killing and bodies behind her when she left Afghanistan. The wilderness was supposed to be a place of peace, not violence.
Michael returned to her side. “You doing okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
She felt his gaze on her, but he didn’t press, for which she was grateful. “Which direction did the men you saw come from?” he asked after a moment.
“From over there, near that wash.” She nodded in the direction of the shallow depression in the terrain.
Graham joined them. “We’ll need to seal off this area and send a team out to collect evidence.”
“We need to figure out where he came from,” Michael said. “There might be a camp somewhere nearby.”
“Where are you camped, Ms. Stewart?” Graham asked.
“I’m in the South Rim Campground.”
“Let us know if you decide to move into town or return to your home, in case we have questions,” Graham said.
“I’d planned to stay here for another week to ten days,” she said. “I’ve only just begun collecting the specimens I need.”
“This part of the park will be off-limits to the public for most of that time, I’m afraid,” Graham said. “Until we determine it’s safe.”
He was going to close the backcountry? “That really isn’t acceptable,” she said. “I’m not some naive tourist, stumbling around, but I really need to collect these specimens to complete my research.”
“You’ll have to find them somewhere else. Until I decide it’s safe, this section of the park is closed.”
The three officers studied her, expressions impassive, implacable. She turned away, and her gaze fell on the body on the ground. All she could see was the feet, but they lay there with the stillness of a mannequin. Lifeless, a cruel joke played out in the desert.
She hated having her plans thwarted, but she knew Graham and the others were right. Until they knew who had killed this man and why, they had to err on the side of caution. “Fine. There are other places in the backcountry where I can look for specimens.”
“Let us know...”
But Graham never finished the sentence. Bark exploded from the trunk of a tree beside her. “Get down!” Michael yelled, and shoved her to the ground as bullets whistled over their heads.
In the silence that followed the burst of gunfire, the drum of Michael’s pulse in his ears was so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. He slowed his breathing and strained his ears, alert for any clue about the shooter. Beneath him, Abby shifted, and he became aware of her ragged breathing. She shoved and he realized he was crushing her. Better crushed than shot, he thought, but he eased up a fraction of an inch, putting more of his weight on his hands, braced on the ground beneath his shoulders, and his knees, straddled on either side of her.
They lay in a depression in the ground, a shallow wash pocked with rocks and low scrub and a few stunted piñons. Turning his head, Michael spotted Graham and Carmen about five feet away. His eyes met Graham’s. The supervisor looked angry enough to chew nails.
“Who’s shooting at us?” Abby whispered, her voice so low he wondered at first if he’d imagined the question.
“Sniper,” Graham answered. “I make his hide site about three hundred yards to the south, on that slight rise.”
Michael turned his head, but he couldn’t see anything except grass and dirt and the trunk of a piñon. They were too exposed here for him to even lift his head.
“He must be wearing a ghillie suit,” Carmen said. “I can’t see a thing.” Michael turned back to look at her and realized she was half sitting behind a boulder. She’d pulled binoculars from her pack and was scanning the area.
“What’s someone out here doing with a ghillie suit?” Abby asked.
Michael had been wondering the same thing. In a training course he’d taken, he’d seen men in the cumbersome camouflage suits covered with twigs and leaves so that when the wearer froze, he blended in completely with the surrounding landscape. It wasn’t something you could pick up at your local outdoor supplier.
“They could have stolen one from the military, or made their own,” Graham said. “These drug operations spare no expense to protect their business. That sniper rifle he’s got is probably military issue, or close to it.”
Graham shifted, reaching for his radio; the movement was enough to draw another blast of gunfire, bullets spitting into the dirt in front of them. Abby flinched, jolting against Michael. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Just a rock on my cheek. It’s nothing.”
More gunfire exploded, this time to their right. From her vantage point behind the boulder, Carmen had returned fire. “He’s too far away,” she said, lowering the weapon.
“Ranger Two, this is Ranger One, do you copy?” Graham had used the distraction to retrieve the radio from his utility belt and key the mike.
“Ranger Two. I copy.” Simon’s voice crackled through the static.
“We’re pinned down by a sniper in the backcountry.” He recited the GPS coordinates Abby had given them for her plant find. “Looks like one shooter. His hide site is approximately three hundred yards south of our position. He’s on a small rise, maybe wearing a ghillie suit.”
“We’re on it. We’ll try to come in behind him.”
“Roger that. Over.” Graham laid the radio on the ground beside his head. “Now we wait,” he said.
Michael tried to ignore the cramping in his arms. If he let up, he’d crush Abby again, but any movement was liable to draw the sniper’s fire. “Sorry,” he said to her. “I know this isn’t the most comfortable position.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she started to tremble, tremors running through her body into his. She made a muffled sound, almost like...sobbing.
The sound tore at him. The sight of the dead man hadn’t moved him, and while the sniper’s fire got his adrenaline pumping, it didn’t shake him the way Abby’s sorrow did. “Hey.” He slid one hand to her shoulder and turned his head so that his mouth was next to her ear. He spoke softly, not wanting the others to hear. “It’s okay,” he said. “Our team is good. They’ll nail this guy.”
She tensed, her fingers digging into the dirt beneath them. Her breathing was ragged, and he could sense panic rising off her in waves. Was she having some kind of flashback? How could he help her—comfort her?
He’d been shot at plenty of times as a PJ, but they always had the Pave Hawks to swoop them out of danger. He’d always been too focused on the mission, on saving lives, to worry much about his own. It must have been worse for troops on the ground, like her.
He tried to lift more
