Page 62 of North

“Let me talk to her.”

“She’s indisposed. I’ll have her call.”

“I want to talk⁠—”

The line had gone dead.

North had spent the night staring at his phone, willing it to ring. Pacing Frank’s guest room.

It hadn’t helped that his follow-up call to Ham had netted them both the same realization.

Selah was most definitely with Alan Martin. Ham had told her to go to York’s place and sent her a pin before he realized Martin was listening.

So, that was excellent.

Ham had said he’d also send a pin to North. Except, of course, North would need cell service to get it.

North had tried to tell himself that she wasn’t going anywhere until morning, and had finally lain down on the guest bed and stared at the ceiling.

Might have slept.

Or not.

He had been up before dawn and met Frank in the kitchen. The man wore a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans and sipped coffee, staring out at the sunrise. He’d glanced at North. “Any luck?”

“Sleeping? No. Finding Selah? Again, no.”

And that’s when the man had fished out keys from his pocket. “Go on down the mountain about a half mile and you’ll get cell-phone coverage. Maybe you can get those directions.”

The directions to York’s place.

His phone had pinged with the pin before he’d even reached the half-mile mark. And then a voicemail from Ham, left sometime last night.

We’ve got problems. York’s gone dark. None of my contacts can reach him.

Glorious.

North had downloaded the offline GPS, then called Ham back before he returned to Frank’s place.

“Have you heard from Selah?”

“No,” Ham had said. “And I’ve been up all night trying to get ahold of York—and you. Where have you been?”

“Sightseeing—where do you think I’ve been?” He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “Did you pick up her GPS?”

“No. But I called Ruby Jane, York’s wife. She’s ex-CIA. Still works for the Caleb Group sometimes. She’ll be ready.”

“For an assassin.” He’d put the truck into Drive.

“He wasn’t an assassin so much as an operative.”

“Semantics. Listen, I’m going to lose signal, but I’ll get to York’s place. Keep trying him.” North had hung up and floored it back to Frank’s house.

The man had stood on the porch as North drove up. He’d met him on the soggy lawn. “Anything?”

“I’m going to a place called Shelly. It’s down the highway over to Wenatchee and back north⁠—”

“Or you take the backcountry. C’mon.” He’d gestured for North to follow, and they’d headed back into the house.