CHAPTER FOUR

      The thick mulch underfoot deadened any sound she might have made. The close branches overhead broke the daylight into ragged patches. Undergrowth tugged at her FBI windbreaker. She held her Glock close to her chest as she traveled. She scoured the way ahead, moving steadily, but with caution. Her eyes probed the tall trees, the tangled undergrowth. This wild country was new to her. Sarah Mitchell would admit to being a city girl. Tall buildings and concrete she knew. The sights and sounds, the smells of urban life were her familiars, not greenery and timber. The forest with its own scents offered unknown challenges. She had been on the move for roughly twenty minutes when she glimpsed her target directly ahead, its dark bulk showing through the trees. She advanced, taking a slower pace until she could see the full outline of the structure.

      A four foot stone wall ran around the property. Mitchell moved up to it so she could see the building clearly. An unpaved road led up to the house, and a pair of high-end SUVs were parked at the front entrance. She could see a number of wood-framed windows, but from her position she was unable to see inside. The whole place reeked of decrepitude. Mitchell crouched, trying to formulate her approach and aware that once she cleared the wall she would be pretty well exposed if she made for the house.

      Mitchell heard a faint sound then and realized she was not alone. She gripped the Glock tighter, feeling a slick of perspiration on her palm.

      She had been sure she had slipped in unseen.

      Something told her that it was not Brewster who had made the sound. Her partner would not have come in so close without identifying himself to her.

      She flattened against the stone wall, straining her ears to pick up any more sounds. She stayed put for a while, listening, but picked up no more noise. That didn’t comfort here. For all she knew there was someone close by doing exactly the same thing.

      Now, she thought, was where things could get really awkward.

      What would the FBI manual tell you about things like this? She knew the answer straightaway. Don’t get yourself into tricky situations in the first place. Right now that was of no damn use at all.

      Sweat beaded Mitchell’s face. She had gotten herself into this position, so she had no choice other than getting herself out. All because of her impetuous nature. That and being mad with Brewster.

      Mitchell turned slowly, searching the shadows. She probed the air with her pistol.

      Nothing.

      So why was she so worked up?

      Because something didn’t feel right.

      Mitchell almost gave a yell when cold metal pressed into her neck.

      “Give me the gun,” a quiet voice said.

      No threat. Just a commanding tone that made Mitchell pause and consider her actions.

      “Finger off the trigger and just let go.”

      She felt a hand close around the Glock and push the barrel down.

      “Let it go, Agent Mitchell.”

      FBI rules stated not to give up her issued weapon, but the insistent pressure of the man’s gun made a powerful statement that instantly wiped protocol off the board. Mitchell let go of the Glock and felt it drawn away.

      “That wasn’t hard, was it?”

      “My boss might not agree.”

      “At least you’re still alive to argue the point.”

      Mitchell turned to face the newcomer.

      He was tall, well over six feet, with black hair, and steady blue eyes that held her defiant gaze. The first thing she saw was his combat blacksuit. The muscled body beneath showed broad shoulders and a lean, well-defined torso. His calm demeanor was unthreatening, but Mitchell sensed that deceptive calm could turn quickly. He wore a shoulder rig, probably for the Beretta 93-R he held in his fist. A gun belt around his waist held a second high-ride holster holding a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. Whoever he was, Mitchell decided, he had come loaded for bear. There was even a sheathed knife on his left hip.

      “Three words,” the man said. “SAC Drake Duncan.”

      “Okay. I’ll make a calculated guess you’re not part of Hegre,” Mitchell said.

      The faintest of grins etched his lips briefly.

      “FBI training is getting sharper.”

      Mitchell inclined her head. “Is my badge showing?”

      “No, but the way you reacted shows agency training. And that Glock is standard-issue.”

      Mitchell stepped back and looked him over a second time. There was a military bearing about him. The way he held himself spoke of self-control and a dedication to what he was doing.

      “Special Forces?” she asked.

      Mack Bolan shook his head. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I don’t have affiliations to any agencies you can think of. But I’m on your side. My name’s Matt Cooper.”

      “Matt Cooper? SAC Duncan mentioned your involvement in the smallpox investigation.”

      “That’s why I’m here. Duncan asked me to run background interference because he has concerns about your safety. He has suspicions there might be a leak in your department.”

      “Damn. This isn’t the first time.” Mitchell thrust out a hand. “Special Agent Sarah Mitchell.”

      Bolan took her hand. As slim as it was against his own, he felt the firm grip.

      Her handshake gave Bolan the opportunity to take a closer look at the woman. He noted she was tall, and had an athletic build. The eyes that studied him were bright, a shade of green and amber that instantly drew attention to her face, and alert. They were set