Stop being dramatic, Fraser. It's just another call.
Except it wasn't.
The road opened up suddenly, and Sunset Point spread before them—a wide semicircle of cracked asphalt being slowly reclaimed by forest. The old viewing platform was blocked by concrete barriers the county had installed after too many accidents, their gray bulk now softened by snow.
Andrew's rental Lexus sat at an angle near the barriers, as if he'd slid to a stop. The driver's door hung open, interior light casting a yellow rectangle on the white ground.
No sign of Andrew.
"That's not good," Izzy breathed.
Every instinct Cory had developed in fifteen years of law enforcement screamed. Open car door in December. No visible occupant. This was all wrong.
He positioned the SUV for a quick escape—nose pointed toward the exit road, enough angle to use the vehicle as cover if needed. The engine ticked as he killed it, the sound sharp in the mountain silence.
They exited together without discussion, weapons drawn but held low. The snow muffled their footsteps as they approached Andrew's vehicle.
"Andrew?" Cory called out, his voice echoing off the rock face. "Andrew Duarte? Hope Landing Police."
Nothing.
The Lexus was empty, but the keys still dangled from the ignition. Andrew's phone lay on the passenger seat. Fresh snow was already accumulating on the leather through the open door.
"Got footprints," Izzy said quietly.
Cory moved to where she crouched. In the beam of her tactical light, the story was written in the snow. Andrew's dress shoes—completely inappropriate for mountain weather—had left distinctive prints leading from the car toward the barriers. But they were joined by larger prints. Boot treads, deep and purposeful.
"Two operatives," Izzy murmured. "Maybe three."
They followed the trail, weapons up now. Near the concrete barriers, the pristine snow was churned into chaos. Clear signs of a struggle—snow angels that had nothing to do with play. And there, stark against the white?—
"Blood." Izzy's light caught the dark spots. "Not much, but..."
In the distance, carried on the thin mountain air, came the growl of an engine. Getting closer.
"Move," Cory ordered, already backing toward better cover.
But they'd barely taken three steps when the dark van roared into the overlook, tires sliding on the snow as it fishtailed to a stop. The side door was already rolling open, and Cory caught a glimpse of Andrew—duct tape across his mouth, eyes wide with terror, a black-clad form holding a gun to his head.
Two men burst from the van like eager dogs released from their chains. One headed straight for Izzy, the other vectoring toward Cory.
Time slowed.
Cory's attacker was big, matching his own six-two, but the guy had twenty pounds on him. The man moved with the confidence of someone used to winning through sheer size. Sloppy, though. Telegraphing his rush like a drunk in a bar fight.
Training took over. Cory sidestepped at the last second, using the man's momentum against him. He grabbed theextended arm, pivoted, and introduced the attacker's face to the concrete barrier with decisive force.
The man went down hard and didn't move.
In his peripheral vision, Cory saw Izzy dealing with her attacker—a blur of motion that ended with the man on his knees, arm bent at an angle that would require medical attention.
"Back off."
The shout froze them both. A third man remained in the van, gun pressed against Andrew's temple. The kidnapper's hand shook slightly, but at that distance, it wouldn't matter.
"Just back off," the gunman repeated. "We only want the woman. This doesn't have to get messy."
We only want the woman.
