Spirit of a Hunter
Sylvie Kurtz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of Charlotte L. Bégin.

Her spirit of adventure will always be an inspiration.

A special thanks to Bill and Lorrie Thomson,

and Chuck Kurtz. For planning hikes in the

White Mountains, then making sure I survived.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

Sabriel Mercer guarded the church’s arched doorway, nodding curtly at each arriving guest, wishing he were anywhere but there. He rolled his shoulder against the starched stiffness of the rented tux and tugged at the noose-tight shirt collar with a finger. Only for a fellow Seeker would he endure such torture.

Church bells pealed, echoing with joy in Winter-green’s Currier-and-Ives town square. Indian summer spiked the air with warmth on this first weekend of October. With their explosion of gold and red, even the trees got in to the celebration.

A perfect day. His hands itched to plane the maple planks he’d joined for the kitchen cabinets of the cabin he was building. Instead, there he was holding a basket with a big cranberry bow. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve this public emasculation.

“Cell phone.” Sabriel shoved the basket at Hale Harper, straggling in late, as usual. Rumor was Harper was Falconer’s cousin, which would explain the slack Falconer cut him.

“It’s off.” Harper held the device up so Sabriel could verify his claim.

“Orders from the boss. Hand it over.”

Harper glowered, his dark brows and eyes pinching much like Falconer’s did when he wasn’t pleased. “Falconer?”

“Liv.”

Without another word Harper dropped his cell phone with the dozen already in the basket and made his way into the nave. There was no point arguing with Liv. Even the newest Seeker understood that Sebastian Falconer’s wife always got her way.

Standing in the refuge of the vestibule, Sabriel scanned the crowd seated in the wooden pews. Most were strangers, people from the bride and groom’s hometown in Massachusetts. With no desire to join the crush, he melded deeper into the shadows.

The organ overhead in the loft stopped its nasal whine midbar, then burst into “The Wedding March.” The notes plucked at memories he’d thought he’d reconciled. But was there ever a way to explain a senseless death?

His jaw knotted. Eyes ahead.

On the arm of her former WITSEC inspector, Abrielle Holbrook glided down the aisle. She glowed in champagne silk. Sabriel knuckled the tender spot at his breastbone, grinding down until the serrated pain dulled. His wife had done that, too—chosen an off-white dress because she’d wanted to shine on her wedding day. She’d said that pure white made her look dead.

If only he’d known…. He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate on Reed and Abbie’s moment of happiness.

Grayson Reed looked as if he’d swallowed the sun as his bride made her way up the crimson carpet.

Noah Kingsley, Seekers, Inc.’s computer wiz, stood at Reed’s side, red suspenders visible under the black tux that fit his compact body as if it had been made for him—and probably had.

Falconer and Liv, wrapped arm in arm, beamed at the bride.

The newly engaged Dominic Skyralov held hands, fingers twined with Luci Taylor. His other arm looped around her son’s shoulders. There was a settled air about the blond cowboy that had been missing before he’d found Luci and Brendan. The corner of Sabriel’s mouth twitched. Watching Skyralov play Mr. Mom when Luci started at the police academy next month was going to be a kick.

Sabriel squeezed his nape and the portrait of joy before him turned into mist. Had he ever been that happy? He couldn’t remember. He’d thought so once. But his few months with Anna were nothing more than a dream, eclipsed by the nightmare that had followed. He’d barely survived the Colonel’s revenge. But he’d kept Anna’s secret.

A phone warbled a tinny melody. His? He frowned down at the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Other than the Seekers gathered in this church, only his mother and Tommy had this number.

And neither would dial it unless he was their last recourse.

LAST NIGHT.

Tommy Camden had many faults, but the one quality he had in spades was patience.

In the cold of night, he squatted by the Camden estate’s iron-and-stone fence, watching, waiting. He’d zapped the CCTV with a program to loop already filmed footage. His father had always underestimated him. Lack of military motivation didn’t equal lack of brains.

Caesar and Brutus, the German shepherd guards, were chowing down on Benadryl-laced hunks of moose. Tommy had spent months priming them to override their training to be fed only by their handler—whose own free lunch had proved soporific. When he woke up, he wouldn’t tell. Not if he wanted to keep his job. Tommy smirked. And where else was there to work in this butt-end-of-nowhere town except for the Camdens?

The balls of his feet were going numb and Tommy willed one more set of lights to blink out.

Nora had protected their son for the past ten years, but if the conversation Tommy had overheard on his last visitation with Scotty was already in motion, then Nora would soon be caged in a loony bin, drugged to the gills, so far off the map that Scotty wouldn’t even appear in the margins. Then nothing would stand between the Colonel’s cruel hand and Scotty.

Scotty was too good, too sweet to be broken. He should have a chance to make choices. He should get to laugh and play and be an ordinary kid.

Nora would understand. She always had—even when Tommy had betrayed her. She knew what the Colonel was capable of doing. She’d see that Tommy had to save their son from this circle of hell.

At precisely eleven, the Colonel’s bedroom light snapped off, and Tommy leaked out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d held prisoner. Only the security spots lit the perimeter of the I-shaped English country estate. For all his unbending rhetoric on tradition and heritage, the Colonel had all but gutted the interior of the house after Grandpop’s death eleven years ago. He’d modernized the gray stone house, with its slate roof and steeply pitched gables, to an inch of its original design—and destroyed everything that had comforted.

What would Grandpop think of what the Colonel had done to his grand old home? Or to his business?

Tommy shook his head. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Only getting Scotty out before it was too late mattered.

Brutus groaned and stretched by the gate. Tommy petted the tan-and-black rump. “Sorry, boy, but I couldn’t let you or your brother alert the Colonel. You’ll both live to snarl another day.”

Tommy stealed along the stone wall, a shadow among shadows, to the back of the mansion. He fished out a Maglite from his camouflage pants and signaled Scotty. The two quick flashes answering him told him Scotty was awake and ready—a gamble Tommy had hated to take.

Makes you just like the old man. Lie and cheat as long as it gets you what you want. Tommy shrugged away the guilt. Not the same thing. Not the same thing at all. The Colonel broke. I’m trying to fix.

Tommy had shown Scotty how to disarm the alarm system. Would he remember? Tommy had Scotty prepare an “adventure kit.” Had he put everything in? Tommy had sworn the boy to secrecy—even from his mother. Had Scotty been able to keep their secret adventure from Nora? So many uncertainties. But Tommy had seen no other way around the Colonel’s protective fortress.

He wished he could have taken Scotty during a visitation instead—cleaner, less dangerous. But two hours lead wasn’t enough. Tomorrow being Saturday, he’d get at least eight, possibly ten. Long enough—if Nora understood the note.

The door to the back entry inched open. Pulse keeping jagged time, Tommy hoped that the Colonel’s Glenlivet nightcap had put him under. Scotty’s blond head poked through the door, and he looked left and right as if he were about to cross a street, then searched along the fence, into the darkness.

Tommy’s gaze flickered to the bedroom windows. All black. His thumb hesitated on the Maglite’s switch. Last chance, Tommy. No going back if you give him the all-clear.

With a guttural explosion of breath, Tommy signaled Scotty. Under the spots, Scotty’s smile ate up his face. Red backpack flopping on his back, Scotty zipped across the manicured lawn. “Dad!”

“Shh!”

Scotty slapped a hand across his mouth and kept running. He’d lucked into Nora’s good brain and her laughing brown eyes, but had inherited Tommy’s unruly blond curls and his lust for the outdoors.

Pride-swelled tears bruised Tommy’s chest. God, he loved that boy. But love wasn’t enough. He’d let him down so many times. With a flex of fingers, he tightened both hands into fists and rose to parade-review straightness. No more. He would do for Scotty what he couldn’t do for himself: he’d set him free.

When Scotty reached the fence, Tommy lifted him, backpack and all—he was so light!—to the top of the stone wall, then changed his grip and helped him over the iron spikes.

As he checked his son over, as he looked into that innocent face, a chicken bone of breath lodged in Tommy’s throat. What if he couldn’t do this? What if he failed Scotty again? What if all he managed to do was lead his son into a deeper hell?

“Dad?”

Tommy forced a smile. “Hey, champ, are you ready for our big adventure?”

Brown eyes bright with anticipation, Scotty patted his backpack. “I got everything, just like you said.”

Well, what’s it going to be, Ranger? Action—or another excuse?

Rangers lead the way.

Tommy folded Scotty’s small hand in his. Time to set a proper example for his son. Be a man, Tommy. He did an about-face on his past and focused on his mission. “Let’s roll.”

THIS MORNING.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Nora Camden pushed open Scotty’s bedroom door and peeked in, anticipating her son’s protesting grumbles. He wasn’t a morning person.

Scotty had the covers up over his head, still hard asleep. He’d had a rough couple of days, and he’d desperately needed a decent night’s sleep. She hated to wake him up, but the Colonel didn’t have much patience with her interference or Scotty’s asthma. He accused her of coddling the boy and making Scotty weak. As if a child could will himself well. As if a mother could watch her son suffer without doing everything she could to help him.

“It’s almost nine.” Nora added a lilt to her voice, hoping to lure Scotty out of hiding. “I talked the cook into letting me make some of your favorite blueberry pancakes. They’re waiting for you in the kitchen. Come on. Up and at ’em.”

No movement from the bed. “Scotty?” Had his asthma flared up again? How could she not have heard? Heart knocking, she rushed across the golden oak floor-boards. “Did you have a bad night, sweetie? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

She reached down to shake her son awake. Her hands sank into the lump on the bed and a gasp sucked all of the room’s air into her lungs. She whipped off the denim comforter and found a fleece blanket vaguely shaped like a body. “This isn’t funny, Scotty.”

She dropped to her knees and skimmed a glance under the bed. “I know you don’t want to go to James Enger’s party, but that’s no reason to hide from me.”

Another of the Colonel’s attempts to get Scotty to fit in to the proper social circles. She snorted. As if offering up his grandson as prey to a bully would win anyone anything. Unfortunately, Nora had to weigh her battles and, on this one, she’d retreated.

She dusted off the knees of her black wool slacks—Camden women are always proper, Nora—and tilted her head at the closet door standing ajar. Scotty liked to hide there to read forbidden comic books with a flashlight. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her amusement at his act of civil disobedience. “You don’t have to stay long. I promise. We’ll go late and, as soon as you’ve had cake, you can call, and I’ll pick you right up.”

She jerked open the closet door. Empty. Frowning, hands on hips, she whirled toward the center of the room. “Come on, Scotty. It’s time to come out.”

Where would he have gone? It wasn’t as if he could leave the grounds. Not with the dogs and the alarm system ready to betray any attempt at escape. Even in this 13,000-square-foot house, there weren’t that many places to hide from the Colonel’s all-seeing eyes.

Maybe he’d sneaked into the family room for some cartoons. He’d better hope the Colonel didn’t catch him or he’d have to endure another lecture on mass media’s corrupting influence.

Nora’s lips quivered into a smile. On the other hand, maybe that had been Scotty’s plan all along. A lecture would make them even later for James’s party, and Scotty really hated James Enger. The Colonel didn’t give the boy enough credit for smarts. She turned and headed out of the room.

That’s when she spotted the note on Scotty’s desk.

Nora—

Don’t worry. Scotty’s safe. We’re going on an adventure—taking the Band on the Run on Route 66 to Deep Water and into Graceland.

Talking Heads: 77.

Love, Tommy.

After his name, he’d doodled a smiling stick moose with giant antlers.

“Oh, Tommy, what have you done?” Why had he taken Scotty when he had visitation this afternoon? Was he off his meds?

She closed her eyes and squeezed the note tight. If she told the Colonel, he’d find Scotty, but Tommy would lose his visitations, and those visitations were what kept her ex-husband sane. And she didn’t want Scotty to grow up not knowing his father. A child needed to know both his parents loved him. A child needed his family.

Her knees lost their locking ability and she sank onto the desk chair. Tommy was trying to tell her something with this note, but what? She ironed the piece of paper on the desk with the side of her fist until it was perfectly flat again. In spite of everything, Tommy adored their son. He wouldn’t hurt Scotty. But if Tommy was off his bipolar disorder meds, he could be unpredictable. A pick of ice stabbed her heart. Would he be able to take care of Scotty then? What if Scotty had another asthma attack?

She bolted to Scotty’s night table and rifled through the drawer. Scotty’s inhaler was missing, but the disc of Advair was still there. She splayed a hand across her chest. “How could you do this, Tommy?”

Don’t panic. Not yet. Scotty had his inhaler. He was due for a new one soon, but this one should last a couple of days. And he would be okay without the other meds for a day. Swallowing hard, she clenched the purple disc. He had to. Please, please, don’t let him have another big attack.

“How could you? How could you? How could you?” Gritting her teeth, she searched Scotty’s room for what was missing. His red backpack. His yellow fleece jacket. His camouflage pants. His hiking boots. Tiny bits of armor that would have to protect her son in whatever shortsighted foolishness Tommy had led him into. She batted at the runaway tears.

Tommy had put her in a sticky spot. But maybe she could rescue both father and son from the Colonel’s sure punishment. She had to stall. Buy them time.

And find them both. The sooner, the better.

Back at the desk, she rubbed at the writing on the note as if it were a magic lamp. Tommy had given her the map. All she had to do was figure out the key to his insanity.

Scotty’s okay. He’s with his father who loves him. Everything will be okay.

She hung on to that thought and let it pulse a backbeat as she tried to decipher Tommy’s code.

“Band on the Run” by Wings. She plunked her elbows on the desk and raked her hands through her hair. Think! What does it mean? Did he want her to focus on the title or were the lyrics part of the key? Was he running with someone else? Why was he running in the first place?

She dug her fingers into her scalp. “Route 66” by Bobby Troup. Was he really taking Route 66 or was he going two thousand miles or was it the kicks part she was supposed to make something out of?

“Deep Water” by Richard Clapton. She rubbed the heels of her palms against her pulsing temples. Was he drunk? Heading to California?

She fisted both hands into her hair and pulled. What was it with all the road songs? None of this made sense. Tommy, help me out.

“Where’s the boy?”

Nora started and spun the desk chair around, instinctively blocking the note from the Colonel’s view. He stood in the doorway, suit-clad body army-straight and stiff, white hair—what was left of it—cut military-short around the shiny pink dome, brown mustache and eyebrows accent marks on an already well-punctuated face.

“I thought he was with you.” Of course her treacherous cheeks had to blush, giving away her lie. “You shouldn’t force him to go to a party he doesn’t want to attend.”

The Colonel’s nostrils flared at her inappropriate challenge. “James Enger is a fine, upstanding young man with a bright future ahead of him. It’s never too early to make connections.”

She knitted her hands in her lap to keep them from fidgeting like a nervous recruit. “I’m sure Scotty’s around somewhere. He wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“I want him dressed and ready to go in ten minutes.” The unspoken or else hung in the air.

“Yes, sir.”

Shoot. What was she supposed to do now? Give Tommy up? No, not yet. There was still time to keep the peace.

As the Colonel left, she whipped back to the note. A fist of panic gripped her chest. You can work through this, Nora. Deep River. Maybe Tommy had taken Scotty for a hike along the Flint River. They loved to hike together, but two hours of visitation every other Saturday didn’t give them much time. Not that she wanted Scotty stuck on the side of a hiking trail while having an asthma attack.

She shook her head. Don’t go to the worst-case scenario. Find them. Bring them home. She dashed to her room, slipped the note, Scotty’s Advair and a fresh inhaler in her purse, then headed toward the garage. Her lips disappeared into her mouth as she listened for the Colonel and tiptoed along the precisely cut diagonal limestone tiles in the hallway.

She was reaching for the key to her Mercedes on the pegboard by the garage door when the Colonel marched into the hall, steps thundering.

“Where’s the boy?” he asked.

“Scotty’s already in the car. I, uh, had to go back for something. We’re heading off to the party. As ordered.” Shoot, her face was flaming again.

The Colonel waved an envelope. “He forgot James’s present.”

“I’ll take it.” She reached out for the check.

The Colonel jammed it in his breast pocket. “I’m driving.”

Double shoot. The Colonel stepped past her, the drumming heels of his boots a reminder of his power, and into the garage where half a dozen cars were parked. “Where is he?”

“In my car.”

Oh, great, now she’d have to make Scotty look like an ungrateful grandchild to cover her lie. She pretended to look in the backseat, then under the car. “Scotty? Come out right now!”

“You need to keep a tighter hand on that child. A boy needs to know who’s in charge. All this lack of discipline leads to insubordination.”

“He’s just a boy.”

“He’s a Camden. He has obligations. A reputation to uphold.” Blocking her escape with his broad shoulders, the Colonel flipped open his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial button. “Prescott is missing.”

Nora bit the tip of her tongue to keep herself from pleading Scotty’s case. That would only make things worse. Choose your battles. Better to wait until she’d found him.

The Colonel’s already ramrod-straight body stiffened. “I’ll take care of it. Find the boy. Bring him to me.”

Siccing hired muscle after a ten-year-old boy. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her purse. What was wrong with him? The bruiser would find Scotty all right, scare the snot out of him, then hand him to the Colonel. And the Colonel would feel obliged to punish Scotty for his unsoldier-like behavior. She couldn’t let that happen.

Breathing in courage, she shored up her defenses. The thug might be good at tracking, but Scotty was her son, and she understood how his mind worked—and Tommy’s, too, as fried as it was. The muscle would scour the estate, but she already knew Scotty and Tommy were gone. Key tight in hand, she wended her way around the Colonel’s Cadillac toward her car.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the Colonel barked at her.

“For a ride.”

“Now?”

“I need fresh air.” In spite of her best effort for a show of strength, she squirmed into position behind the wheel and reached for the armor of the door.

The Colonel grasped the top of it in one hand and denied her a shield. The pointed end of his icy stare pinned her against the blood-red leather upholstery. He knew. She swallowed the series of hard knots notching her throat. He knew she was holding something back. He knew that she wasn’t telling the truth.

“If you’re abetting Tommy’s folly, you’ll pay the price.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You lost the boy.” In the cavernous garage, the Colonel’s voice rumbled in warning.

“He isn’t lost.” He’s with his father.

The Colonel’s gaze slitted to a knife edge. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up filleted. “I don’t want you anywhere near that boy until I’ve had a talk with him about responsibility.”

More like a hazing. A snort escaped her. “He’s not a soldier. He’s a little boy.”

“He’s a Camden.”

Reminding her once again that only his benevolence allowed her to stay at the mansion. But what choice did she have? Scotty had never signed on for this tour of duty. If she tried to leave, the Colonel would use all of his influence to take her son away from her. The threat of loss ripped through her, leaving her clutching the edges of her seat to keep balanced. At least this way, she had a say. She could protect her son—the way Tommy’s mother never had. The way her mother never had.

Nerves rattling, she ratcheted her chin up one notch…two. “I know where he likes to go when he’s scared.”

The Colonel’s face quivered in a purple mottle. “You’ve turned him into a sissy boy.”

I’ve made him into a sweet, mostly happy boy. Knowing her chances of searching for Scotty depended on the Colonel’s goodwill, she submissively lowered her head. “I’ll bring him home.”

“See that you do.”

With a shaky hand, Nora cranked the engine over and backed out of the garage bay. She stopped at the gate and waited for the iron monstrosity to lumber open.

The situation was getting worse. Every year the Colonel expected more out of Scotty, and his expectations were beyond Scotty’s age capacity, especially with the asthma factored in.

She had to get her son out. Somehow. She had to find a way. But how? A sea of tears formed in her chest, swirled into a hurricane and threatened the back of her eyes with landfall. Dumpster-diving for food was no life for a sick boy. How could she get him the medicine he needed, the education he deserved, the safe home every child should have?

The Colonel would never stop looking for them. She blinked against the coming storm of tears. He’d made that immensely clear after she’d had the nerve to divorce Tommy. And he’d follow up on his threats. Scotty was his only grandchild. His only heir now that he’d disowned Tommy. He had the resources—money, influence, power.

Her mouth opened, greedy for air. And she had nothing. No money, no family, no job.

She’d seen him break more than one person to get what he wanted—starting with his own wife and children. She couldn’t leave Scotty alone to be raised by such a hard man.

She rolled through the gate and shuddered. Once past the corner of the property, the concrete holding her shoulders stiff and high cracked, releasing them, and her breathing became freer. She’d often wondered if Scotty’s asthma was related more to the caustic air in the mansion than to inflamed lungs.

At the stop at the end of Camden Road, she hesitated, her foot tap, tapping the brakes. Tommy, where are you?

Band on the Run. Route 66. Deep Water. Graceland. Talking Heads: 77. What are you trying to say?

The blast of a horn behind her jolted her in her seat. She signaled a right and, after checking both ways, turned. She searched all the places Tommy liked to take Scotty. The ice-cream parlor on Juniper Street. The school playground off Red Barn Road. The pet store on Woodpecker Lane.

By lunchtime, she’d looked in every park and playground of Camden, at every trailhead, at every boat ramp, and she hadn’t spotted Tommy’s battered Jeep. He wasn’t answering his cell phone and, according to his boss, he’d cashed in his two weeks of vacation time.

What if, as the titles suggested, he’d run? Ice doused her veins. No, he wouldn’t do that, not knowing how much it would hurt her. He’d have included her in any escape plan. He knew Scotty was her life.

Unless.

The rock of her heart sank to her shoes and a cold sweat soaked her through.

Hadn’t Tommy said that the Colonel had first shipped him out to military boarding school at eleven? And military school hadn’t suited Tommy—just as it wouldn’t suit Scotty. If he was off his meds, then Tommy could become fixated on saving Scotty.

Cold seeped into her bones, clacked her teeth. What if he was headed to California and planned to hide with Scotty—as far away from the Colonel as he could get?

You should have talked to me, Tommy. The Colonel and I have an agreement. No boarding schools. Ever.

Bent over the steering wheel, peering out the windshield for any sign of her son, she inched on White Mountain Road along the Flint River. She cranked up the heat and the radio. She wasn’t panicked. Not yet. “Tommy, please help me.”

“Burning Down the House” by the Talking Heads blasted over the speakers. Her brain fired with a bright light, and she bobbled the steering wheel, lurching toward the rain-swollen river. She jammed on the brakes, crunching on the shoulder’s gravel, and part of Tommy’s message became clear. “Oh, no, Tommy. What have you done?”

Chapter Two

Nora braked to a halt on the gravel shoulder. On the other side of the car, the Flint River pulsed and pounded over its rocky bottom in perfect imitation of Nora’s gushing thoughts.

Talking in code had been the only way to communicate certain things while living under the Colonel’s prying eyes. Talking Heads—telephone. 77—the last two digits of the emergency number Tommy had given her in one of his delusional phases. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, and she gripped it harder.

If you’re ever in trouble, Nora, Tommy had said, instructing her to memorize the number in blue ink he printed on her forearm. Call this number. Next to you, Sabriel’s the only person in the world I trust. He’ll help you. He owes me.

Sabriel Mercer. Tommy’s best friend. Anna’s husband. One of the unfortunate victims of the Colonel’s vengeful bent. He’d been Tommy’s best man at their wedding. That was the one and only time she’d met him. They’d barely exchanged more than a few words. She couldn’t even bring up a clear picture of the man other than dark and brooding—a little scary, actually, with those feral green eyes peering out of the shadows of the room. The ex-Ranger seemed alone even in the roomful of acquaintances Tommy had gathered to witness their exchange of vows—an event unsanctioned by the Colonel. She’d had no idea the flak that would cause once he heard the news.

She didn’t know much else about Sabriel Mercer, except that something had happened to him and Tommy at Ranger School, something that Tommy would never talk about. Something that had changed them both.

And if Tommy was asking her to call Sabriel Mercer for help, something was terribly wrong.

The mountains spread out in front of her in an endless vista. The rusty blanket of dying autumn leaves faded to blue and purple in the distance. Centuries of wind and rain had sculpted the granite and trees. Those mountains were both an awe-inspiring beauty and a treacherous territory that swallowed up hikers like sacrificial offerings. They were the only place Tommy had ever felt at home. The only place his broken spirit could rest.

A sinking feeling weighed her down into the seat, making it impossible to breathe. Band on the Run. Like he had that summer with Sabriel when they were fifteen? If he’d sought refuge in the mountains, then she would never find him, and the Colonel would win. Scotty would lose his father, and she would lose another foothold in directing Scotty’s upbringing.

Her chest stuttered. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t go into those mountains and hope to find her son. Not alone. She didn’t even know where to start.

But Sabriel would.

The tightness holding her breath hostage released a finger of its hold. Sabriel had wandered those mountains with Tommy. He might know what Route 66, Deep Water and Graceland stood for. He’d know where to look. He’d know where to find Tommy before the Colonel’s trackers did. And if she brought Scotty home instead of the hired muscle, then the Colonel would have to respect the status quo.

The tires squealed as Nora pulled a U-turn in the middle of White Mountain Road and pointed the car toward Camden. She’d grown paranoid over the years and was sure the Colonel somehow monitored her cell phone as well as her social calendar and her food intake. After all, she was a Camden and Camdens were expected to behave in a certain manner.

She piloted the car to the local gas station—a lowly place the Colonel would never frequent—and parked in front of the convenience store. The crazed ding-ding-ding of the open car door chased her to the pay phone. The expectant hiss of the receiver added to the static of her mind. Squeezing her eyes closed, she brought up the image of Tommy inking Sabriel’s number on her forearm. She fed coins into the machine, dialed and waited, biting her lower lip, while the number rang and rang and rang.

“Mercer.”

Nora jumped at the terse sound of the voice. “Tommy’s friend?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Nora Camden.” She wriggled her body until she faced the parking lot and Main Street, scanning both for signs of the Colonel’s men. “Tommy told me that if I was ever in trouble, I should call this number.”

Silence. Had the line died? “Mr. Mercer?”

“Are you in trouble?”

She scraped her fingernails along her scalp, pulling her hair tight when she reached the crown of her head. “Yes. No. I mean, Tommy’s in trouble.” She puffed out a breath. “He took our son. If the Colonel finds him before I do, he’ll take Scotty away from me, and he’ll deny Tommy visitations forever. You know how the Colonel is. No give. Those visitations mean the world to Tommy. He needs them as much as Scotty.”

More deafening silence.

Nora cradled the receiver with both hands. “Mr. Mercer? Are you there? If Tommy’s off his meds, then Scotty could be in danger, too.”

Still no response. But in the background, a voice intoned some sort of incantation.

“Scotty has asthma,” Nora continued, compelled to plead her case. Surely Sabriel wouldn’t be heartless enough to let a sick boy die. “He left with an inhaler that’s almost empty. I need to get his medicine to him. If he has an attack out there, he could die.”

Her top teeth sank into her bottom lip and drew blood. He doesn’t care. Tommy was wrong. Sabriel wasn’t going to pay his debt. She blinked back the tears scoring at her eyes. “I think he’s planning on hiding Scotty from the Colonel. I think he thinks he’s helping Scotty. I think he’s gone into the mountains.”

“Was there a note?”

“Yes.”

“Read everything on the paper.”

She did, even describing the drawing of the moose.

“I’ll find him,” Sabriel said with a certainty she envied.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Scotty needs his medicine. It’s cold out there, and cold is one of his triggers.” So was anxiety. She couldn’t help the desperation crowding her voice.

“I work alone.”

“Do you know what it’s like to not be able to breathe? He’s just a little boy, and those attacks scare him.”

Her body straightened against the hard skeleton of the phone cubicle. She was going with him. She needed to know Scotty was all right. She had to get Sabriel to come to her.

A cheer erupted in the background, drowning out Sabriel’s nerve-shredding silence.

“I can’t go back to the estate,” Nora continued, voice strong with resolve. “Not without Scotty. The Colonel’ll use my failure as ammunition to take more control over Scotty. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him turn Scotty into another Tommy.” She flinched at the put-down of her ex-husband. She wasn’t the manipulative type. At least not usually. But if she didn’t stand up for Scotty, who would?

“Where are you?” Sabriel finally asked.

For the first time since she’d found the note, a sense of hope rose up to calm her. She was not alone. Somebody understood. Somebody would help her find Scotty. “I’m at a pay phone at a gas station in Camden.”

“Were you followed?”

Her gaze darted and flitted at the passing traffic on Main Street. Pickup trucks, SUVs and beaters in various stages of decomposition trundled by, but no black Hummer like those driven by the Colonel’s security staff. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you know where Black Swan Lake is?”

“North of Camden. But he’s not there. I’ve already checked the boat ramps.”

“There’s a camp on the west side of the lake. The Lemire Adventure Camp.”

Could finding him really be that easy? A pressure valve of release sagged her against the phone. “You think that’s where Tommy went?”

“No. A friend of mine runs it. I’ll meet you there.”

“How long will it take you to get to the camp?”

“An hour.”

An hour was a lifetime when you couldn’t breathe. “How long before you can find them?”

“Depends on their head start.”

The small thread of hope unraveled. She had no idea what time they’d left the estate. Would Tommy have made Scotty hike in the dark? That sounded so dangerous. How far could he get with a ten-year-old in tow?

The pulse of time running out ticked much too loudly in her brain. Find him. Find Scotty. Find him now. Today. Before night fell again. Night always made Scotty’s symptoms worse. “Hurry.”

SABRIEL CORNERED Falconer as he was leaving the church. Departing guests created a buzz that wavered through the high-ceilinged vestibule and grated against Sabriel’s already raw nerves. “I need some time off.”

Falconer hiked an eyebrow in question.

“Personal,” Sabriel said.

Although Falconer knew about Ranger School, about Anna, about the Colonel, Sabriel’s fingers twitched on the live wire of his shame. He couldn’t hide anything that was on record from the man who’d given him more than one second chance. But Falconer didn’t know about Tommy or the experiment gone wrong. Or the pact they’d made at fifteen to always watch each other’s backs.

Sabriel couldn’t let Tommy charge into a suicide mission. The Colonel was too strong for the broken man his friend had become. And Nora was right. He couldn’t allow the Colonel to turn Scotty into another Tommy. He owed his friend that much.

Falconer grinned. “Trying to get out of the reception?”

Sabriel shook his head, though missing the shindig would be a bonus. Answering the same curious questions about his mixed heritage made him feel like a gorilla in a cage. He loved every branch of his crazy family tree—Japanese, Irish, Abenaki and French Canadian. He just didn’t like discussing them.

“Everything okay with the family?” Falconer asked as if he’d been reading his mind.

“Something I have to take care of.”

Falconer’s eyebrows met in the center of his forehead. “How much time?”

“A week, tops. Harper can take the lead on the Carter case. Smuggling’s up his alley.”

“You haven’t missed a single day of work since you signed up with Seekers eight months ago. Not even after you broke your wrist and ankle tracking the piece of garbage who tried to kill Liv. Or when you were with the Marshals Service.”

Falconer’s keen gaze sliced into him, jabbing past the tough skin to the tender organs. Sabriel stood unmoving, gaze locked with Falconer’s, unflinching. Time off would have given him too much time to think. And some questions, he’d discovered, shouldn’t be answered.

“You’re overdue,” Falconer said.

Sabriel nodded once, relief calmed his juiced muscles.

“If there’s anything we can do,” Falconer said, “we’re here for you.”

The rest of the Seekers would stand by him, though he’d never given them a reason to. And that counted for more than he could admit out loud. Though he was loathe to ask for a favor, with the Colonel involved, Nora could be in danger. “A friend might need a safe house.”

“Call.”

Sabriel nodded, thankful Seekers had found him and given a purpose to his empty days. He cast a glance Reed and Abbie’s way, and a flash of Anna—head thrown back, laughing—leaked out of its locked memory box. Frowning, he squeezed it back in. “Give them my apologies.”

“I will.” Falconer’s curious gaze followed him out of the church, but Sabriel dismissed it. Falconer would give him space—no questions asked. That trust was why Sabriel was still at Seekers.

He pulled into the dirt drive leading to his half-finished log cabin in Harrisville in less than fifteen minutes. A record, even for him. He changed into hiking gear and grabbed the rucksack he kept at the ready.

Wait for me, Anna. The remembered plea in his voice was smoke in his brain. A slap of nausea rammed his shoulder into the wall, stopping his mad dash, leaving him panting. Anna, studying the sea, appeared on the screen of his mind. Her long blond hair whipped over her face in a silky veil. Always a little part of her hidden from him, just out of reach…

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“There’s a storm coming in,” she said, and he could hear tight despair in her voice. “I need to get the dive in before the rain hits. The sponsors—”

“Can damn well wait. I’m your safety diver.”

“I’ve got a whole crew to take care of me.”

The nausea swelled, lacing his throat with acid.

This wasn’t Anna. He wasn’t half a world away. He’d get to Tommy in time.

Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just do.

Swallowing down the bitter bile, he pushed himself off the wall. From a temporary metal pantry he extracted enough freeze-dried meals to last a week. As he filled his water bladder, his thoughts drifted to Nora’s call.

He couldn’t place the fear-sharpened voice on the phone with the beaming face of the woman who’d walked down the aisle on Tommy’s arm and made him look happier than Sabriel had ever seen him. Watching Nora spin around the dance floor with Tommy, her brown hair with its golden light flying around her, her bright laughter more melodious than the music playing in the background, Sabriel could see why Tommy had fallen for her, and he’d been glad for his friend. And when he’d noticed the old-soul scars in Nora’s golden-brown eyes, he’d wished them both the happiness they deserved.

Sabriel stashed the water bladder in its rucksack pocket. He knew about Scotty, knew about the divorce, knew about the peace Tommy had found as an outfitter for a local resort from yearly birthday e-mails. But they hadn’t talked to each other since the wedding. Too much pain. Too much guilt.

He booted up the computer in search of a weather update and a bird’s-eye view of the mountains. Snow wasn’t unheard of at this time of the year, and he wanted to be prepared. The rain had broken, for now, but another wave was due by the end of the week. How long could it take to track down Tommy? No more than a day or two. The kid had to slow him down.

Sabriel figured that Tommy had gone to one of three places—Goose Neck Mountain, Mount Storm or Pilgrim’s Peak. But if Tommy was smart, he’d avoid the obvious and head for new territory. The Colonel still had trackers at his bellow, and like an elephant, he never forgot. The mountains would be the first place he’d look for Tommy, especially Mount Storm, where his trackers had found them at the end of their stolen summer.

Clicking over to the White Mountain National Forest site, Sabriel wondered for the millionth time what he could have done differently. As always, the stack of possibilities clashed against a blank wall of reality.

He forced himself to focus on the loading Web page. Heavy rain in the past week had swollen streams and saturated the soil. Water crossings, trails and gravel roads could be difficult or dangerous to negotiate, according to the hiker’s warning on the home page.

Was Tommy off his meds? Was his judgment impaired? Taking a sick kid on such a rough hike, what was he thinking?

The only way to know Tommy’s ultimate destination was to follow the clues he’d left behind. The Smiling Moose was a café halfway between Camden and I-93. 66 was 6.6 miles past the café to the trailhead off White Mountain Road where the Flint River took a sharp jog out of the mountains. And Graceland was the whole damned White Mountain National Forest—780,000 acres of pure wilderness.

Sabriel loaded his biodiesel-powered Jeep and smiled at the memory of Tommy at fifteen, so eager to be free. When Will Daigle—the mountain man who’d taught him and Tommy to survive invisibly in the mountains—had told them about the songlines many ancient navigators used to orient themselves, Tommy had mistaken the meaning and fallen back on his vast knowledge of music to keep track of his place in the woods. Their shared joke would help keep the Colonel’s men stranded for a while. That should give Sabriel a chance to find Tommy before he got himself killed.

But just because he was willing to trek after Tommy, didn’t mean he’d let an inexperienced hiker tag along. Nora would slow him down and speed was of the essence. He’d get the kid’s medicine, make her see that he’d get to Tommy faster if he tracked alone, then stash her at the Aerie—Seekers, Inc.’s headquarters—where Falconer and Liv could keep an eye on her.

He pocketed his cell phone, a hunting knife and, as an afterthought, climbed to the loft and retrieved the 9mm Beretta he’d stashed in a locker beneath the camp cot. He turned the weapon over in his hand, heavy with potentiality, black like death.

Once when Sabriel was twelve, he’d complained to Grandpa Yamawashi that he couldn’t hold his ground against his bigger, stronger brothers, and wished he had a gun or a knife to up his odds. Grandpa had said, “The greatest warrior is one who never has to use his sword.”

In the Army, an unspoken but understood position was that the winner carried the bigger gun. The Colonel and his men lived by that belief. Risking a showdown unarmed was suicide.

And as much as guilt was a noose around his conscience, he wanted to face death on his terms, not the Colonel’s.

Sabriel holstered the pistol and strapped it on. The alien weight jarred his gait. He added two extra fifteen-round magazines to his rucksack, fervently hoping he’d find Tommy before he had to draw.

THOMAS PRESCOTT CAMDEN III stood at the window of his office and surveyed his realm. His chest puffed up at the sense of history and achievement spread out before him. Generations had turned this parcel of rocky land into a showpiece, with its artful gardens, manicured lawn and hand-stacked granite wall.

One fist balled at his side.

What an ungrateful grandson he had. How could he turn his back on all the advantages that had been laid at his feet? Didn’t he know men would kill for what was handed to him on a golden platter?

Nora’s fault, of course. She was too soft on the boy, always coddling him, petting him, hugging him. How was the boy supposed to grow a spine that way?

Thomas, like all Camdens, had been raised in a heritage of ambition, success and expectations. Camden men went to West Point. Camden men joined the Army and shone through Ranger school. Camden men retired from stellar military service to their country after twenty years, then, with pride, took over the helm of Camden Laboratories, and continued their service to their brothers at arms by developing products and supplements that would ease a soldier’s hard life.

Camden men had founded this town—which bore their name—over a hundred years ago. There they were kings, respected by all. Producing a male heir to follow in their footsteps was a Camden man’s duty and honor.

Thomas had followed the preordained path. He’d lived up to and surpassed every expectation. He’d done everything right.

A too-familiar rumble growled in his chest. To have his son prove a failure and his daughter die before she could give him a grandson was hard enough to take. But to have this woman—a street urchin, no less—ruin his last chance to pass on his legacy galled him to no end.

She’d destroyed Tommy’s bright future, and now she was using Tommy to steal away his only grandchild. The balled fist rattled the window frame. He refused to let her win this battle.

His narrowed gaze zeroed in on the bronze of the original Thomas Prescott Camden, sword raised in victory, and Thomas’s fist unclenched.

The boy’s weakness would disappear once his smothering mother was out of the way. All the boy needed was a firm hand, the right training, some toughening up. There was still time to save him from Tommy’s unfortunate fate. Tommy had failed because of his own feckless character, not because of a transfer of defective genes.

And Anna? What else could you expect from a woman? They weren’t meant for the battlefield of business. That she’d crumpled at the first sign of conflict wasn’t a surprise. It was his error in judgment for thinking that Camden blood made her different.

As for Nora, she needed to learn that, when it came to Camden family business, his word was law. She’d defied him for the last time.

Thomas spun on a perfectly polished heel to face Melvyn Boggs, who stood at attention before the original Colonel’s desk. Boggs was his greatest success story. Thomas had handpicked him right out of Ranger School—the same class his son had failed so miserably.

At thirty-six the soldier’s body was harder and fitter than most men a decade younger in this spoiled generation. Only the lean, sun-baked face betrayed the hours of training in the harsh elements. The man had nerves of steel and a mind as sharp as the keenest of blades. The experiment that had corrupted Tommy’s gray matter had enhanced Boggs’s fine instrument. No mission was too stressful. No task too arduous. No environment too severe. Boggs would follow orders without question.

“Find her,” Thomas said. “Make sure she has an accident. Then bring the boy back to me. Unharmed.”

Thomas strode to the wall-mounted topographical map of the area and circled Mount Storm with his index finger. “This is where Tommy’s headed.”

People tended to follow the path of least resistance. In moments of stress, they turned to points of comfort. And for Tommy that was the mountains. Even in this vast area, Tommy—like the animal he’d become—had staked out territory over the years. He’d track through familiar trails, and an ace like Boggs would have no trouble following his trace.

“What about Tommy?” Boggs asked.

Tommy was a failure beyond redemption. “Put him out of his misery.”

Chapter Three

The discreet hand-carved wooden sign announced the Lemire Adventure Camp and promised women the opportunity to learn outdoor skills with like-minded sisters.

Maybe Nora didn’t need a hero after all. Maybe these outdoorswomen would guide her through the mountains to track down Scotty. Sure beat waiting around.

The cinnamon gum she’d popped to calm the sea of acid swirling in her stomach turned to modeling clay in her mouth.

She discarded the gum into the ashtray and the car’s clock flashed over another precious minute. Where was Scotty now? How much farther away from home? How many minutes could she waste and still find him alive and well?

A rusty chain barred the gravel drive. Her heart tip-tapped with uncertainty. Was she supposed to wait there or drive on up? Sabriel should have given her better instructions. Didn’t he know the stakes? Didn’t he know that one mistake could take her son away from her forever?

Breathe, Nora. She forced in a breath and streamed it out in one long run, tamping back the frayed edge of her anxiety. Hold yourself together. You won’t help Scotty by going ballistic.

Logic. A plan. That would help her find Scotty, not blind panic. Her gaze slid through the car’s mirrors. Her white boat of a car would make too big a target on the narrow lane. She couldn’t park there.

She unclamped her stiff finger from the steering wheel, shoved open the door and unhooked the chain. She drove through, then stared at the heavy links in her hands. Should she hook the chain back up or leave it down? What did it say about the state of her mind that simple decisions required a Herculean effort?

This was all Tommy’s fault. Why did he have to take Scotty? Maybe everything wasn’t perfect at the estate, but they were safe.

She dropped the chain with a snort of disgust and let it lie like a dead boa constrictor. Leaving it down would save Sabriel time, and they could get going faster.

Back in the car, her gaze flitted from the thick pines lining the winding gravel drive to the shadows shifting like black ghouls searching to devour light. One thing was sure: the Colonel would never find her there. And that gave her a measure of confidence.

At the top of the drive, half a dozen cabins that looked too rustic to provide comfort or fun flanked a main lodge with a green roof and time-silvered logs. She parked by the hitching post to the left of the lodge.

The place looked deserted, and the oppressive quiet pressed on her chest, making her want to scream at the world. Stop it, stop it, stop it! How could the earth keep turning, the birds singing, the water lapping when Scotty was missing? She wrapped her arms over her chest, feeling the void of her son’s small body.

As she took in the scene, she realized Scotty would have loved it there—the woods to explore, the lake to swim, the campfire to tell stories. Tommy had talked about taking Scotty camping overnight last summer. But the Colonel had stamped the request “refused.”

“Why is the Colonel so mean?” Scotty had asked, pouting.

Nora had no answer. Not then. Not now.

As her gaze searched the grounds, she wrung her hands in her lap. Where were the outdoorswomen? Wasn’t someone supposed to meet her? There were no other vehicles. No voices. Nothing. No one.

She couldn’t just sit there and wait. She’d go crazy.

Clothes. You need outdoor clothes. Sabriel would arrive soon. And if she was ready, he’d have to take her to the mountains and help her find Scotty.

She rammed the car door open and headed for the lodge. Away from the car’s heater, the air chilled her through her sweater down to the skin. Her knock on the lodge door brought only a fading echo.

She curved a hand to the window and peeked through the glass. No movement. “Hello? Anybody there?”

The stubborn knob resisted her attempts to turn it. Was the camp closed for the winter? Why hadn’t Sabriel mentioned he was sending her to a deserted place?

On the other side of the hitching post, two A-frames groaned under the burden of red kayaks—three on each side. The grating ratchetlike calls of blue jays in a nearby oak jangled her already frazzled nerves. With halting footsteps she followed the path through the trees that would lead her to the cottages. Maybe all the Amazons were out hiking. Maybe they’d left some spare clothes behind.

The trail curved around a narrow strip of beach. The cloud-leached sun eked out pale light that barely scratched at the surface of the water. Pulling out her cell phone, she paced the length of a bench made from a fallen log placed around the dead fire in the stone pit. She was too worried to care if the Colonel had access to her call records. Biting her lower lip, she listened to the incessant ringing of Tommy’s phone.

She growled when Tommy’s voice mail kicked on. “Tommy, please. Call me. I need to know Scotty’s okay.”

How many messages had she left him? At least a dozen. What if something had happened? What if that was why Tommy hadn’t called to reassure her?

Scotty’s with his father, who loves him, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. It wasn’t as if a stranger had kidnapped him and was holding him for ransom in some dark hole. Tommy wouldn’t let any harm come to their son.

Unless Tommy was off his meds.

Her hand strangled the phone and she gulped in air. Scotty was fine. Tommy was fine. They were both perfectly fine. To think otherwise would push her over the brink into insanity. And she couldn’t afford that. Scotty was depending on her.

The mountains loomed on the other side of the lake, taunting her with their nearness, with her helplessness to find one little boy in their midst.

She slammed the phone shut. There was no one else to call. No Amazons to the rescue. Only Sabriel.

Adrenaline ants scurried through her limbs, goading her to take action. With an irrationality bordering on mania, she wanted to turn over rocks, climb trees, ford rivers—anything to find Scotty. She whirled away from the tormenting mountains and jogged toward the cabins.

Fingers of wind rustled through the fallen leaves in the woods and reminded her of chattering teeth. The shifting shadows of trees creeped her out—as if eyes were watching her from behind every trunk, following her, waiting to pounce. She half expected a pack of rabid wolves, yellow teeth bared, red tongues lolling, fiery eyes glowing, to spring out at her. Never mind that there weren’t any wolves in these parts.

Her pace faltered. Oh, God, what if Tommy and Scotty were attacked by a bear? Or charged by a moose? Or pounced on by a bobcat?

Up ahead, a cottage creaked. The haunting wail of its misery lingered in the brittle air. Nora froze. Her breath chugged in ragged bursts.

“Hello?” Her voice fractured like a teen scream-queen’s. “Is anyone there?”

No answer but the lamenting sough of wind.

Her gaze scoured the woods. Never before had she felt so isolated. Alone like this, she made a perfect target. What if something happened to her? No one to see her. No one to hear her. No one to fight for Scotty. The last time she’d felt this vulnerable, she’d been sixteen. Pressure built behind her eyes and her throat worked itself raw.

She almost wished she were back at the estate, letting the Colonel take charge.

Don’t talk crazy. Keep moving. Find clothes. Be ready.

She hesitated at the cottage door, knocked, then wrenched the knob. It turned in her hand. The door squealed open, blasting her less-than-moral intentions to break-and-enter to the world.

She wasn’t stealing; she was borrowing. She’d give everything back once she’d found Scotty.

Two bunk beds held up the narrow walls of the cabin. Weather-resistant mattresses lined each bunk. One bench crouched beneath the lone window. The smell of must and the bite of wood smoke lingered in the air. No clothes. No boots. Nothing of use at all.

Maybe the next one would prove more fruitful.

Nora made her way to each of the cottages in turn, finding each as empty as the first. An overwhelming sense of powerlessness knocked her to her knees. Head in her hands, the edge of despair threatened to turn her into a sobbing mess. She sniffed back at the thrust of tears. If she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

Images of Scotty spun a tornado of memories that tormented her. What if they were all she had left of her son?

No! I refuse! She reared back with a roar. She would not collapse. She would stay strong. Scotty was counting on her, and she wouldn’t let him down.

Hiking clothes didn’t matter. Her cashmere sweater was warm, especially when moving around. The good wool of her slacks was as tough as any material. And her fashion boots sported soles made to grip the sidewalk. She’d handle an afternoon out in the woods just fine. The important thing was to find Scotty before the Colonel did—before dark.

As she scrambled to her feet, the crunching of tires on gravel echoed from the bottom of the drive. Sabriel. Her heart lightened, and she raced down the path, back toward the lodge.

She was about to burst out of the tree-lined trail when she spotted the black Hummer creeping up the drive. Instinct shot her down to a crouch. Three men scuttled out of the vehicle like beetles. Boggs, all six feet of intimidation and testosterone, and two more of the Colonel’s muscle with their close-cropped hair, black battle-dress uniforms and black jungle boots.

Impossible. How had they found her?

The sink of letdown knocked her off balance. She grabbed a pine bough and steadied her stance.

Sabriel. He’d betrayed her. Led her like some Marie Antoinette to the guillotine—right where the Colonel could make her head, her whole body disappear.

Voices came at her, bouncing around the woods as if she were surrounded on all sides by a radio not quite tuned in. An angry whisper. A tinny mumble. A conversation where the words made no sense, but sent crawls of warning shivering down her spine.

The blue jays stopped jabbering. The trees no longer swayed. Even the waves on the water lapped at the rocks on the shore in near silence. She couldn’t let the thugs corner her. Not until she’d found Scotty.

The Hummer’s cooling engine pinged, giving her a start. She scrunched down farther, then inched backward, away from the Colonel’s men.

A hand, big and rough, clamped over her mouth. A steel-strapped arm banded across her chest and dragged her backward. A scream tore from her throat, but the vise of a hand securing her mouth muffled it. She fought, twisting and kicking, and worked to free her lips to bite the offending fingers. But the body clinched tight against hers had no give and the flesh might as well have been granite. Her left hip bruised against the hard outline of a holster. Her peripheral vision caught a blur of black and panic ran rampant.

Another of the Colonel’s thugs.

She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But her body was ice, and her breath was gone. The thug said something, but through the thunder of her blood, she couldn’t make out the words.

No, let me go. I can’t go back to the Colonel’s. Not

until I find Scotty.

“Shh. It’s me. Sabriel.” The hiss of his breath rasped hot and urgent in her ear.

Sabriel, who was no savior, but one of them. She wasn’t going back. Not without Scotty. Her limbs thawed enough for her to renew her struggle.

“Stop. They’ll hear you.”

As if he cared. He’d told them where to find her.

He hauled her off her feet as if she weighed no more than a loaf of bread and dragged her deeper into the woods, where he crouched, folding down her uncooperative body along with his. A surge of adrenaline shivered through her. How could she have been so trusting? Just because he was Tommy’s friend? Given Tommy’s mental state, common sense would have warranted more caution.

“If I take my hand off, will you keep quiet?” Sabriel said in a sandpaper-harsh whisper.

Breathing fast and shallow, she nodded. She needed to save her strength for escape. Give herself time to think. She had to find real help and fast. Where could she go? Not the local police—they were bought and paid for by the Colonel. The resort where Tommy worked? It was far enough from Camden to not give a damn about Camden money. Someone there would help her. Time, all that time, trickling away from her, and Scotty out there, needing her.

Sabriel loosened his hand from her mouth, but continued to press on her shoulders to hold her down. She cranked her head over her left shoulder and caught a glimpse of him. He looked even more dark and dangerous than she remembered with that wild animal caution in those panther-green eyes, that dusky skin and that camouflage gear, fitting into the forest as if he belonged.

Once a Ranger, always a Ranger. Once a Camden soldier, always a Camden soldier?

“You led them to me.” Nora’s voice cracked. “You’re supposed to be Tommy’s friend.”

“Your car is equipped with a GPS.”

That neat little blue button that summoned help with the press of a fingertip. Her shoulders deflated in a sag of surrender. “Of course. Bugged. Just like the phone and the computer.” And she’d used her phone repeatedly. Had she left an electronic bread crumb trail for the Colonel’s men to follow and not just a record of her calls?

Nora couldn’t stop shaking. Even rubbing her arms didn’t seem to spawn any heat. The Colonel’s men would fan their search in this direction any second. She’d lose Scotty. “I can’t let them take me back.”

“Then let’s roll.” Sabriel’s gaze scanned forward and back. “Now.”

“SHE CAN’T BE FAR.” Boggs’s craggy voice ping-ponged from tree to tree. “Her engine’s still warm. Spread out and find her.”

Sabriel allowed his vision to widen, seeking possible danger in the escape route he’d picked. He jerked his head in the direction where he’d left his Jeep, signaling his intent to Nora. Brown eyes dark and wild with fear, she glanced in the goons’ direction before following him like a scared mouse.

He was a pushover for women with vulnerable eyes. Always trying to save them when he couldn’t save himself. And hers were especially compelling, sucking him in like the most gullible of marks. But he couldn’t let her get to him. She was a Camden, and he’d had enough Camden anguish to last him a lifetime.

He’d known from the second his phone rang that it meant trouble, and Nora Camden was proving him right. Fences, man. You’ve got to learn to keep up your fences.

She wouldn’t last an hour out in the mountains, especially bushwhacking. Even if it cost him time, he’d get her to the Aerie, where the Colonel and his goons couldn’t hurt her.

This time, he’d do things right.

The Colonel’s men scattered like cockroaches, not bothering to cushion their steps. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled like snakes. They didn’t care if Nora knew they were coming. They probably wanted her scared. Made the sport more fun. Pinheads.

Despite her slight body, Nora wasn’t exactly Miss Light Foot as she trailed him, so all the hired guns’ noise gave her some cover. But then why should she know how to stalk? A refined woman like her belonged at country clubs and charity balls, surrounded and protected by friends and family. Not running for her life from the megalomaniac who was supposed to keep her safe. He remembered her bright smile, how she’d made Tommy so happy on their wedding day, and wished he’d warned her about the Colonel all those years ago.

Sabriel headed downslope, toward the private road farther west where he’d camouflaged his Jeep. Nora huffed and puffed behind him, but scared to death as she was, she kept pace like a trooper.

The intent footsteps on both sides grew nearer. Two pairs, parallel.

“Here, Nora, Nora, Nora!” the goon on the left taunted—as if she were a dog. Laughter exploded through each syllable at his own little joke.

Sabriel grabbed Nora’s arm, making himself a wall between her and the threat. He assessed his position on the fly. Hell. They wouldn’t get back to his Jeep fast enough. He had to find some place to hunker down till the goons moved on.

He propelled them toward a rock formation jutting out from the side of a hill up ahead, and hoped, despite the piled scat and acorn shells, that no creature was renting space there at the moment. The last thing he needed was for Nora to scream and give away their location while they were cornered.

Without ceremony, he pushed her into the crevice between two slabs of granite. The space was barely big enough for one, let alone two, but he wedged in front of her, his camo gear blocking out the white flag of her cream sweater. He unsnapped his holster and forced his pulse to slow.

“Don’t talk. Don’t move. Don’t breathe,” he whispered into her ear.

Her head rubbed a nervous “okay” against his arm, and the almost forgotten softness of a woman shot static into his muscles and scrambled his thought process for a second. He shoved the thought aside and sought to separate the sounds of the forest from those of the enemy.

In the darkness of the narrow cave, his senses sharpened. But like a compass needle seeking north, they kept bouncing back too close to home.

The sweet almond of her scent, the keenness of her fear, the mossy tang of the earth tugged at memories. Anna and Ranger school. The pills and Tommy. The sweat and the survival. His jaw ground down the unwanted flashes, and he forced his awareness back to his surroundings.

The cool hardness of the rock pressed against his sides. The warmth of the body pinned against his front. Her curves fitting into his knees, hips and shoulders like water. How long had it been since he’d held a woman this close?

Footsteps approached from above, getting nearer, their vibrations pulsing through the soft earth. A distinct crunch and pop that came from no woodland creature broke two feet from their hole. The hitch of Nora’s breath against his neck, its intimacy, brought on an unexpected reaction. Hell. He didn’t need a complication like that now. He gritted his teeth, squeezing as much space between their bodies as he dared. He needed his senses clear and alert, not jumbled by primitive urges.

She was shaking so hard, he feared the clacking of her bones would attract the hunter’s attention. In the cramped space, Sabriel slowly slid his right hand up her arm and cupped it around her nape, releasing calming energy into her body the way Grandma Fiona had taught him, quieting them both.

The roof of moss dipped under a boot, cascading a small avalanche of dirt onto their heads.

The pulse in Sabriel’s left hand pounded against the Beretta’s cold steel. One man. He could take him. But killing had never come easy, and his life wasn’t yet in jeopardy.

The moss ripped. A boot plunged through the opening. The tip of the toe scraped against Sabriel’s temple.

Nora’s feet climbed his leg like a tree. Her shaking fingers dug into his neck, cutting off his circulation. Her chest beat like a machine gun against his. But somehow she kept her terrified sobs caged.

Something scurried across his boots. Sabriel caught a flash of gray waddling into the clearing, snorting and snuffing.

Thank you, brother porcupine.

“Stop!” the Colonel’s man ordered. He rescued his foot from the hole and drew his weapon.

“Got something, Hutt?”

Boggs. Off to the right. Within line of sight.

Don’t move, Nora. Whatever you do, don’t move. As if she’d heard him, her body went death-still.

“Nothing.” Hutt swore. “Just some freaking porcupine.”

“Frisk him. He might know something.”

“You’re a riot, Boggs.”

“Keep looking.”

“We’ve already disabled her car. Let’s just leave her and come back after we find the kid.”

“We don’t know who she might have met here. I don’t like to leave loose ends behind.”

Nora’s throat pistoned against Sabriel’s shoulder.

Shh. It’s okay. I’ll get you out of here.

The footsteps faded and disappeared. Sabriel didn’t move. He kept listening to the sounds of the woods, much too aware of the woman wrapped around him like a second skin, imprinting herself into his flesh.

Five minutes. Ten.

Only when the high-pitched chip-chip-chip of a chipmunk resounded nearby and the watery toolool of a blue jay rolled above did Sabriel relax. “They’re gone.”

“How do you know?” A hint of cinnamon rode on her breath, and he wanted to taste her.

“The birds.”

Her breath whooshed in a gust. “They’re singing again.”

He eased out of the rocky fissure, surveyed the woods, then offered her a hand, which she ignored. She slapped at the dirt sprinkled on the shoulder of her sweater, making the stingy strings of sunlight poking through the trees weave through her brown hair in golden ribbons. “What if they come back?”

“We make sure we’re not here.” Sabriel cupped her elbow, aware of her delicate bones, of her heat, of her fear, and turned her toward the trail. With Boggs in the mix, finding Tommy was going to be hard enough. He didn’t need this extra liability.

As he walked, he reached for his phone and placed a call to Falconer’s private number. When Falconer answered, the wedding reception boomed in the background. “Everything okay?”

Sabriel’s jaw tensed, and the words ground out with more bitterness and resentment than he’d intended. “I need help.”

He gave Falconer a synopsis of his afternoon.

“I’ll alert Kingsley to fire up the computer,” Falconer said. “Liv’ll have a room waiting for your friend.”

Sabriel had no choice but to open what he thought of as a closed chapter in his life to Falconer. He couldn’t leave Nora in harm’s way. He knew the wrath an angry Thomas Camden could wreak. The goons’ guns weren’t there simply to prove their manhood. Their orders were to hurt her.

He crushed his eyes closed against the piercing pain of the video he’d watched so often he knew every frame by heart—the drooping hair, the limp body, the bloody foam.

His conscience couldn’t stand another death.

Chapter Four

Nora scrunched down in the Jeep’s seat, spine rounded, legs pressed together, arms tight against her sides, keeping still and quiet. She’d spent a great deal of her childhood quivering in fear, making herself invisible, yet fear had taken on a new dimension when she’d delivered Scotty and known unconditional love for the first time.

The thought of being pregnant, a mother, had petrified her. She wasn’t ready. Tommy wasn’t ready. Things were too unstable with the resurgence of his illness and their uncertain future. Then, when the nurse had laid this innocent little creature into her arms, all she’d wanted to do was to knit him back into the protective cocoon of her womb, away from this harsh world’s dangers.

She’d tried to protect him, whipping toy trucks and Lego pieces from under his dimpled feet, distracting him from the greenhouse of tempting plants with which his grandmother decorated every room, shielding him from the Colonel’s unreasonable expectations.

Love that fervent didn’t make you brave, she’d learned, it made you afraid—of everything. And the thought of losing her son—the best part of her—now terrified her like nothing before.

Her only job had been to keep her little boy safe. A job she’d done with a fierceness that bordered on obsession. He would have a happy childhood, if that was the only thing she accomplished.

Overcompensation, she knew. For all the good it had done.

Where was he? Was he warm enough? Was he hungry?

Was he breathing?

What would happen to him if the Colonel’s men followed their orders and she met with a convenient accident?

On the verge of tears again, she turned to the window. She frowned as a road sign zoomed by. “Shouldn’t we be heading north, not south?”

“I’m taking you to a safe house.”

She strained against the seat belt. “No! That’s not going to work. I can’t abandon my son when he needs me.”

“I’ll find him.”

“His medicine—”

“I’ll get it to him.”

“Do you know anything about kids?”

“I’ll bring him back.” Sabriel’s iron hand squeezed hers. “Safe. I promise.”

The rigid lines of his face, telling their own tale, negated any reassurance she might have gained from the warm gesture. “Like you did Tommy during Ranger School?”

His hand shot off hers, stinging her with ripped-flesh rawness, and gripped the steering wheel as if he needed its steadying balance.

“I’m sorry. That was out of line.” Her cutting comment had hit a still-fresh scar, and she wanted to smooth the hurt. She’d been on the receiving end of cruel words often enough to know better. But her worry for Scotty trumped all and brought out a ruthless streak.

She reached toward Sabriel, but his aura vibrated with an electric-fence intensity that would fry her if she dared to cross its boundary. She folded her hands into her lap. “You’re trying to help me. And I’m being ungrateful.”

As the Colonel never ceased to remind her whenever she defied any of his orders. And like the Colonel, Sabriel was taking over without asking, expecting her to fall meekly in line and obey.

The worst part was that letting him take over would be easy—too easy. Her spine curved in as if it had lost its anchoring guy wire. She needed his help. He was fit and strong and knew his way around the mountains. He knew how to find Tommy. He knew how to bring Scotty back to her.

Something she could not do for herself.

She flattened her palms on her thighs, shoring up her resolve. She couldn’t let fear rule. Not this time. And she couldn’t continue to let other people make decisions for her. Especially not when it came to Scotty. Maybe if she’d taken a stronger stand against the Colonel’s intrusive meddling, then Tommy wouldn’t have felt he had to take Scotty.

“The Aerie’s a safe bunker,” Sabriel said.

“The Colonel—”

“Won’t be able to get to you.”

“I’m tougher than I look.” Her chin flagged up. “I won’t complain. I promise.”

“You’ll slow me down.”

The Jeep bumped over a dip in the road, forcing her to grab onto the dashboard. “I’ll keep up. I swear.”

“You’ll muddle the tracks.”

“I’ll stay out of your way.”

“The best thing you can do for your son is to let me find him. Alone.”

He spoke to her as if she were a kindergartner who was having trouble learning how to tie her shoes. Her back stiffened. “Do you know anything about asthma? What if Tommy can’t cope? Can you handle him when he’s in a manic phase? Or, even worse, when he’s scraping the bottom of the depression barrel?”

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