t care no more.”

“I’m going to call my friend, he’s also a police officer. Is that okay?”

“I don’t care,” she said, nestling her head in her hands.

“Lieutenant! Down here!” Mark called. Then to Paisley, “are you hurt?”

“My feet.”

“Where is your dad?”

“Why? I haven’t seen him for, like, months.”

Larry came storming through the brush, gun in hand.

“We found her,” Mark said, then turning back to Paisley, “if your dad didn’t take you, who’s the man you were with?”

“I don’t know. Stupid. I’m a damned stupid idiot. I’m in a whole shitload of trouble, aren’t I?”

“Not really. Who is he?”

“All he told me his player name, MupoLupo666. We met playing online video games and he said he was fifteen. When I said we were camping here, he said we’d hang out. My parents suck, so I snuck out this morning but he wasn’t no fifteen years old.”

“Predator,” Larry whispered to Mark.

“Go on,” Mark prompted.

“When I saw that he was old, like in his twenties or thirties. It was too late. I told him I was going to jump off the ATV and he said to go ahead, I’d just get boogered up and it’d be easier for him. He told me that if I didn’t go with him, he’d shoot me.”

“He’s armed then?” Larry said.

“Yeah. Big gun.”

“Where did you last see him?” Mark said.

“Up there,” Paisley said and threw her arm in the general direction of the trail “I couldn’t walk no more so he left me. Said he wasn’t screwing his life over someone like me. He was going to shoot me but I told him someone would hear, then the plane scared him. So he just left me and said I wouldn’t make it out alive anyway.”

“You are going to make it alive. Can I take a look at your feet?” Larry said, crouching next to her. “Would you like some water? Something to eat?”

“Guess so,” she said and pivoted to present her feet to him. Both soles were raw, cut, and blistered.

“You went east this morning. How did you get over here?” Larry said.

Paisley smirked, chuckled, then answered. “He ditched the ATV in the brush next to the river. He had a camper van at the Fir Creek Campground and taped my hands and feet together. I was really scared, but it was funny, too. It was dark and he was going too fast and crashed into one of those rocks they line the campground with. I told him my dad was camping there and he’d kill him, so MupoLupo gets the ATV out of the brush and we come back this way. The sun was coming up and he was scared someone would see us, so we took this road but it stopped on top of a mountain that had a tower, so we turned around and found this trail.”

Mark handed her some jerky, cheese and crackers, and a bottle of water. Larry pulled out his first aid kit, but a distant gunshot rippled down the canyon stopping him.

“Damn it all,” Mark grumbled. “Tell you what, take care of her and get her back the Camptender Trail.”

Two more shots in rapid succession echoed down the canyon.

“Two different guns. One’s a rifle.”

“Don’t you dare!” Stokes demanded.

Another shot.

“Gotta respond to this.”

“Then here,” Larry said handing Mark his sidearm. “Take mine, too.”

Mark stuck Larry’s Glock in his waist band, grabbed his backpack, and headed up trail at a jog he could maintain for long periods of time. Two more shots echoed down the canyon. The search plane crossed the canyon about a mile ahead and three more shots rang out.

Mark had reached a point where the canyon opened and the forest thickened when the rapid clip-clop of hooves stopped him cold. Pulling Larry’s Glock from his waist band, he eased off the trail. Moments later, a brown piebald horse trotted over a rise in the trail. Saddled and carrying a pack and empty scabbard, it’s reins trailed between its legs.

“Whoa, whoa,” Mark said gently and stepped out. It shied, eyes wide with fear. Mark feared it would bolt. However, the horse remained, snorting, side-stepping, but not running off. Mark approached calmly, soothing it with soft “whoas”. It’s head jerked as he gently took up the reins.

Gently sliding his hand down its neck, he slowly, carefully, lifting his foot to the stirrup. The horse flinched and sidled away. Mark regrouped, took gentle control, and this time mounted as the horse circled him warily.

T Turning back up the trail, he coaxed it into a canter that would have been a nice ride under any other circumstance. As they approached the area where Mark believed the fighting had occurred, he slowed to a trot and then a walk. Keeping a close eye on the horse’s behavior, he was certain it would tell him where.

And it did.

The horse shied, reared, and swung it’s head, showing the whites of it’s eyes. It took several minutes to settle the horse enough to dismount and hitch it to a tree. Pulling out Larry’s Glock, Mark cautiously proceeded on foot. Three brass casings lay on the side of the trail.

A stifled groan came from a patch of White Mules Ears. Dropping and ready to fire, Mark called out.

“This is Detective Mark Winterhawk. Identify yourself.”

Everything went tense and silent. Mark called out again. Eventually came a strained, “Deputy Ramadi.”

“I’m going to approach, is that okay?”

“Yeah.”

Mark approached in a low crouch, slowly, cautiously, scanning the surroundings. He came to a light-haired man of about thirty lying in a bed of tall flowers. The right shoulder and left ankle of his uniform were wet with blood. Relief swept over his face when Mark slipped the gun back into his waist band.

“I got a first aid kit,” Mark said, unslinging his backpack. “It doesn’t look like you lost a whole lot of blood.”

“Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”

Mark rifled through his backpack for a bottle of water and his kit.

“Bastard ambushed me from the rocks,” Ramadi said and struggled to a sitting position. He took the bottle of warm water Mark offered. “Bleeding’s pretty much stopped but not completely.”

Ramadi chugged half the bottle in one go. Mark unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulder. Ramadi endured the pain silently through gritted teeth.

“Where’s the other deputy?” Mark said.

“Leaman? Her horse threw a shoe several miles over and she headed back. Since nobody was assigned to this area, I decided to swing around and head back myself.”

“We have the girl. The man who took her isn’t her dad,” Mark said. Then, “this’ll hurt a little.” Ramadi groaned and his face contorted as Mark doused the shoulder with alcohol.

“That didn’t hurt too bad,” Ramadi wheezed. “Bastard popped me in the shoulder. Knocked me off my horse. He was really after my horse.”

“It’s hitched to a tree just down the trail,” Mark said. Wrapping gauze around the wound, he secured it with sports tape before re-buttoning the shirt.

“Which way did he go?”

Ramadi waved to the other sidehill. “North. We exchanged fire. It sounded like he had a .357 Mag. He got me in the leg and I dropped the rifle, of all things. Right there in the damn trail. No way of getting it without getting shot again, so I crawled up here. He took my rifle, then the plane flew over and he took several shots at it. Last I saw, he was heading to Prospect Creek. Did I tell you that he really wanted was my horse, but it bolted?”

By the time he ended his explanation, Mark had his leg bandaged.

“You say you found the girl. Is she alive? Hurt?”

“She’s fine. Lt. Stokes took her back to Camptender Trail where he could get receiption and call in a rescue.”

“You two have been a big help in spite of what Sheriff Caprio thinks. He doesn’t like working with people he don’t know.”

“Totally understandable. As for you, I hate to say this, but you’ve got a ruptured Achilles. Or maybe that’s good news since he missed the bone.”

“Well shit, I’m due for some time off. Help me up,” he said extending his good arm.

“So he’s got your rifle and a handgun and about a half hour head start,” Mark said, helping the deputy to his feet.

“You ain’t going after him.”

“Can you ride?”

“Yeah. I’m not so bad that I can’t. But you can’t be going after him by yourself.”

Mark, bearing Ramadi’s full weight, walked him down to the trail.

“I’ll get you on your horse and you go back to Camptender. I’m going after the perp. He only identifies himself by his player name MupoLupo666.”

“Well, MupoLupo is wearing a green shirt. That’s all I can tell. I heard that they found his van at the campground.”

“He crashed into a rock.”

“Coincidence, huh? That’s where her dad, Arleigh, is camping. Apparently Arleigh follows Paisley on social media and was camping there just to harass the mom. Close enough to worry her but far enough away to not get charged with stalking. The sheriff ran him off, anyway.”

“Helluva life for a kid.”

“Think this over very carefully, detective. He’s armed and dangerous.”

“So am I.”

Deputy Ramadi supported himself on a pine bow while Mark gathered his horse. It was an excruciating task of mounting him into the saddle, and Mark feared his wounds would open up. If they did, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable. Ramadi called the situation in on his satphone before handing it to Mark.

“Take my satellite phone if you’re going after him. Search and Rescue are coming up the trail now, so I’ll probably meet them about halfway.”

Mark took the phone, wished him good luck, and waited until he disappeared down the trail. He seemed to be riding well enough.

Tired, thirsty, and worn down by sun and thin air, Mark nonetheless pushed up the trail at a strong pace. His quarry didn’t appear to be in as good a physical condition and now the rifle was weighing him down. The extra eight or nine pounds wasn’t much, but Mark noticed he was shuffling more, his gait shorter and not as steady. And he was resting more often.

The pines thinned out into rolling hills that sloped down to Prospect Creek, a wide, shallow stream of water that Mark instinctively evaluated for fishing. Opposite the creek ran a wide meadow thick with willows that carried all the way to the ranch a quarter mile away. Mark turned to watch a helicopter land on the distant flats of Camptender Trail. After a few minutes it rose and disappeared.

Selecting a nice flat rock on which to rest, he scanned the area with his binoculars. A few hundred yards away and not far below him, he caught a brief glimpse of the man. As described by the deputy, he was wearing a dark green long-sleeve shirt. His brown hair shoulder length, a scruff of a beard on his square face, and he was shouldering the deputy’s rifle.

He’s not walking with confidence, that’s for sure, Mark thought as he watched the man stumble over the rough terrain, hunched in the way tired people walk.

If the perp made it across Prospect Creek, rooting him out of the heavy willows would be extremely difficult and dangerous. If he made it across the meadow and to the ranch, the sheriff would be looking at a hostage situation.

Mark placed a call on the deputy’s satphone.

“Sherrif Caprio. Is this Detective Winterhawk?”

“It’s me. How’s Deputy Ramadi?”

“On his way to Boise. Now why don’t you just tell me where the hell you are so we can get you out of there?”

“I’ve got the perp in my sights if you want him. Your deputy thought he was armed with a .357 and he now has a rifle.”

A lengthy pause made Mark smile briefly with self-satisfaction.

“Where are you? And don’t try anything.”

“I’m where Silver Moon runs into Prospect Creek. The perp is making his way through the trees and if he gets across Prospect Creek, you’re going to have a helluva time finding him in all those willows. Not top mention a hostage situation if he makes it to the ranch.”

Mark could feel how much Caprio hated asking him, but said, “can you keep eyes on him?”

“I can do that.”

“Whatever you don’t scare him off. I’m sending one of our choppers. I’ll let them know your position.”

“Appreciate it.”

The man crawled into the shade of a tree. Whether he was waiting for night, catching his breath, or weighing his options, Mark waited him out. Eventually came the distant “whumping” of a helicopter. The man heard it too. With his attention fixed on the approaching helicopter, Mark scurried closer, stopping behind a pine tree a hundred yards back. While he wanted to get close enough to provide support, he didn’t want to get close enough to catch any friendly fire.

The chopper approached and Mark watched the man ready the rifle. He phoned in a warning and moments later, the chopper veered away. It hovered off in the distance before beginning a new approach. Through his binoculars, Mark saw a shooter strapped to his seat inside the open door. Then a loudspeaker blared a warning to the man.

Mark watched him shoulder the rifle and take aim through the pine boughs. The helicopter came in high and the man let go with a shot. The chopper swung, then tried for a better run.

Mark yelled to the man, identifying himself and ordering him to disarm. He was answered by bullets ripping through the trees around him. Taking aim, Mark fired back, shattering a limb several feet above his head. Scurrying around the tree, he exposed himself to the helicopter. Caught in the open, he fired two shots. Then came a lone shot came from the helicopter. It hovered for several minutes before peeling off towards the ranch.

The satphone came to life.

“We got him and are sending in a recovery team,” came the sheriff’s voice. “If you want to cross over to the ranch, the chopper will take you back.”

“I appreciate it,” Mark said with relief. “Let them know I’m on my way.”

He stood, took in the rugged countryside, smelled the distant willows, listened to nature’s silence, and thought of fishing Prospect Creek. In a moment of poignancy he reflected on the man lying below, then began his hike towards the lowering sun and the awaiting helicopter.