just rather not die doing it.
She eyed the dark trees, the distant mountains and the road that stretched out in front of her. Not a light. Not a house. Not any sign of civilization. Maybe she should turn around; return when the sun came up.
“Five minutes,” she whispered because the silence was starting to get to her and the only thing she was getting on her radio was static. “If I don’t see something by then, I’m turning around.”
The wind howled, sweeping through the forest and swirling along the road. Normally, Trinity loved storms, but if one was blowing in, she didn’t want to be on a dirt road in an area with spotty reception. Even Jeeps could get stuck in mud or crushed by falling trees.
So, that was that.
She was turning around.
She’d drive the fifty miles to Whisper Lake and find the little bed-and-breakfast she’d reserved a room in. She’d get a good night’s sleep and she’d come at the problem fresh in the morning. Obviously she’d miscalculated the distance to Mason’s property. For all she knew, she wasn’t even on the right road. Aside from the no-trespassing signs, the road wasn’t marked. She had no idea what the street address for the house was. She didn’t even know if there was one. All she knew was what she’d found by accessing public records—Mason Gains owned two-thousand acres of land somewhere very close to where she was driving.
She slowed, trying to find a wide enough spot to turn around, and caught something in her periphery. A light glimmered through the trees to her left.
A window? It looked like it, and if there was a window, there had to be a house.
Her pulse jumped and she accelerated again, following the curve of the road through the trees and out into the open. The road ended there, stopping abruptly at the edge of a grassy field.
A mile out, a house jutted up against the blue-black sky, the forest pushing in behind it, crowding close enough that Trinity couldn’t see where the house ended and the forest began.
That had to be Mason’s house.
At least, she hoped it was his house.
If it wasn’t, she was about to walk across a field and knock on a stranger’s door.
Who was she kidding?
Mason was a stranger.
He wasn’t going to be happy to see her. She was going, anyway. She’d promised Bryn that she’d try, and that meant giving her best effort.
Hopefully it wouldn’t get her killed.
She shoved her phone and keys in her jacket pocket and got out of the Jeep. The early fall air already held a hint of bitter winter, the moisture in it biting and cold. Lights spilled out of several windows of the ranch-style house. She could see the details more clearly as she approached—the wrap-around porch, whitewashed and gleaming. The black door and gray siding. No shrubs or bushes butted up against the house. No trees. No fences. Nothing that would impede the owner’s view of the road and the field.
That didn’t make Trinity feel any more comfortable with the situation. Mason had served three tours overseas. He’d been a helicopter pilot and had seen his share of combat. It was possible that—like so many of the men and women he worked with—he had PTSD. If he did, he might be even less likely to appreciate a random stranger showing up at nine in the evening.
She walked up the porch steps, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket as she went. She didn’t know if she had cell reception, but she felt better holding on to the possibility.
She knocked, the sound echoing through the night. A bird startled from a tree, a critter scurried under the porch, but no one came to the door.
She knocked again, thought she saw one of the curtains in the front window move. Someone was there. She could feel him watching as she stepped back off the porch.
“Mason?” she called, surprised at the tremor she heard in her voice.
Nerves weren’t her style any more than fear was.
No response. Just the same silent house and that little flutter of curtain movement.
Someone was definitely in there.
Since he hadn’t shouted for her to leave or pointed a gun in her direction, she was going to keep trying to get him to open the door. Bryn was waiting for the mission-accomplished call and Trinity planned to make it. Mason Gains was the best at what he did. His prosthetic devices were used by some of the highest level athletes in the world. Getting him to agree to make one for Henry would lift the tween’s spirits and give him back the hope he’d lost the day he’d been told he was going to lose his leg. That was what Bryn wanted more than anything, and it was what Trinity wanted for her.
She walked around the side of the house. The windows were dark there, the moon the only light. The backyard was a tiny stretch of grass that bumped about against deep woods. To the right, a section had been cleared for a large workshop and a three-stall garage. An SUV sat in front of one stall, its windows tinted.
Washington, DC, license plate.
Mason must have visitors.
Good. He’d be less likely to shoot her and dump her body if there were witnesses around.
“Not funny, Trin,” she muttered as she walked up the three stairs that led to a small deck.
She planned to knock on the back door, but it was open, a screen the only thing separating her from the room beyond. A kitchen, maybe. She thought she could see the outline of a refrigerator in the darkness, see what looked like a table and chairs, and something else. A person? It looked like it. Not moving, just hanging back a few feet from the screen, watching her the way she was watching him.
She didn’t call out again, didn’t move closer.
Something was off. She could feel it in the frigid air and in the frantic pounding of her heart.
She stepped back, quietly, cautiously, eyes glued to person behind the screen.
The stairs were right behind her and she felt for them with her foot, afraid to turn away. Afraid that if she did, whoever was on the other side of the screen would attack.
She found the first step and moved down, her hair suddenly standing on end, her nerves alive with warning. The person didn’t move. Not an inch, but the air vibrated with energy.
Everything inside told her to run and, this time, she was going with her gut.
She swung around just as a quiet click broke the silence.
She knew the sound as well as she knew the sound of her mother’s voice. A gun safety being released.
She had seconds, and she used them, her feet moving almost before the sound registered. She leaped to the left, landing hard on thick grass. She stumbled, kept going, racing toward the trees as the first shot rang out.
The bullet whizzed past, slammed into a tree a few feet away, the trunk splintering, bits of it flying into Trinity’s face as she ducked and kept running.
The woods were
