the landscape around her, she must have gotten rusty since her return to civilian life. Mariposa was the first to stiffen and look toward the brush to the right of the women.
Abby heard the movements a second later—a group of people moving through the brush toward them, their voices carrying in the still air, though they were still some distance away.
She was about to ask Mariposa if she knew these newcomers when the young woman took off running. Her sudden departure startled Abby so much she didn’t immediately react. She stared after the young woman, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
Mariposa ran with her skirt held up, legs lifted high, in the opposite direction of the approaching strangers, stumbling over the uneven terrain as if her life depended on it. Abby debated running after her, but what would that do but frighten the woman more? She watched the fleeing figure until she’d disappeared over a slight rise, then glanced back toward the voices. They were getting louder, moving closer at a rapid pace.
Abby slipped on the pack and unholstered the weapon once more, then settled into the shade of a boulder to wait.
The group moved steadily toward her. All men, from the sound of them. The uneven terrain and stubby trees blocked them from view, but their voices carried easily in the stillness. They weren’t attempting stealth; instead, they shouted and crashed through the underbrush with a great crackling of breaking twigs and branches. As they neared she thought she heard both English and Spanish. They seemed to be searching for someone, shouting, “Come out!” and, “Where is he?”
Or were they saying, “Where is she?” Were they looking for Mariposa? Why?
The first gunshots sent a jolt of adrenaline to her heart. She gripped the pistol more tightly and hunkered down closer to the boulder. For a moment she was back in Afghanistan, pinned down by enemy fire, unable to fight back. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, fighting for calm. She wasn’t over there anymore. She was in the United States. No one was shooting at her. She was safe.
A second rapid burst of gunfire shattered the air, and Abby bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. Then everything went still. The echo of the concussion reverberated in the air, ringing in her ears. She couldn’t hear the men anymore, though whether because they were silent or because she was momentarily deaf, she didn’t know. She opened her eyes and reached into the pocket of her jeans to grip the small ceramic figure of a rabbit she kept there. She’d awoken in the field hospital with it clutched in her hand; she had no idea who had put the rabbit there, but ever since, she’d kept it as a kind of good-luck charm. The familiar feel of its smooth sides and little pointed ears calmed her. She was safe. She was all right.
The voices drifted to her once more, less agitated now, and receding. They gradually faded altogether, until everything around her was silent once more.
She waited a full ten minutes behind the boulder, clutching the pistol in both hands, every muscle tensed and poised to defend herself. After the clock on her phone told her the time she’d allotted had passed, she stood and scanned the wilderness around her. Nothing. No men, no Mariposa, no dust clouds marking the trail of a vehicle. The landscape was as still as a painting, not even a breeze stirring the leaves of the stunted trees.
Still shaky from the adrenaline rush, she holstered the pistol and settled the backpack more firmly on her shoulder. She could return to her car, but would that increase her chances of running into the men? Maybe it would be better to remain here for a while longer. She’d go about her business and give the men time to move farther away.
She returned to the parsley plants. Digging up the specimen calmed her further. She cradled the uprooted plant in her fingers and slid it into the plastic collection bag, then labeled the bag with the date, time and GPS coordinates where she’d found it, and stowed it in her pack. Then she stood and stretched. Her muscles ached from tension. Time to head back to camp. She’d clean up, then stop by the ranger station and report the men and the shooting—but not Mariposa. She had no desire to betray the woman’s secrets, whatever they were.
She checked her GPS to orient herself, then turned southwest, in the direction of her car and the road. She had no trail to follow, only paths made by animals and the red line on the GPS unit that marked her route into this area. On patrol in Kandahar she’d used similar GPS units, but just as often she’d relied on the memory of landmarks or even the positioning of stars. Nothing over there had ever felt familiar to her, but she’d learned to accept the unfamiliarity, until the day that roadside bomb had almost taken everything away.
She picked her way carefully through the rough landscape, around clumps of prickly pear cactus and desert willows, past sagebrush and Mormon tea and dozens of other plants she identified out of long habit. She kept her eyes focused down, hoping to spot one of the other coveted species on her list. All the plants were considered rare in the area, and all held promise of medical uses. The research she was doing now might one day lead to cultivation of these species to treat cancer or Parkinson’s or some other crippling disease.
So focused was she on cataloging the plants around her that she didn’t see the fallen branch until she’d stumbled over it. Cursing her own clumsiness, she straightened and looked back at the offending obstacle. It stuck out from beneath a clump of rabbitbrush, dark brown and as big around as a man’s arm. What kind of a tree would that be, the bark such a dark color—and out here in an area where large trees were rare?
She bent to look closer and cold horror swept over her. She hadn’t fallen over a branch at all. The thing that had tripped her was a man. He lay sprawled on the ground, arms outstretched, lifeless eyes staring up at her, long past seeing anything.
Lieutenant Michael Dance had a low tolerance for meetings. As much as they were necessary to do his job, he endured them. But he’d wasted too many hours sitting in conference rooms, listening to other people drone on about things he didn’t consider important. He preferred to be out in the field, doing real work that counted.
The person who’d called this meeting, however, was his boss, Captain Graham Ellison, aka “G-Man.” Though Graham was with the FBI and Dance worked for Customs and Border Protection, Graham headed up the interagency task force charged with maintaining law and order on this vast swath of public land in southwest Colorado. And in their short acquaintance, Graham struck Michael as being someone worth listening to.
“National park rangers found an abandoned vehicle at the Dragon Point overlook yesterday,” Graham said. A burly guy with the thick neck and wide shoulders of a linebacker and the short-cropped hair and erect stance of ex-military, Graham spoke softly, like many big men. His very presence commanded attention, so he didn’t need to raise his voice. “The Montrose County sheriff’s office has identified it as belonging to a Lauren Starling of Denver. Ms. Starling failed to show for work this morning, so they’ve asked us to keep an eye out. Here’s a picture.”
He passed around a glossy eight-by-ten photograph. Michael studied the studio head shot of a thirtysomething blonde with shoulder-length curls, violet-blue eyes and a dazzling white smile. She looked directly at the camera, beautiful and confident. “Do they think she was out here alone?” he asked, as he passed the photo on to the man next to him, Randall Knightbridge, with the Bureau of Land Management.
“They don’t know,” Graham said. “Right now they’re just asking us to keep an eye out for her.”
“Hey, I know this chick,” Randall said.
Everyone turned to stare. The BLM ranger was the youngest member of the task force, in his late twenties
