Mountain Investigation

Mawadi finished and rezipped, then turned toward the still-open door, calling, “You said they’d be here at five, right?”

Gray didn’t hear the answer, couldn’t tell if the responding voice belonged to a man or a woman. His brain raced, trying to parse the tiny nugget of information. It was just past four o’clock, which meant the meeting was an hour away. And if he could figure out who was coming for the meeting, it could be a huge break in the case, allowing them to identify more of the terrorists, maybe even the traitors they suspected might be working within the Bear Claw Police Department, and maybe even the FBI itself. For half a second, excitement zinged through him at the thought of al-Jihad himself showing up. Gray would give anything to be the one to subdue all of them, the terrorists and the ex-wife, and put them where they belonged—in the ARX Supermax or a grave, either way was fine with him.

Then Gray cursed, realizing that if the newcomers were driving up the mountain, he could be in serious trouble. The only way up the ridgeline to the cabin was the narrow track he’d come up, or the fire-access road that merged with the track just below where he’d parked. His four-by-four was off the road and somewhat hidden, but the concealment was far from foolproof. A driver coming up the lane might see the vehicle, even in the gathering dusk.

Which meant he had two choices. One, he could retrace his path, pronto, in hopes of making it down the ridge and hiding the truck before the other vehicle turned up the road. Then he could boogie down the mountain, get into cell range and call for backup. Or two, he could stay put and hope his four-by-four escaped detection while he cobbled together some sort of a plan to subdue Mawadi and whoever else was in the cabin, then capture the others when they arrived.

Gray wasn’t a glory seeker by a long shot, but for both personal and professional reasons, he liked the image of dragging in the murdering bastards himself. Not to mention that there was a good chance that even if he made it to cell range, SAC Johnson and the others would give him a less than enthusiastic response. Gray had cried “wolf” before and it had come to nothing, and then he’d dropped the ball on that damn message during the festival, with the result that al-Jihad and the others had very nearly succeeded in their aim of destroying a stadium filled with tens of thousands of city residents awaiting a benefit concert. Which meant that Gray wasn’t exactly the go-to guy for anything these days. For all he knew, Johnson would ignore his report and put him back on administrative leave for going near the cabin in the first place.

All of which is one big, fat rationalization, Gray admitted inwardly, staying quiet because Mawadi was still on the porch. But spoken aloud or not, it was the truth. He was making up excuses for doing what he fully intended to do, whether or not it was reasonable. He was going in now and alone, not just because he didn’t trust Johnson and the other special agents in the Denver office, but because he didn’t trust the system itself. Not anymore.

The system hadn’t stopped pampered rich-boy Lee Chisholm from taking his love of violence and his knee-jerk hatred of his father’s politics and turning it into terrorism. The system hadn’t been able to pin any one of a half-dozen other crimes on al-Jihad in the years between the 9/11 terror attacks and the Santa Bombings. The system had let down all the men, women and children who’d died in the attacks; it had failed them and their families twice over—once by not preventing the bombings and again by not keeping the terrorists behind bars. All of which meant the system couldn’t be trusted this time, either.

That was why Gray had taken his day off to hike up the ridgeline, and it was why, even though he knew he should focus on returning Mawadi and the others to prison, in reality he wanted a far more permanent solution, and eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Justice.

An image flashed in his head, a baby in a PICU incubator, her tiny hands clinging to her breathing tube just as tenaciously as she’d clung to life for twenty-two endless hours.

Keeping her memory in the forefront of his mind, Gray unclipped his holster and withdrew the 9 mm he’d carried on this little “hunting” trip, and started working his way through the trees, skirting the electric fence and the range of the motion detectors, heading for the back of the cabin.

The last of the surveillance reports, filed a few months earlier, had noted a rear exit, one that looked new, as though Mariah had put it in after she’d bought the cabin. Sure enough, there was a door at one end of the back of the building, with two windows beside it, blinds drawn to the sills. The rear exit was definitely a point in his favor, Gray decided. Mawadi and the others would have to power down the motion sensors when their company arrived. In that small window of opportunity, Gray planned to slip in through the back.

If he could take Lee and his ex-wife alive, he would. If not, dead was fine. He’d take his revenge however he could get it.

MARIAH FOUGHT HER WAY through fuzzy, drugged layers of consciousness and awoke to heart-pounding panic. Twisting wildly against her bonds, she looked around and found herself where she’d been the last time she’d awakened: tied to her own bed in her otherwise stripped-down bedroom. The nightstand and bureau were gone, as were all her books and personal things. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The worst was knowing that although she’d woken up this time, it didn’t guarantee that she’d wake up the next.

Whenever she’d regained blurry consciousness over the past few days, she’d seen Lee’s face crowding close. And she’d seen the murder in his eyes.

When the time came for her to die, she knew, he would kill her himself, and he’d relish the process. He’d delight in punishing her for having testified against him, for helping break his alibi and for divorcing him while he’d sat in jail. No doubt he would’ve already killed her by now if it’d been up to him. It apparently wasn’t up to him, though. A second man had stood behind him each time she’d awakened, his figure blurry with distance and the drugs they had pumped into her to keep her sedated for hours, maybe days.

Broad-shouldered and muscular, the second man had dark, vaguely reptilian eyes. Lee had called him Brisbane, though she didn’t know if that was a first or last name, didn’t think it mattered. The big man had arrived sometime between when Lee had drugged her unconscious and when she’d awakened the first time, lying on the floor in a pool of her own filth, still wearing the heavy layers and parka she’d had on when Lee attacked her. She must’ve made some noise when she’d regained consciousness, because she’d heard voices soon after, and Brisbane had come into the room.

At first she’d been terrified of the dark-eyed stranger with the faint accent, sure he was there to kill her. Instead, he’d been the one to keep Lee away from her—mostly, anyway—and he’d been the one who, when she’d begged, had untied her and let her shower and change her clothes. He’d watched her, cradling her shotgun in clear threat, but she’d forced herself through the process, shaking and crying, and weak with the drugs as she’d gulped shower water in a painful effort to slake her thirst.

She’d been almost grateful to collapse back onto her bed, have him retie her hands and feet, and let herself sink back into oblivion. She’d surfaced a few times after that; each time one of the men had untied her and let her use the bathroom, and once or twice she’d been given some sort of liquid protein shake that had made her gag as she’d forced it down. She’d been vaguely aware of questions and threats, aware of refusing to answer.

The last time, Lee had stayed behind after Brisbane left the room. She’d been seriously out of it, but had been aware enough to see the hatred in her ex-husband’s eyes when he’d leaned over her. He’d wrapped one big, hurtful hand around her neck, squeezing lightly at first, then harder and harder, all the while staring down at her with those beautiful clear blue eyes of his, which made him look like a good guy, when he was anything but.

“I’ll kill you for betraying me,” he said, his voice as calm as if he’d been discussing the weather. “And for making me look bad. You should’ve answered questions when you had the chance. Now he’s coming to make you talk.” His eyes had slid to the door, and the quiet woods beyond. “As soon as we get what he needs from you, you’re dead.”

She hadn’t needed to ask who he was; she’d known instinctively that it was al-Jihad. The terrorist leader was the one who’d given Lee a sense of purpose, though she hadn’t known it at the time of their marriage. Al-Jihad was the one who’d told Lee to ingratiate himself into her life and use her father to gain inside information. Al-Jihad was also the one who’d told her husband to make sure she died in the bombings. And apparently he needed something more from her now. But what?

In a way, it didn’t matter, because as Lee had leaned over her in her cabin bedroom, she’d seen her own murder in his eyes. One way or the other, she was dead.

She’d thought he was going to kill her right then, just choke the life out of her. He hadn’t, though, and now she’d awakened yet again, bound to the wall, lying on her stripped-bare mattress. She thought it had been four, maybe five days since they’d imprisoned her. Five days that they’d kept her alive, feeding and watching over her because al-Jihad himself wanted something from her. She couldn’t conceive of what it might be, though, couldn’t remember the questions the men had asked her.

The cops and the Feds had taken everything that had belonged to Lee during their marriage, and she’d been glad to see it go. She’d given the rest of their things to charity, keeping only the few items she’d brought with her into the marriage, all keepsakes from her childhood. Nothing of any real value, and certainly nothing that would interest someone like al-Jihad. What could the terrorists possibly want?

The more her thoughts churned, the more Mariah’s head cleared and the room sharpened around her. Her arms and legs tingled and nausea pounded low in her gut, but the rest of her felt nearly normal, suggesting that she was coming out of her drug-induced daze. Which was good news. But it was also bad news. Lee was too smart to let her regain consciousness unless he’d meant to, and she couldn’t imagine that Brisbane was any less shrewd. So they’d intentionally let the drugs wear off, which suggested things were about the change. Was al-Jihad on his way up the mountain to question her personally? The idea was beyond terrifying. Al-Jihad was said to be an expert interrogator.

Nausea surged through Mariah, along with a rising buzz of adrenaline and the certainty that unless she got away now, she wouldn’t be waking up ever again.

Stirring, she tried twisting on the bed. Her head spun, but her arms and legs moved when and where she told them to before hitting the ends of her bonds. Her ankles were crossed and tied with nylon rope, her hands bound behind her. A loop of rope ran from her feet to her wrists, and was threaded through an eyebolt screwed into one of the heavily varnished logs that made up the cabin wall.

She’d been lying in the same position for so long that her shoulders and hips had all but stopped aching, and had gone numb instead. As she moved, though, the tingling numbness started to recede, and pins and needles took over, making her hiss in pain. She gritted her teeth and kept going, pulling against her bonds, searching for some hint of give. The eyebolt and beam were solid, the bonds on her ankles tight enough to cut her skin. But after a few moments, she thought she felt the ropes on her wrists yield a little.

Excitement propelled her to work harder, and she yanked at the ropes, starting to breathe faster with the exertion. Blood moved through her veins with increasing force, and hope built alongside the panic that came at the thought that she was so close, but still might not get free in time.

“Come on, come on!” she muttered under her breath, working the ropes while straining to hear through the closed bedroom door. Was that a voice? A conversation? Or just the radio the men had been playing each time she’d awakened? Was that a footstep? Were they coming for her? Was it already too late?

The doorknob rattled and turned.

Mariah froze, holding her breath. The door opened a crack.

“Not yet,” Brisbane said sharply from the other room. “They won’t be here for another hour or so.”

Lee’s voice spoke from the doorway. “But I was just going to—”

“I know what you were going to do, and you’re not doing it. You had your chance to question her, and it didn’t work. Leave her be. We need her for another few hours. After al-Jihad’s done with her, you can do whatever you want.”

Mariah barely heard Lee’s soft curse over the hammering of the pulse in her ears. But the door shut once again, and the footsteps moved away. She was saved—for the moment, anyway.

But time was running out.

Hurrying, nearly sobbing with terror, she fought against her bonds, yanking at the loosening ropes around her wrists and twisting against the tie connecting her hands and feet together. Slowly, ever so slowly, she worked her hands free from underneath the first layer of rope, then the second. The nylon strands cut into her skin and blood slicked her wrists, but she kept going, kept fighting, refusing to give up.

She’d given up before, accepting her marriage for what it was. Maybe she hadn’t completely given up, but she’d certainly given in for too long, letting herself be blinded to the truth about her husband.

Not again, she vowed inwardly. Not this time.

On that thought, she gave a sharp jerk. Her left hand came free with a slash of pain as the nylon fibers tore into her skin. But she didn’t care about the injury. She was free!

Working faster now, sobbing with fear, relief and excitement, she undid her other hand, then her feet. Rolling off the bed, she stood, barefoot and wobbly, wearing only the fleece sweatshirt and yoga pants Brisbane had tossed at her after her last shower. Within seconds, the crisp air inside the cabin cut through the single layer of material and chilled her skin, waking her further.

Trying not to think of how much colder it was going to be outside in the cool Colorado springtime, especially come nightfall, she headed for the door, keeping herself from passing out through sheer force of will. Two years ago she’d been too weak to deal with the downward spiral of her life. Now, hardened by time and Lee’s betrayal, she was stronger. But was she strong enough?

“You’re going to have to be,” she whispered, saying the words aloud because the volume gave her growing resolution form and substance.

Brave words weren’t going to get her out of the cabin, though. Not with the bedroom window nailed shut and two armed men in the front room, not to mention the motion detectors she’d so carefully wired in the woods around her home. They’d been meant to keep her safe. Now they would warn Lee and Brisbane if she managed to sneak out the back door. She didn’t have her shotgun, didn’t have the remote control to the security system, didn’t have anything going for her except the knowledge that the men wanted her alive for another hour or two. They needed some sort of information from her, something important enough that they’d kept her alive and untouched for however many days it had been.

They might shoot at her, but they’d be aiming to wound, not kill. And everything she’d learned about firearms since this whole mess began suggested that it was very difficult to purposefully wound a fleeing target. During the trial it had come out that Lee had serious skill in bombmaking, but he’d claimed not to have any experience with guns. If she were lucky, Brisbane wouldn’t be a sharpshooter, either. Even if he were, what was the difference, really?

Better to die trying to escape than let the terrorists use her to kill more innocents.

Mariah paused just shy of the doorway, feeling very small and alone. Raised by parents who’d met as rock band roadies and liked to keep moving, she’d lived in ten different places before her tenth birthday. Even after her parents had finally settled down in Bear Claw and her father had gone into engineering, landing a good job at the American Mall Group, Mariah had remained a private person, a loner who had to make a real effort when it came to meeting people. Her few forays into couplehood—including her disaster of a marriage—had only proved that she was the sort of person who was better off alone. Problem was, she wasn’t always strong enough, smart enough, or just plain enough to do the things that needed to be done.

You have no choice, she told herself, clamping her lips together and fighting to be as silent as possible as she reached for the doorknob. Putting her ear to the panel, she listened intently but heard nothing, not even the radio. Did that mean both men were outside, maybe preparing for the arrival of the others? Or were they somewhere inside the cabin, just being quiet?

She didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to figure it out by listening at the door, either.