Chapter 33
Cory’s stomach roiled as he pointed his SUV up the mountain, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the wet flakes that seemed determined to blind them. The December sun was already surrendering to the mountains, weak light filtering through heavy clouds that promised more snow.
"Next left," Izzy said, though he already knew the way. Everyone who'd lived in Hope Landing knew Sunset Point.
Single access road—bad for escape routes. Steep drop off on one side, rock wall on the other. Limited cover except for the old viewing platform and concrete barriers. If this was a trap, they were driving straight into it.
Beside him, Izzy checked her Glock for the second time in five minutes. The motion was subtle, but he caught it. She was nervous too, though she'd never admit it.
"Could park below and approach on foot," he suggested.
"In this snow? We'd be sitting ducks if we need to move fast." She was right, of course. Her tactical experience outweighed his by years. "Besides, if Andrew's really in trouble, we need to be mobile."
The old mining road was barely visible beneath the fresh snow, just twin ruts that his SUV's tires followed more by memory than sight. Pine branches heavy with white bent low over the road, occasionally scraping the roof with sounds like fingernails on a coffin.
Stop being dramatic, Fraser. It's just another call.
Except it wasn't.
The road opened up suddenly, and Sunset Point spread before them—a wide semicircle of cracked asphalt being slowly reclaimed by forest. The old viewing platform was blocked by concrete barriers the county had installed after too many accidents, their gray bulk now softened by snow.
Andrew's rental Lexus sat at an angle near the barriers, as if he'd slid to a stop. The driver's door hung open, interior light casting a yellow rectangle on the white ground.
No sign of Andrew.
"That's not good," Izzy breathed.
Every instinct Cory had developed in fifteen years of law enforcement screamed. Open car door in December. No visible occupant. This was all wrong.
He positioned the SUV for a quick escape—nose pointed toward the exit road, enough angle to use the vehicle as cover if needed. The engine ticked as he killed it, the sound sharp in the mountain silence.
They exited together without discussion, weapons drawn but held low. The snow muffled their footsteps as they approached Andrew's vehicle.
"Andrew?" Cory called out, his voice echoing off the rock face. "Andrew Duarte? Hope Landing Police."
Nothing.
The Lexus was empty, but the keys still dangled from the ignition. Andrew's phone lay on the passenger seat. Fresh snow was already accumulating on the leather through the open door.
"Got footprints," Izzy said quietly.
Cory moved to where she crouched. In the beam of her tactical light, the story was written in the snow.
Andrew's dress shoes—completely inappropriate for mountain weather—had left distinctive prints leading from the car toward the barriers.
But they were joined by larger prints. Boot treads, deep and purposeful.
"Two operatives," Izzy murmured. "Maybe three."
They followed the trail, weapons up now. Near the concrete barriers, the pristine snow was churned into chaos. Clear signs of a struggle—snow angels that had nothing to do with play. And there, stark against the white—
"Blood." Izzy's light caught the dark spots. "Not much, but..."
In the distance, carried on the thin mountain air, came the growl of an engine. Getting closer.
"Move," Cory ordered, already backing toward better cover.
But they'd barely taken three steps when the dark van roared into the overlook, tires sliding on the snow as it fishtailed to a stop.
The side door was already rolling open, and Cory caught a glimpse of Andrew—duct tape across his mouth, eyes wide with terror, a black-clad form holding a gun to his head.
Two men burst from the van like eager dogs released from their chains. One headed straight for Izzy, the other vectoring toward Cory.
Time slowed.
Cory's attacker was big, matching his own six-two, but the guy had twenty pounds on him. The man moved with the confidence of someone used to winning through sheer size. Sloppy, though. Telegraphing his rush like a drunk in a bar fight.
Training took over. Cory sidestepped at the last second, using the man's momentum against him. He grabbed the extended arm, pivoted, and introduced the attacker's face to the concrete barrier with decisive force.
The man went down hard and didn't move.
In his peripheral vision, Cory saw Izzy dealing with her attacker—a blur of motion that ended with the man on his knees, arm bent at an angle that would require medical attention.
"Back off."
The shout froze them both. A third man remained in the van, gun pressed against Andrew's temple. The kidnapper's hand shook slightly, but at that distance, it wouldn't matter.
"Just back off," the gunman repeated. "We only want the woman. This doesn't have to get messy."
We only want the woman.
Cory's blood turned to ice.