Fifth
38
November 3, 8:02 a.m. CET
San Vito di Cadore, Italy
Sharyn soaked in the hot shower, trying to warm the knots from her body after the long trip. It had taken more than fifteen hours to travel from Reims, France—where Gabriel had dropped them off—to this sleepy Alpine village.
To reach here, they had ridden a series of trains. The journey could have been shortened by adding an airplane leg, but Laurent had worried how well their new French identity cards would stand up to close inspection. The forgeries had certainly worked well enough aboard the trains, where scrutiny had been minimal. They had safely made it across four borders to reach Italy. Laurent had assured them the plastic cards would allow them to travel anywhere within the EU without the need for passports.
Still, Sharyn had appreciated the slower means of travel. The longest leg had taken them through the Swiss and German Alps at night, allowing them to finally get some real rest, with the six of them spread across three sleeper cars. Sharyn had shared her space with Naomi, which had disappointed Duncan. But she had been too tired to assuage his crestfallen look.
While she wanted nothing more than to find refuge in his arms, she could not shake a deep-seated unease, a mistrust that she could not dismiss as mere paranoia. Men in her past—those she met online or was set up with by friends—had always started out kind, funny, even gallant, only to later prove themselves to be on a spectrum from dishonest to treacherous.
Including my father.
Then again, she knew she likely colored any suitors in her father’s light. Over the years, she had found herself eventually looking for ways to kick men to the curb, guarding her heart, not willing to trust a relationship as anything more than casual.
Am I doing the same now with Duncan?
This question had plagued her on the trip through the Alps. Sprawled on the top bunk, she had stared out the train window at the passing moonlit peaks, their tops dusted with snow. The mountains had looked romantically picturesque. Something out of a storybook. But at the same time, there was a cold inhospitality to them, a dark beauty that could not be fully trusted. Still, after an hour, the train barreled into an unseasonably strong snowstorm, which erased the view and finally allowed her to fall asleep.
Standing in the shower now, she closed her eyes and luxuriated in the steam. She tried to draw in the heat, knowing it might be a long time before she felt this warm again. Two hours ago, their group had arrived in the mountain village of San Vito di Cadore. Laurent had rented rooms in a small chalet at the edge of a pine forest, backdropped by the sheer massif of the neighboring Dolomites. Their goal—Monte Antelao—towered a few miles to the east.
To prepare for the trek, Laurent had left the hotel with a wad of Euros. He had gone to purchase gear for them: winter clothing, hiking poles, flashlights, ropes. He had also planned to search for a mountain guide, someone familiar with the Dolomites, especially its more desolate, inhospitable regions.
A knock on the door forced Sharyn from the shower.
“The boys are already down at the buffet.” Naomi popped her head inside. “If we want them to leave us anything, we’d better get down there.”
“Okay. I’ll be right out.”
Now warmed all over, she recognized how hungry she was, something that surprised her. It seemed a body’s demands superseded the tensions and terrors. Plus, there was no telling when she might get another hot meal.
She quickly dried off and dressed. As she pulled on her sweater, her nose caught the grassy hint of hay, reminding her of their escape from the Barbier estate. She hoped Gabriel had gotten back to the château safely and that the repercussions for his family would not be too severe. Despite his earlier assurances, a downed helicopter would be difficult to brush away. Still, Gabriel had said he trusted the loyalty of the locals to his family and, if questioned, planned to blame the crash on a mechanical failure, not on a sniper’s well-placed shot.
No matter the outcome in France, Sharyn had greater worries of her own. As she followed Naomi down the hotel stairs, she stared past a row of windows. In the distance, sheer gray cliffs towered above a dense pine forest. Higher still, a line of snowy peaks cut a jagged line across the blue sky. The thought of journeying into those mountains tightened her chest.
How can we hope to find anything out there, something hidden for untold centuries, maybe millennia?
Laughter—an impossible noise to her ears—drew her attention to the trio seated at a table, only steps from the spread of a morning buffet. Archie chatted up a server, a buxom, dark-haired young woman. His Italian sounded flawless, accompanied by an authentic accent.
Duncan noted Sharyn and Naomi’s arrival. He lifted an arm. “About time!” he said with a grin. He looked freshly scrubbed, his hair still damp. “I got a pot of coffee for the table. And ordered you both cappuccinos. But you’d better grab what you can. They close the buffet in fifteen minutes.”
Tag turned to them. “And Laurent called. He’s on his way back.”
Sharyn crossed and picked up a plate. The spread of cured meats, breads, and jams drew her, especially a selection of pastries, which ran the gamut from delicate eclairs and Swiss cream puffs to the more familiar jelly-filled doughnuts. She centered two of the latter on her plate—an indulgent reminder of home—and surrounded the pair with scrambled eggs and thick-slabbed bacon.
She and Naomi joined the men as the server returned with the promised cappuccinos.
Archie nodded to the cups, whose froth had been inscribed with designs of a pine tree. “Only the Italians know how to make a proper coffee.”
After a sip, Sharyn could not argue against this. As she settled into her breakfast, Archie and Duncan left to refill their plates.
Tag looked out the windows at the sleepy little resort town. “The ski season doesn’t start here for another month, but the waitress said, after last night’s heavy storm, the resorts might open early. If so, this place will soon be bustling.”
She nodded, remembering the small blizzard that had swallowed the train. The same storm had dumped several feet of snow over the top of the Dolomites and left a dusting at this elevation.
