Gone. Shirlee McCoy
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Medical Centre. What he’d noticed was her paleness, her closed eyes, how completely her body was covered by a blanket. He’d also recognized the man who was pushing the wheelchair. Mack Dawson was a low-level member of The Organization. Something Sam knew because he was a member, too. Deep undercover. Cut off from the FBI Special Crimes Unit he worked for, he’d spent the past month posing as tech expert willing to do just about anything for the right price.
He had a lot to lose if The Organization discovered him with the woman they’d kidnapped.
Namely, his life.
He was working alone. No well-trained team ready to back him up. The Organization, on the other hand, was multitiered and multi-membered with plenty of operatives living in and around Newcastle, Maine. Most of them were willing to commit murder if enough money was offered. He’d known that when he’d watched Mack shove the woman into the passenger seat of a small car. He’d known it when he’d made the decision to follow the car. Just to make sure the woman was okay.
He might be posing as one of the bad guys, but he couldn’t shake the need to protect and serve. It had led him to work as a Houston undercover police officer and then to the FBI Special Crimes Unit. It had led him to Newcastle, Maine, and his assignment—finding proof that The Organization was kidnapping teenagers and shipping them to foreign locations where they were sold to the highest bidders.
Now, it had led him here.
To the middle of nowhere, trying to help a young woman who might be The Organization’s next intended human trafficking victim.
Only, up close, with the moonlight falling on her face, she didn’t look young or desperate enough. The Organization preyed on teenage foster kids. Troubled. Troublemakers. Family-less. The kind of young people who—when they went missing from their foster or group homes—were considered runaways. Currently, the total was fifteen kids in two years. All of them gone without a trace.
The woman he’d just freed from the shipping container didn’t look like a kid. She looked to be in her mid-to late-twenties. Clean clothes. Professionally cut hair.
“What’s your name?” he asked, and she frowned.
“Why do you want to know?” she replied, her voice thick and a little raspy.
“Because, I’d rather not spend the rest of the night calling you lady.”
“Ella McIntire,” she murmured, her gaze darting from him to the ground four feet below. “Thanks for not letting me fall on my face.”
“Getting out of here would be a lot more difficult with you injured. Come on. The stairs are over here.” He turned to the left, walking down five rickety steps and onto pebble-strewn dirt. Several shipping containers stood in the weed-choked clearing, their rusting carcasses blocking his view of the woods beyond. He didn’t like that. He wanted a clear visual of the surrounding area.
He also didn’t like the fact that the shipping container Ella had been left in had been set on cinder blocks and fitted with a door that had three locks and a dead bolt on the outside. He’d picked the locks easily, and he’d slid the bolt free, but he doubted someone inside could have escaped. Not through the door, at least.
And that made him wonder if Ella was the first person to be locked in.
Which made him think that she probably wasn’t.
And that made him want to call his supervisor, Wren Santino, and ask her to bring an evidence team out. First, though, he had to get out of the woods and back to a place with cell phone reception.
He eyed Ella, wondering if she was capable of walking to his vehicle. He’d parked a couple miles away, pulling his car off the road and leaving it hidden behind thick foliage.
The distance itself probably wouldn’t be a problem, but they’d need to stay off the road, traveling through the trees parallel to it. That’s what he’d done on the way in—pushing through thickets and crossing a small stream. Not an easy hike for a someone who already looked exhausted.
“I guess you have a plan for getting out of here. What is it?” she said quietly, eyeing the clearing. No expression on her face. No emotion in her eyes. Just pale skin and a few freckles, dark hair escaping a ponytail. Flannel shirt unbuttoned, a dark T-shirt beneath. Jeans. Boots. A splotch of what looked like blood on the side of her neck.
He frowned. “What happened to your neck?”
“I don’t know.” She touched her nape, and he took her hand, moving it so that her fingers were closer to the spot.
“There,” he said. “It looks like blood.”
“I still don’t know.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “You were going to tell me about your plan?”
“That’s a quick switch.”
“From?”
“You wanting to run away to you wanting to go along with my plan.”
“I didn’t say I was going along with it. I said I wanted to hear it. Because this place looks about as remote as anywhere could be.” She turned a slow circle, probably taking note of the abandoned shipping crates, the weeds and trash littering the clearing, the thick forest that surrounded it. “And I’m not foolish enough to think I can find my way out alone.”
“There’s a driveway in,” he said. “Just that way.” He gestured to the western edge of the clearing. “But walking out to the main road on it isn’t a good idea.”
“You think the people who brought me here will return?”
“One person brought you here, and yes. I do think he’s coming back. Probably with help.”
“Help for what? Disposing of me?” She pulled her shirt tighter around her narrow frame, and he shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it around her shoulders.
“I don’t know what they intend.”
“You mentioned killing me or selling me off to the highest bidder. You must know something.”
“I know neither of us wants to wait around to find out which option they choose. Come on. We need to get out of here.”
“Do you have a phone? You could call the police. That would be a lot safer than trying to run,” she said.
“There’s no reception out here. We’re too deep in the mountains. Put the jacket on. Let’s go.” He walked away, acting as if he expected her to follow.
To his relief, she did, hurrying after him. Taking two steps for every one of his. Dry grass crackling beneath their feet, cold wind rustling the leaves of nearby trees. It was early autumn, but it felt like early winter—a cold crispness to the air that reminded him of winter nights on his grandfather’s ranch. Only back then, there’d been no villains lurking in the darkness. There’d been no hint of danger in the air. Those were the days when he’d been too young to understand how much evil the world contained, or how determined he’d one day be to protect people from it. They were also the days before his mother died and he was sent to live with his father. Forced to live with him. He’d have preferred to stay with his grandparents, but at nine years old, he’d had no say. The court had made the decision, and he’d had no choice but to abide by it.
The woods fell silent as he led Ella into the thick tree-line that bordered the driveway. He stayed far enough away to be hidden from any vehicles that might come along. Close enough that he didn’t fear getting turned around or lost. The driveway was half a mile of gravel, deeply rutted from vehicles moving through. He’d taken a look after Mack drove away. Before he’d entered the shipping container and freed Ella. He’d wanted to see if there was an easy way to block vehicular access to the clearing and slow the return of Mack and his Organization pals.
There hadn’t been, and this was the best he could do—freeing Ella and fleeing with her, praying they could get to his vehicle before The Organization’s henchmen returned. Low level thugs. Not the people