"My team doesn't know I'm here." Griff turned, meeting his friend's eyes. "And they're not going to. Clear?"
Needles' jaw tightened. "How long you planning to keep this up?"
"As long as it takes."
"And if you get yourself killed?"
"Then they stay safe." Griff shouldered his pack. "Thanks for the ride. I'll call when I need extraction."
"If you need extraction."
Griff didn't answer. He headed for the 4x4. Behind him, he heard Needles mutter something in Hindi that definitely wasn't complimentary.
Three hours later, Griff followed the SUV carrying Winters up a winding mountain road, keeping far enough back to avoid detection. The vehicle finally turned onto a dirt track marked by a weathered sign: Whispering Pines Lodge. He continued past, found a Forest Service road a half mile up, and worked his way back on foot.
By the time he'd positioned himself on a ridge overlooking the property, the Montana cold was already seeping through his tactical gear. Through his scope, he watched the SUV stop beside an empty-looking cabin at what had once been a resort.
Whispering Pines had given up somewhere around 1983. Three vehicles were nosed up to the uninspired main lodge, but other than that, the place seemed deserted.
She stood there in a red wool peacoat—at least she'd tried to dress warmer—and designer boots that would last about five minutes in actual wilderness. Her ginormous backpack and rolling suitcase sat beside her.
The driver pointed toward a leaning cabin slightly down the road and climbed back into the vehicle. The sun started its descent behind the mountains. Was he going to leave her there, alone?
Through his scope, Griff watched her face cycle through emotions. Confusion. Irritation. A flash of something thatmight have been fear as she took in the isolation. She grabbed both bags and started toward the farthest cabin, stopping every few yards to switch hands, then once to check her phone.
Yeah. Good luck with that out here.
She looked back at the main lodge like she was calculating the distance to help if she needed it.
Smart. But not smart enough to question why someone had gone to all the trouble to fly her out to Montana.
He should have approached her in DC. Found a way to warn her without sending her running. Now she was out here, isolated, vulnerable, and he still didn't know why. Someone wanted her away from her desk, away from whatever financial threads she'd been pulling.
Away from witnesses.
Movement caught his eye. Southwest ridge, barely visible through the trees. A flash of light where there shouldn't be one.
He shifted his scope, searching the tree line.
Someone else was watching Sarah Winters.
3
That man had literally drivenoff and left her.
Sarah gritted her teeth as she trudged toward the ugly cabin. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it was the kind of quiet that made horror movie audiences yell at the screen.
She'd barely gotten a word out of the driver—Johnson, maybe?—during the entire ride from the airfield. Every attempt at conversation had been met with grunts or single-syllable responses. But she'd tried one more time before he left her here in the middle of nowhere.
"Where is everyone else?" She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. "This is supposed to be a training exercise. Where are the other participants?"
He squinted at his phone as if it personally offended him. "West Coast contingent. Flying in from Denver."
"Why aren’t they here?"
"Flight delayed." Another squint. "Airport construction."
Sarah's internal alarm bells went from gentle chiming to full air-raid siren. "When do they land?"
