another answered, and she knew she was in bigger trouble than she ever could have imagined.
She’d ignored all the internal warnings, all the little shivers of doubt and fear, and she’d walked in on something she shouldn’t have.
Like an idiot.
Like a kid who didn’t know what she was doing or how to take care of herself.
Someone snagged the back of her jacket and she fell back, her phone flying from her grasp as she fought to free herself.
Elbow to a soft stomach, fist to a nose. She palmed the guy in the chin and finally broke free of his grasp. No plan except to escape. No destination but the forest with its thick trees and dark shadows. She had no idea where she was going or what she’d do once she got there. She just knew she had to keep moving.
She raced through heavy brambles, thorns catching on her skin and clothes, tearing at her hair. Blood seeped from a long scratch on her cheek, but she didn’t take time to wipe it away. She could still hear branches breaking, feet pounding, someone closing in.
Please, God. Please get me out of this, and I will always tell the entire truth instead of keeping little pieces of it to myself. I promise. Just help me, she prayed, bargaining in a way she hadn’t since she was old enough to understand how useless and silly it was.
God didn’t bargain.
He didn’t only come around when someone was in trouble, either.
He worked in His way and in His time, and Trinity was cool with that.
She wasn’t cool with dying.
She knew her eternal destiny, but she’d rather not have her body buried in the woods in Maine, her family spending the rest of their lives wondering what had happened to her the way they had always wondered what had happened to her older sister.
Behind her, someone called out, the voice deep and masculine. There was an answer from somewhere to her left, and she knew they were trying to pen her in, come at her from two sides. Or maybe even three.
She ran down a steep slope, nearly tumbling into a creek that burbled over rocks and old logs. She jumped over a narrow section, her feet sinking into mud on the far bank. She didn’t stop to smooth the prints away. She could hear her pursuer charging through the woods. Closing in. And she had no way of calling for help, no one flanking her, making sure she survived.
She was alone.
The way she’d wanted it, because she’d been tired of standing in the shadows of her brothers.
Now she wished they were here.
She wished she’d been more honest about her reasons for traveling to Maine and told them exactly where she planned to be. She wished a lot of things, but wishes were about as useful as umbrellas in hurricanes.
She sprinted uphill and found herself on a narrow path that skirted a ledge. A hundred feet below, dark water shimmered in the moonlight. A lake! And, beyond that, house lights. She wasn’t sure how far. A couple of miles away maybe. If she could make it there, she could knock on a door, find a phone, call for help.
If she could make it.
Someone barreled onto the path a few hundred feet to her left. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself over the ledge, grabbing tree branches to stop her momentum as she scrambled down. If she’d had all the time in the world, she could have made it, but time wasn’t on her side, and she was rushing, moving from one handhold to the other, not checking to see if they would hold her weight. She felt one give. The earth was moist from recent rain, the roots probably barely clinging to the side of the steep hill.
She kept moving, listening to the sudden silence. The thickness of it pulsed in the air, as alive and real as her terror. Had the guy pulled his gun? Did he have night-vision goggles? Was he aiming his gun at her?
She grabbed a pine sapling, her feet slipping in her haste to escape. The sapling gave, pulling away from the ground and tumbling toward the lake, Trinity tumbling with it.
And, she knew it was over.
If the fall didn’t kill her, the gunman would, and then she’d be another statistic, another tragedy, another sorrow for her family to bear.
* * *
Going to an old friend’s funeral hadn’t been fun.
Attending his own?
Not something Mason Gains intended to do.
He moved silently through the forest, following the trail of broken branches that led away from his house and workshop. Two-thousand acres of Maine wilderness usually kept people away. That was how he liked it.
Tonight, someone had infiltrated his sanctuary, trespassed on his property and fired a shot that he’d heard loud and clear as he was returning home. If he hadn’t had the windows down, letting cold air sweep away the memory of blood and gunpowder and death that had chased him from Afghanistan and Iraq, followed him across continents and through years of therapy, he might not have heard the gunshot.
But he’d had the windows down, cold air cooling the sweat that beaded his brow, and he’d heard it. He’d known exactly what it was, and he’d known it didn’t belong. This was private property bordered by a state park. No hunting allowed there. Even if there had been, it wasn’t hunting season, and he was certain he hadn’t heard a rifle. He’d heard a handgun. One quick, sharp, report and then silence.
He’d parked the truck on the side of the long driveway, partially hiding it behind a patch of thick shrubs he’d planted with just that purpose in mind. Then he’d taken off on foot, skirting the edge of the driveway, keeping to the shadows as he made his way to the house. He’d noticed the lights first. Then, the SUV parked near his workshop; the open back door, a light shining beyond it. He’d called the police, and then done a sweep of the exterior. There’d been a Jeep parked at the far edge of the field near an old logging road that no one ever used. No other vehicles. No sign of anyone wandering around close to the house. He’d gone inside. Quietly. Just like he’d been trained to do in the military.
There’d been one person inside the house, trying to push aside the built-in book shelves that served as a door to his office. It had taken about six seconds to disarm and apprehend the guy. Youngish with a beer belly and pasty skin, he’d blabbered on about not wanting to die. Funny how people were most remorseful after they’d been caught.
Or not.
He’d asked a few questions, made a few idle threats. Handguns were dangerous, and they were convincing. Mason always carried one, and the kid had spilled enough information to let Mason know that there were two other men. They were in the woods, hunting for Mason’s girlfriend.
There was one problem with that.
Mason had no girlfriend.
So...three unknown people were wandering his property.
The police were on the way, but Mason didn’t believe in waiting around for others to do what he could. He’d already tied up the kid and left him trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, lying on the floor near the bookshelves.
Now he was going to find the other
