Chapter 32
Hollis Ridge — Cal’s Barn
The barns at Cal’s private residence were more like cathedrals of mahogany and brass. Izzy stood in the center of the aisle, the air smelling of sweet hay, expensive leather, and the warm, musk-scented breath of champion Thoroughbreds.
Cal was in the third stall, his face tight with concern as he and a vet worked on a bay mare with a twisted gut. “I’m sorry, Izzy,” he’d said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Colic doesn’t wait for houseguests.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she’d replied, her heart jumping as a low, mechanical hum vibrated through the rafters.
It was the sound of a small-engine plane. It was low—unusually low—skimming above the treeline. She watched through the open barn doors as a white silhouette banked hard toward the ridge.
“Is that a regular flight?” she asked.
The stable manager, a weathered man named Miller, shifted his weight. “Private run for the upper ridge.” He didn’t meet her eye.
Ten minutes later, with Cal fully occupied, Izzy saw her chance. “Miller? Cal said I could take one of the horses out if he was tied up. Would you mind saddling the gray gelding? I’d love to get a look at the ridge while the light is like this.”
Miller looked nervous. He knew the “Restricted” signs started where the pasture ended. But Izzy was Mr. Cal’s guest, and she was currently wearing a look of Denver-bred confidence that was hard to argue with. “I’ll get him ready. English gear?”
“Please,” she said.
* * *
The Restricted Line
Izzy didn’t look back at the stables. She pushed the gray gelding into a brisk trot the moment the mahogany barns were out of sight, then urged him into a canter. The rhythmic thud of hooves on the soft mountain turf was the only thing grounding her.
She wasn’t thinking about Cal or the horse emergency.
She was thinking about that low-pitched drone she’d heard over the barn.
She knew that plane was heading for the hollow she’d glimpsed through the trees the day before—the one with the building so well-camouflaged it looked like a shadow against the ridge.
She pushed deeper into the restricted zone, the “Authorized Personnel Only” signs flashing past like warnings she was too far gone to heed.
When the trail grew too thick for the horse, she slid out of the saddle, her English boots skidding on the damp needles.
She tied the gelding deep in the mountain laurel, patted his neck with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, and set off on foot.
She moved like a ghost, driven by a mix of curator-precision and adrenaline.
Then, the woods opened up.
Below her, nestled in a natural amphitheater of rock, was the building. Not a shack. A monolith. Corrugated steel painted in jagged streaks of forest green and slate gray that broke up the outline against the trees.
Camouflage, she thought automatically. Industrial instead of artistic, but the principle was the same: break the lines, disappear the mass.
A forklift buzzed like a hornet on the asphalt strip, moving a heavy, plastic-wrapped pallet from the building’s loading dock toward the white nose of the idling plane.
Izzy didn’t think; she reacted. While the forklift driver was occupied at the plane and the fuel truck driver was staring at a clipboard, she scurried down the embankment. She slipped behind a stack of crates that had been offloaded.
Up close, she saw the labels.
FURNITURE REFINISHING.
All caps. Cheap font. Slapped on at the same height on every crate. The manifests were stapled dead-center on the right-hand edge, identical placement on every unit—that wasn’t how a sleepy local refinishing shop operated. That was how you built a fast-read grid for scanners and loaders.
From the road, it would look like low-value inventory. From inside the pattern, the whole thing was laid out for massive, rapid movement.
Of course, it is, her curator brain muttered. Even the lies are staged.
Her breath came in shallow hitches. She reached out, her fingers grazing the rough wood of the crate. A shipping manifest was stapled to the side under a layer of grime. She held her phone steady, her heart hammering so hard it felt like it would crack a rib.
Click.
The screen glowed with the image: V. VARGA / VAN-MED LOGISTICS.
She shoved the phone into her pocket and rounded the back of the building, her mind racing, cataloging even as her pulse spiked. She was about to sneak a peek around the far corner to see where the forklift had gone when the world went black.
An arm locked around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. Before she could scream, a rough hand clamped over her mouth, smothering the sound.
Izzy thrashed, her boots kicking uselessly at the air, her fingernails clawing at the forearm locked across her ribs. Cold, paralyzing horror washed over her.
For one blinding second, she understood exactly how a woman disappeared on this mountain.
Oh God, she thought, her eyes widening until they burned. What have I done?
The grip didn’t loosen. She was hauled backward, deeper into the suffocating shadows of the hemlocks, away from the light, away from the horse, and away from any hope of being found.