ONE

      They were close, dangerously close.

      Scott Becket sprinted up the trail, hoping to disappear in the brush ahead. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up this pace considering the abuse he’d sustained at the hands of his captors. He was lucky to have gotten away, although without his backpack he wouldn’t survive long out here in the Cascade Mountains.

      Scott needed the perfect spot where he could camouflage himself until they passed, if they passed, because he knew they were nothing if not determined to find Scott and kill him. After they finished what they’d started earlier—“persuading” him to admit where he’d hidden the proof of criminal activity that could destroy them all.

      As long as he had sole possession of the documentation, Scott would breathe another day or two, long enough to gather the last bit of evidence he needed to end this thing.

      Eyeing the trail ahead, he hoped he wouldn’t run into innocent civilians out for an afternoon hike. Scott didn’t want to put others in jeopardy and wasn’t sure how far his pursuers would go to secure the information and eliminate Scott, the only person cynical enough to question their plan.

      He winced at the pain of bruised ribs as he gasped to fill his lungs with air. Scott berated himself for not catching on sooner. What a fool. Just like he’d been a fool to think he could get water samples to the EPA without being caught. But then he hadn’t been thinking clearly for a while now.

      They’d distracted him with the illusion of love and happiness. Christa had been so good, too, an expert at making him feel safe and loved. He should have known better. Sweet, perfect women like Christa did not fall in love with damaged goods like Scott Becket.

      They’d also distracted Scott with threats against his boss and veiled threats against Scott’s sister. He hoped Emily took his message seriously and got out of town. If anything happened to his baby sister—

      Crack! He ducked at the sound of a gunshot echoing through the woods. Now they were shooting at him? They wouldn’t find zip if they killed him first and asked questions later.

      He glanced over his shoulder to see how close they were—

      His boot hit a tree root sticking up from the trail and he slammed chest-first against the ground, air ripping from his lungs.

      It couldn’t end like this, with Scott dead in the mountains, the notes and emails he’d collected never making it to the proper authorities.

      Junior would continue his plan, and eventually ascend to an even more powerful position as a governor or senator. Scott knew if the guy made it into office people would die from his greed.

      Scott scrambled to his feet, his hiking boots getting a solid grip on the soft earth. He wouldn’t give up the fight until he was, in fact, dead.

      With renewed focus he took off, eyeing a switchback up ahead.

      “Stop!” a man shouted.

      Sure, stop running and die. Not a chance.

      Another crack echoed across the mountain range. He hoped someone heard the gunshot and called 9-1-1.

      Scott should have called the cops before now, maybe even called his former partner at the Chicago P.D. Right, and have Joe lecture Scott about his screwup with the Domingo kid and subsequent resignation?

      Scott didn’t have much pull left with law enforcement, which is why being named head of security for Global Resources International had been such a confidence builder.

      Or had that been the plan all along, employ a scapegoat like Scott Becket as a fail-safe, someone to take the heat if it all went south?

      He hadn’t seen it coming.

      Approaching another switchback, Scott reached for a tree to steady himself as he made the turn. His momentum put him dangerously close to the edge of the trail overlooking a steep drop. If he could just make it around the corner and out of sight—

      Crack!

      Pain seared across his upper arm.

      He instinctively grabbed it and stumbled, slipping over the edge and skidding down the lush terrain.

      Whack! He came to a sudden stop and gasped for breath. His head throbbed, his arm burned and his ribs ached. He blinked, struggling to focus but his vision wouldn’t clear. All he could see was a blur of green above him; all he could hear was the sound of angry voices.

      Closer, louder.

      A high-pitched ringing cut through the echo of voices.

      And darkness consumed him.

      * * *

      Breanna McBride dangled her feet from her position twenty feet up in a tree and gazed at the vast mountain range. The air smelled fresh and invigorating, and the Douglas fir and Western Hemlock scattered across the countryside reminded her that Christmas was only weeks away.

      She heard what sounded like a gunshot and wondered if it was a blank fired off to signal the end of the training exercise for the Echo Mountain Search and Rescue K9 unit.

      Some might accuse Bree of being overly enthusiastic for hiding out up here; others might call her crazy. But Grace Longfellow, the SAR group leader, asked Bree to plan an exceptional challenge for today’s candidates and handlers, so she found this camouflaged spot high off the ground in Woods Pass.

      It could happen, Bree mused. A hiker could fall from a trail up above and land in a tree, maybe. Bree figured they should be ready for anything. Today was the final test, the graduation for three more dogs hoping to join the SAR K9 team.

      She waited. Turned up the volume on her radio so she wouldn’t miss the announcement. The exercise wouldn’t have ended until the dogs found Bree, right?

      A second shot echoed across the mountains and she ripped her radio off her belt. “This is Bree. Has the training exercise ended, over?”

      “We’re still looking for you and one other victim, over,” Grace answered.

      “But I heard—” Sudden movement caught her eye. A body tumbled onto the trail below, landing maybe twenty feet from her tree. “I think we have a real victim, over.”

      “He’s gotta be down there!” a man’s voice called from the distance.

      Bree raised her lightweight binoculars and spotted two men heading down the trail.

      One of them was carrying a gun.

      Her heart raced as her mind clicked off possible reasons why a man would be carrying a handgun in the national park. Hunting was illegal here, and the last time someone was shot in the park it was a private investigator shot by a criminal involved in a theft ring.

      Bree’s eyes darted from the two armed men to the unconscious one on the trail. She was torn between staying concealed and safe or helping him. Maybe if someone would have helped her when she was with her ex-boyfriend Thomas....

      “Don’t be foolish,” she whispered. How could she possibly defend herself and an injured man against two men with guns?

      “Grace, I’ve got a situation here,” she said into the radio. “We may need the police. There are two assailants, one is carrying a handgun, and a third man who is wounded, over.”

      “Location?”

      Bree gave her the coordinates. “I’m turning down the radio so they don’t hear you.”

      “Stay hidden,” Grace ordered.

      “Copy that.”

      Bree took a slow, deep breath to calm her frantic heartbeat. She hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline rush, this kind of fear since...