Maybe those weren’t Jessie Lee’s. Maybe he just desperately wanted them to be.
“What did I do? What did I—”
There. In her other hand. A knife.
Josh pried it from her fist. A combat blade. Then he heard a soft buzz. He followed it to her hiking books and dug a black communicator out of an ankle holster.
The relief enveloped him. He wasn’t a murderer. It was self-defense. The Charge made him aggressive, but it also made him sense something his conscious mind was unaware of. Josh was so happy he almost kissed the communicator. He restrained himself, sliding the cover open instead, reading the last message.
Warren found.
He reasoned it out. The Red-ops had Fran and Duncan. The Red-ops found Warren. So either the Red-ops had brought Fran and Duncan to Warren’s place, or—
Or they didn’t need Fran and Duncan alive anymore.
Dread slapped euphoria right out of Josh. He whistled for Woof, patting the beagle’s head and giving him a scratch under the muzzle and winding his hand around the end of the clothesline.
“Find Duncan, Woof. Find Duncan, boy.”
The dog licked Josh’s face, then took off running. He sprinted after Woof, but the dog’s direction was erratic, zigzagging, and Josh couldn’t run full-tilt, periodically shining the Maglite at the ground to make sure he didn’t wind up in a bear trap.
Woof got farther and farther away, and Josh let out yard after yard of line until he was holding the very end, the dog disappearing into the undergrowth.
Then, abruptly, Woof stopped. The leash went slack.
Josh halted next to a tree, panting, the whole forest lopsided.
“Woof! Come, boy! Woof!
Josh whistled. He whistled again.
“Woof! WOOF!”
No answer.
Josh gathered in the rope, pulled it about a few feet, and then it went taut. He didn’t feel the dog on the end. There was no movement at all. The line must have been caught on something.
He paused, wondering what to do next. His feeling of invincibility had faded, passed. Josh thought about taking another Charge capsule and quickly decided he’d rather die of cyanide poisoning that have that shit in his system again.
Instinct told him something had happened to Woof. Something bad. Maybe a trap. Or maybe something even worse.
He thought, fleetingly, of leaving the dog there, going on without him. But Woof saved his life, and if Josh could return the favor he would. No matter how much it scared him.
Josh began to walk, winding the clothesline around his arm as he did. He took five steps. Listened. Heard nothing. Took five more steps. Listened. Called quietly, “Woof.” Heard nothing. Took five more steps. Listened.
A whine. Faint. Coming from the bushes ahead. The rope trailed beneath them.
Josh pulled lightly on the rope.
The rope tugged lightly back.
Another whine. Louder. Woof was hurt.
Josh gripped the Maglite tight, trying to control the shaking as he pointed it at the bushes, trying to penetrate inside them.
The bushes shook, then stilled.
If it were any other dog on the planet, Josh would have dropped the rope and run in the opposite direction. But he forced himself forward, one foot in front of the other, crouching down where the rope disappeared in the foliage.
The rope began to pull. Gently. Josh tightened his hand around it and tugged, feeling some resistance. He tugged harder, pulling the rope back.
“Woof,” he called, louder.
Woof whined in response.
Relieved, Josh tucked the Maglite under his armpit and began to reel in the clothesline, hand over hand. He wound a yard around his arm. Two yards. Five yards. Knowing he was getting close to the end.
Then, blessedly, Woof bounded out of the trees, running up to Josh, putting his paws on his shoulder.
But Woof wasn’t attached to the rope. His collar was off, and he had some clothesline tied around his snout.
So what was … ?
Santiago poked his head out of the bushes, scaring Josh so badly he jumped backward. The killer stood up, facing Josh, Woof’s collar buckled around his neck.
“I found Logan,” Santiago said. “Was that you, did that to her? I’m surprised. She was very good. A woman, yes, but she liked to get her hands dirty.”
Josh backed up. Santiago carried no weapons, but his hands were balled into fists.
Woof growled, trying to bark.
“And what of Bernie?” Santiago asked. “We haven’t heard from him lately.”
Josh’s wanted to say something tough, but his voice wasn’t working. He nodded his head.
“Bernie, too? Impressive. Especially from someone with no training, no skills at all. You must be a very lucky man.” Santiago grinned. “But your luck has just run out.”
“Woof,” Josh managed. “Go.”
Woof whined.
“Go!” Josh yelled.
Woof took off. The killer came at Josh low and fast, so fast that Josh missed when he swung the Maglite. He tackled Josh, lifting him up off the ground, driving him into a tree. It felt like someone had stuck a tube in Josh’s mouth and sucked out all of his oxygen. He fell onto all fours, struggling to breathe, but all that came out was a high-pitched wheeze.
Santiago knelt next to him and Josh felt the man’s lips touch his ear.
“This is for Bernie.”
And then Josh was flat on his face, his right arm pinned behind his back in a hammerlock. Santiago grabbed his little finger.
Bent it.
Kept bending it.
Kept bending it.
Josh actually heard the crack.
Tears came, but his wind hadn’t returned so he couldn’t suck in a breath to scream.
“This is for Logan.”
Josh’s ring finger bent back, hyperextended, and cracked like a twig. But Santiago didn’t let go. He kept manipulating it, kept pulling, until Josh’s entire world was a reduced to a white-hot pinpoint of pain.
“And this is for my ear.”
Santiago didn’t move on to the middle finger. He went back to the pinkie.
The killer twisted it around a full 360 degrees before Josh finally passed out.
• • •
Wiley stared at his plasma-screen TV in the great room. Three men stood around the fake deer at his entrance. One was the soldier who’d found his camera. The other was an older man in fatigues who didn’t look like a soldier at all. The third, incredibly, was that big son of a bitch he’d shot.
Wiley used the remote control to zoom in. The giant was bloody, and his right arm hung limp, but he’d miraculously survived eight shotgun slugs. Wiley had hunted bear before and never needed more than four. He was liking their chances less and less.
Fran and her boy also gawked at the TV, motionless.
“If you want to survive,” he told them, “you have to do everything I say. Fran, have you ever fired a gun before?”
Fran shook her head. Wiley reached behind him and pulled the shotgun out of his shoulder rig.
“This is a Beretta Extrema2, a semiautomatic shotgun. It will fire as fast as you can pull the trigger, and it has a recoil system so it won’t take your arm off. Just point and shoot.”
Fran showed no reluctance in taking the gun. “Show me how to reload.”
“I have to go back to storage, get more shells.” Wiley stared hard at Fran. “Should I bring a gun for Duncan?”
Fran’s gaze went from him, to her son, to the Beretta. She managed a small nod.
“I’ll be right back. It doesn’t look like they’ve figured out how to open the door yet. When they do, the alarm will sound again. Push that table over, get behind it, and shoot anything that comes through the door that isn’t me. It’s also possible they’ll go after the generator. There are candles around the room, matches on the table. Light them all.”