Chapter 33
Tim Kohnex muttered all the way home as he drove away from Genesis Valley toward the unincorporated area. “She thinks she knows everything. That woman’s brain is too big for her own good.”
Buster, his border collie, let out a soft whuff from the back seat as if in agreement.
Or boredom. Probably both. The wind was gusting again, tugging at the side mirrors of his rusted truck as he passed the glorious Genesis Valley Community Church.
What a beacon of hope and goodness. Why wouldn’t Laurel Snow believe him?
He should be preparing for the worship day, but no, he had to be out here doing her job.
“She won’t listen. I told her I heard them. Heard tires on gravel, late last night. I told her I could feel the girl was still alive.”
The dog stared out the window, tongue lolling, unconcerned.
Tim gritted his teeth. “Fine. She doesn’t believe me, fine. I’ll follow the damn wind myself.”
He turned right where the mountain road split, letting the tires crunch over the loose gravel. Higher ground. That’s where he’d heard them. And if the wind had a direction, this was it. It always whispered down the mountainside before dark, like breath curling through a keyhole.
As the road narrowed, he slowed, his gaze flicking between the trees and the steep drop to the right. No headlights shone behind him. No sign of Laurel Snow or her army of feds. Good. They’d just talk him out of following the wind’s directions.
Another gust hit the windshield, and Tim felt the pull—stronger this time. Not metaphorical. Not spiritual. Physical.
He pulled off onto the gravel shoulder, brakes squeaking, and let the truck idle as Buster pushed up between the seats and gave a sharp bark.
“I know, boy. You feel it, too.”
They both jumped out.
The wind tugged at his flannel, and the smell of damp moss and pine needles thickened as they walked toward a trailhead—no signage, just an indentation in the brush like something had passed through often. Deer maybe. Or trucks.
Tim followed the path, winding upward through thick trees. It wasn’t long before he saw something that didn’t belong.
Stone. Concrete.
The building was half-hidden by the slope, built directly into the cliffside. It was nicer than it should’ve been, with steel-reinforced windows and polished wood siding. The facility was tucked behind rock and pine like someone had gone out of their way to bury it.
“I had no clue this was here,” Tim whispered.
Buster didn’t bark and just stared.
There was no driveway, no path down from the road. Whoever used this place had to be getting in another way.
A hundred feet away sat a low outbuilding. Utility shed? Generator shack? It had the right kind of loneliness about it. Tim crouched as he approached, boots soft in the moss, hand lightly resting on the handle of the small knife he always kept at his belt.
The windows were grimy, thick with dust and dead flies. He had to cup his hands against the glass to see. And there she was. The pretty blond girl.
Tied to a chair. Pale. Blood on her temple. Eyes wide and wild—until they locked on his.
Tim’s heart slammed into his ribs. “I knew you were here,” he breathed.
She shook her head quickly, frantically, as Buster gave a sharp bark and darted around the shed to the side door. It was unlocked.
Of course it was unlocked.
Tim pushed it open.
The girl gasped as the light shifted inside. Her eyes filled instantly with tears, but she didn’t sob. She didn’t scream. Her voice came out cracked and dry. “Please.”
Buster reached her first, levering up to put his paws on her legs.
Tim stepped inside, crouching to untie her. “It’s okay now. We’ve got you.” But he never finished releasing the knot.
Something whistled through the air behind him.
Viv’s face twisted in a silent scream, but the sound was drowned by the wet crack that followed.
Tim dropped instantly, his body folding like a paper doll, blood arcing against the concrete wall.
He hit the floor face-first and couldn’t move.
Buster let out a sharp, high-pitched whine.
Then the darkness took him. Where was the wind now?
Abigail Caine stared out at the blustery rain from her seat in Wayne’s truck.
More damn rain. Washington had a way of pressing the damp into human bones. The narrow road twisted through the dense forest, flanked by towering pines that loomed like silent sentinels, always watching, never judging. She rather liked them for that.
The storm beat fully now as they drove away from picking up pizzas to take back to the Fish and Wildlife offices for lunch. Most of the officers, including Wayne, hadn’t slept. But Viv was nowhere to be found. Abigail should probably do something about that, but she couldn’t decide what.
The truck’s headlights carved twin tunnels through the murky day, and Wayne—sweet, predictable Wayne—hummed some tough guy country song.
She folded her arms, watching the rivulets of water chase each other down the window.
Rain covered everything. Mistakes. Blood. Tracks. It was practically a gift.
He thought she needed protecting. From what, exactly? Consequences? Other people? Herself ? She had survived more dangerous things than lovestruck federal agents. She’d orchestrated them.
Wayne existed in a world of rules and rightness, of protect-and-serve delusions and tender affections he hadn’t realized he’d aimed at a weapon. It would be almost sweet if it weren’t so insufferably naive.
She had plans. Big, sharp, elegant plans, and every moment he hovered, every time he reached for her elbow like she might fall apart, he became a liability.
Even though she had no intention of actually going to trial next week, it was good to keep him around.
Just in case. She glanced at him, smiling faintly.
He looked like a tough bulldog. Strong muscles, wide face, fairly handsome. Plus, he was unusually good in bed, which had saved his life more than once. Not that she had a decent reason to kill him.
“You know,” Wayne began, his voice gentle, “I think it’s so nice of you to help with the search. You’re a kind one, Abby. After all this is over, after we find that girl, the sniper after your sister, and you survive your trial, let’s go away together. Somewhere warm.”
Abigail forced a smile, turning to face him. “That sounds lovely,” she lied.
“I’m close to finding the sniper. Very.”
Abigail perked up. “How so?”
Before Wayne could respond, the world erupted into chaos.
A battered pickup truck, its rusted frame barely holding together, burst from a concealed side path.
The driver, face obscured by a blue ski mask, showed no hesitation.
The battered old truck slammed into Wayne’s truck with bone-jarring force, sending it skidding off the road and into the dense underbrush.
The impact was disorienting. Abigail’s head struck the window, and a sharp pain blossomed at her temple. Wayne reacted instinctively, his training kicking in. He reached for his sidearm, a Glock 22, standard FBI issue, and shouted, “Abigail, stay down!”
But she was already moving, opening her door and stumbling out toward the trees. They were sitting ducks in the mangled truck. The world around her had narrowed to a singular focus. She needed to neutralize threats. Fear was a foreign concept, and only cold calculation remained.
The assailant emerged from the truck, a figure clad in jeans and a flannel shirt, moving gracefully. Without hesitation, he raised a handgun toward them. The muted thuds of suppressed gunfire punctuated the air as bullets tore through the foliage.
Wayne returned fire, his shots echoing loudly through the trees. He moved to shield Abigail, placing his body between her and the attacker. “We need cover,” he hissed.
She didn’t argue. At least the stormy weather darkened the day. Her hair matted against her head and she swiped it off her face.
They ran, boots slamming through moss and fallen needles, weaving through trees slick with rain.
The forest was thick, uneven, full of shadows and potential cover, but the shooter, calm and relentless, was gaining ground.
Abigail didn’t need to see his face to read his control.
He moved like someone used to hunting prey.
A bullet smacked into the trunk of a tree just inches from her head, bark exploding against her cheek. She didn’t flinch but adjusted her path and kept going.
Wayne grunted behind her, stumbling, then recovering. She glanced back. He was still moving, still firing in bursts, but there was blood now. Dark and spreading across his chest. A hit. Likely not a kill shot yet, but enough to slow him. Maybe enough to end him.
They crashed through a thicket of fern and low pine, and Wayne faltered. This time, he didn’t recover. He dropped to one knee, then the other, his gun slipping from his grasp into the wet brush.
Abigail turned.
Her heart didn’t race. Her breath didn’t catch.
This was an opportunity. One she hadn’t counted on so soon, but she knew how to adapt. With Wayne down, she was unencumbered. Free to finish what she’d started. But not yet. The shooter was still coming. He wouldn’t expect her to fight back. Probably.
She crouched and plucked Wayne’s Glock from the forest floor, finding the weapon to be both cool and familiar in her grip. Then she turned, remaining fluid and calm. Rain slashed down, hindering her vision.
The assailant saw her and hesitated. Just for a second.
It was enough.
Abigail raised the gun, aimed cleanly, and fired.
The first shot missed, embedding itself in a tree trunk. The second found its mark, striking the assailant’s leg. A guttural cry escaped him as he stumbled backward, retreating toward his vehicle.
Abigail advanced, not feeling anything. She could hear Wayne behind her, grunting as he must’ve stood, crashing through branches.
She fired again, and the bullet grazed the attacker’s shoulder.
He ran faster and so did she, firing again.
Missing. She could barely see through the branches and punishing rain.
He scrambled into the truck, and the engine roared to life.
The tires spun, kicking up mud and debris as he sped away, disappearing into the murk.
Silence enveloped the forest once more, broken only by Wayne’s labored breathing. Abigail turned to see him falling onto his back, the rain pummeling him, his eyes closed. She observed his pallor, the sheen of sweat on his brow.
She walked to him slowly. Deliberately. Stood over him. She could leave and let the mud soak him in. Let the bullet do the job.
But not now. Sighing, she strode back to his hissing truck and fetched his radio.
Then she clicked the button and shoved the right kind of panic into her voice.
“Help! Agent down! FBI Agent Wayne Norrs is down. We need medevac and backup now. I don’t know if the shooter’s still in the area. Just get someone out here, please!”
Static crackled, then a voice replied, sharp and immediate. “Copy that. Agent down. Transmit location. Stay put.”
She returned into the trees and planted her hands over Wayne’s chest to stem the blood. Was he still alive? He couldn’t die yet. She might still need his visible support at the trial, if she had one.
If he died, she’d have to come up with another plan.