pre-dawn light. It wasn’t a safe stillness. It wasn’t a good silence. Something was off—the air subtly charged, the shadows seeming to shift and undulate. He pulled his Glock from the holster, stepping away from Stella and her grandmother. Behind him, voices drifted through the trees—the medics moving toward the creek as he moved away from it.
Stella didn’t ask him where he was going or what he was doing. She was either so focused on her grandmother she hadn’t noticed or she sensed what he did—someone watching.
The woods had lightened imperceptibly, black trees now brown-gray, white snow flecked with green pine needles and fallen leaves.
He used his penlight anyway, training it into the heart of the forest, flicking it across thick tree trunks and winter-brown bushes. He didn’t want to go too far. Even with help close at hand, he was worried about leaving Stella and her grandmother. Both were in bad shape. Stella, at her best, could take down almost any well-trained fighter. But she wasn’t at her best. Not even close.
He reached the top of a shallow embankment, the snow thicker there, the trees sparser. His light bounced across a fallen log, illuminating a hint of bright pink that peeked out from behind it.
The other slipper. He didn’t move closer. He’d spent years in Afghanistan and Iraq, working as part of one of the top ranger teams in the army. He didn’t talk about those days, but he’d lived them. They’d been the best preparation in the world for the kind of work he did with HEART.
Always cautious.
Always meticulous.
Always weighing risk versus benefit.
Until there was nothing to do but act, and then he’d do whatever was necessary to get out alive with his comrades.
The slipper?
It looked like one of the dozens of booby traps he’d seen just sitting out in the open, waiting for someone to pick it up. He flashed the light to the left and right of it, searching for wires or leads. Nothing. Not that he’d really expected there to be anything. Booby traps didn’t happen all that often in the good old USA, but he was paranoid, and he believed what Stella had said. Someone’s out here.
Her words had explained the gash on her temple, the blood that stained the collar of her pajama top and matted her dark red hair. She needed the medics almost as badly as her grandmother did. Maybe just as badly. He’d seen people die of head injuries like hers. He knew how dangerous they could be. If she’d been a different kind of person, he’d have carried her back to her grandmother’s house and made sure she was in an ambulance heading for the hospital, but Stella knew her own mind, she made her own decisions. He’d have done the same if he were in her position—insist on being part of the search. So, he’d let her call the shots.
But he wasn’t going to let her get hurt again.
Someone’s out here.
Yeah. She was definitely right about that.
He crouched near the slipper, his light trained on the ground beyond it. He studied the layer of pine needles and dead leaves, found what he thought were depressions in the surface. He followed the trail with his light, surprised to see what looked like a path through the trees. Not a deer trail this time. It looked man-made, the ground clear of shrubs and undergrowth.
Stella’s attacker had gone that way. He was certain of that. He was also certain that whoever it was wouldn’t be returning. Not now. Too many people crisscrossing the woods, too many lights flashing above the creek. Only a fool would risk capture by sticking around.
He saved the coordinates of the trail and holstered his Glock. He’d pass the information on to the team, let them figure out where the path led. Once he made sure Stella and Beatrice were safe, he’d return. By that time, local law enforcement would have already scoured the area, but he’d take a look anyway. It was what he did. Double-check. Look where others might not. Sometimes, a second or third or fourth pair of eyes would uncover something that no one else had.
If the police came up empty, Chance was going to make sure he didn’t. Right now, he had a lot more questions than answers, and he didn’t like it. Had this been a random act? An opportunistic crime? Or had it been planned?
Stella had worked a lot of missions. She’d made a lot of friends, and she’d made a few enemies. It was possible one of them had followed her to Boonsboro.
He frowned, turning back toward the creek.
She’d have been an easier target in DC. She lived alone there, in an apartment on the top floor of an old brownstone. He’d been to her place twice, and he’d lectured her both times. Not enough security. The doors were flimsy. The locks were a joke.
She’d told him to mind his own business, but that was Stella. She liked to do things her way. When it really mattered, though, she knew how to follow protocol and work as part of a team.
He moved toward the creek, retracing his steps, following the sound of voices and the flashes of lights through the forest. He thought he heard Stella, her voice about as familiar as his own. They’d known each other for a long time. Long enough to know each other well.
And to care about each other deeply.
He’d seen her crying while they searched for Beatrice. He wasn’t going to mention it. Not to her. Not to anyone on the team. Stella was indestructible and unflappable. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think.
The air changed, and he knew he wasn’t alone, that someone was just out of sight, hidden by the heavy boughs of a giant conifer. He didn’t pull his firearm. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at him would have already done it. A shadow separated itself from the trees, the gray edge of dawn highlighting red hair and a tall, narrow frame.
Despite his height, Boone Anderson moved quietly, his footfalls silent on the pine needles. “Find anything?” he asked.
“One of Beatrice’s slippers and a path through the woods.”
“We going to follow it?”
“You and Simon can. Let the local PD know what you’re doing and where you’re heading.”
“You’ll be at the hospital?”
“Someone has to be.”
“Stella can usually take care of herself.”
“She’s in bad shape. I don’t think she’ll be doing much of anything for a while.”
“How bad?” Boone cut to the chase. No extra questions. No speculating. He was a straight shooter. He did his job and he did it well, but his heart was with his family—his wife, his new baby, the daughter he’d lost years ago and had recently been reunited with.
“Probably a lot worse than she’s going to admit. A pretty deep gash to the temple and one on the back of her head.”
“And she probably thinks she’s going to be up running a marathon tomorrow.”
True. That was Stella. To a T.
“Where’s Simon?”
“Sent him down to the creek to see what the ruckus was about. Looked like the medics were
