Chapter 4 #2
Thunder growled overhead. Her thumb hovered over North’s number. What would she even say? Texting felt like not enough after his barrage of calls.
And really, was she okay? Maybe not. She’d dreamed of him during those few hours of fitful sleep. Dreamed that maybe she’d been wrong about…everything.
Maybe. But maybe not.
Truth was, they were very different people. And Mariposa had simply proven that.
Russian words, sharp and urgent, cut through the rain noise.
She spotted James pacing at the end of the porch, a phone pressed to his ear. His free hand gestured as he spoke, voice rising.
“Nyet. Seychas.”
She got the no. The rest went untranslated. But how had he gotten a call out? Clearly he had a better phone than she did.
“Da, u menya yest’ ona.”
She stilled, and that’s when he glanced at her. Blinked.
For a second, the rescuer, the hero, vanished. His eyes, his face hardened, and maybe—she might have imagined it—his eyes narrowed on her.
Then he turned away, hung up and pocketed the phone.
“You speak Russian?”
“It’s part of my job.” He sighed. “I’m late for my meeting.”
Right. “You mentioned the train wreck?”
He smiled then, and James was back, warmth in his eyes as he laughed. “Yes, I did. But…” He glanced at the truck. “I really think we need to go. I told Mr. Anderson I’d have his truck back last night. He probably thinks I stole it.”
Oh. See? Not a criminal.
“Yeah. Right. Let me say goodbye to Amy and Tommy.”
She headed inside, James behind her. Amy sat up to an island, the teddy bear clutched under her arm. She ate a piece of bread with what looked like butter and sugar.
Tommy sat beside her, wore a chocolate-milk mustache. Mrs. Hendrickson stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled a lot like chili.
“I’m so sorry, but I think we need to go,” Selah said.
“Nobody’s going anywhere.”
Selah turned. The old farmer stood in the doorway, shotgun braced against his shoulder. His eyes, which had brimmed with tears of gratitude ten minutes ago, now held steel.
James stepped back, put up his hands. “What’s going on?”
She, too, put up her arms.
“First, tell me what you’re doin’ with Butch Anderson’s truck.”
“Oh—we can explain,” Selah said.
“Can you explain why my best friend is lying dead in a morgue in Leavenworth?”
* * *
North jerked awake to rain tapping the Sonic’s roof, his neck wedged against the window at an angle that made his vertebrae scream.
His legs had cramped into pretzel shapes in the tiny car.
Of course he had to rent something designed for hobbits.
The dashboard clock blinked 9:47 a.m., mocking him.
He’d meant to be at the clinic when it opened.
He sat up and scrubbed his hands through his hair. What a night.
Those back roads from Leavenworth had turned treacherous in the dark.
What should have been a forty-minute drive stretched into two hours of switchbacks and unmarked turns, his phone losing signal between the mountains.
Twice, he’d nearly driven off the edge of logging roads that disappeared into nothing.
The Sonic’s headlights barely cut through the fog that had settled into the valleys like cotton wool.
Empty coffee cups littered the passenger seat, along with crushed granola-bar wrappers and a rain-wrinkled map he’d bought at a gas station when his GPS failed.
Again. The car smelled like stale coffee and wet clothes, and his muscles vibrated with the desperation that had kept him pushing too hard for too long.
His phone buzzed. Ham.
He swiped it open. “Tell me she called in and that someone found her.”
“Good morning to you too.” Ham’s voice sounded like he’d had his morning coffee. “And yes, she called her parents last night. And Jake called me. She’s okay.”
North leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. “Okay as in she hasn’t been taken hostage by Alan Martin?”
Silence.
Perfect. North sighed. “I talked to an eyewitness last night. He ID’d a guy that York said sounds like Martin. I don’t get it—what does he want with Selah?”
“Maybe it’s not intentional,” Ham said.
“York seems to think it is.”
More silence.
“Here’s what we think happened,” Ham said.
“The report from Logan on the train heist—which is what it was—was that the dump truck was left on the tracks deliberately. After the train derailed, the Bratva went in to steal the obsidite. It’s being transferred in small plastic containers packed in mineral oil. Very flammable when exposed to air.”
“The shooting couldn’t have helped.”
“No. According to sources, the freight car derailed, turned over, and the contents came untethered.”
“Did they get away with any?”
“It’s possible. At the very least, we know they want it. This was the first of many batches of refined obsidite.”
“Next time, tell the government not to take a train.”
“They can’t fly it—too risky. Like lithium, it can ignite. So, over the road, but that’s even more risky than train travel—”
“Maybe next time don’t use a passenger train.”
“Lots of finger-pointing going on right now, so my guess is that’s been suggested.”
North sighed. “Sorry.”
“I have no doubt that if you’d been in charge, North—”
“Don’t patronize me. Just—where’s Selah? I’d like to find her, get her away from Martin, and go home.”
“I dunno. She didn’t tell her parents that little tidbit.”
He wanted to punch the tiny steering wheel, but he couldn’t chance accidentally taking it off. “Great. So she’s running around Washington State with a known global terrorist who she thinks is named James.”
A beat of silence from Ham.
“Oh. Whoops, I left that part out.”
“Anything else you’re leaving out?”
“That’s a question for you, boss. York mentioned that this Martin guy and he were partners once upon a time. What gives?”
“Evidently. I don’t know the whole story, but Martin went dark—rogue—around the time that York’s first wife died.
She was murdered by the Russian Bratva. Martin didn’t resurface until York had left the CIA.
They’ve been at odds for years, and Martin tried to kill him a few years ago, so York probably should be on alert if Martin is running around his backyard. ”
“He knows. I left him in Leavenworth. The city, not the prison.”
Ham chuckled at his pitiful joke, so the world hadn’t ended yet. “Listen. I’ll check in with York. In the meantime…do you have any leads on Selah?”
“I’m sitting outside the clinic she visited yesterday, so I’m about to give that a go.”
“Keep in touch. And North…”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Take a breath. It’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah. From your mouth to God’s ears.” He hung up, glanced heavenward. “I could use a little help here.”
He pushed open the car door, unfolding himself from the cramped space. His back popped. His head throbbed. The morning crew at the gas station across the street watched him stumble toward the restroom, probably wondering if he was lost or dangerous or both.
Ten minutes later, he hadn’t improved much. Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, still sporting stubble that felt like steel wool, still running on fumes and caffeine and worry.
As he got back into the car, thunder rolled. Oh, that’s not funny, Lord.
He drove to the urgent care, a small white brick building that looked more like the local library than a clinic. He opened the door to a tiny reception area.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist—Courtney, according to her name tag—gave him the kind of look usually reserved for stray dogs.
“I’m looking for someone.” Oh, his voice sounded like he needed coffee. “Woman, early thirties. Brought in two kids last night. Selah Silver.”
Courtney’s expression shifted. “Yes. They were here.”
Bam, jackpot. He drew in a breath. “Was she hurt?”
She shook her head. “She brought this nice family in for help. Took the kids with her while we life-flighted a guy and his wife to Seattle.”
Took the kids. Yes, that sounded like Selah.
“Do you know where they went?”
“I suggested the Cashmere Motor Inn.” She tapped her pen against a notepad.
“What about the man with them?”
She frowned. “She had a couple guys with her. One of them we sent to Cascade Medical.”
“The other one? Was he hurt?”
“Didn’t look like it. He seemed…capable. Handled everything.” She tilted her head. “Are you family?”
“Something like that.”
His phone buzzed again and he stepped outside. “Ham.”
“He stole a truck. Belonged to a Butch Anderson. The man was on television last night reporting the theft. Showed up dead this morning—killed outside the hospital, of all places.”
“Seriously?”
“Stabbed. Could have been a robbery.”
North stalked to his car. “Sure it was.” His gut churned. “She might have headed to a local motel. I’m headed there now.”
“Be careful.”
Yeah, sure, whatever. North hung up.
The Cashmere Motor Inn sat next to a veterinary clinic in a semiresidential area under the shadow of the Cascade Foothills. Two stories and painted a deep gray, the place bore the look of a recent remodel.
He got out at the entrance and went inside.
The desk clerk stood behind a wooden counter and looked up from his phone as North approached. Young guy, maybe twenty, with a name tag that read Justin.
“Checking in?”
“Looking for someone who checked out. Woman with two kids?”
“Oh yeah. Early this morning.” Justin straightened. “Guy with them paid cash. Had a weird scar on his face.”
Wow, Justin probably needed a chat about guest security, but North wasn’t complaining. “Did they say where they were headed?”
“Nah. Sorry, man.” Justin went back to his phone. “Nice guy, though. Real polite.”
Nice guys didn’t plot international terror attacks.
North stood in the parking lot, rain soaking through his jacket. A jogger ran down the street, which was otherwise empty in both directions, just small-town Washington waking up.
Where are you, Seels?