“Is that likely?”
“I don’t know…maybe? I was supposed to meet a friend for breakfast today before I was going to return to the Forks Ranger Station. And my colleagues in Forks were expecting me to return.”
“But it’s not your regular work site. So they might assume you’re at park headquarters in Port Angeles.”
“True. But also, last night, I was supposed to meet Jae at the gate. He might follow up. I never miss work without calling in.”
“ONP has their own search and rescue, right?”
“Yeah. With assistance from the Coast Guard. They’re more active in the summer when hikers go missing, but winter storms bring new dangers.”
“The Navy might balk at sending in a team.” Now it was his turn to feel like he was going to puke, but he had to say it. “And the reason is…they might not be concerned because the missing person is you, and they know you were opposed to the training. They might think—like I did last night—that you entered the park to disrupt the training. For revenge.”
His words made Audrey feel sick again, but she knew he was right. Her motives for entering the park would be suspect. Jae could raise all the alarms, and the Navy could refuse to allow a search party.
“If they won’t come looking for me, then we should hike out. The storm is lighter now—”
“I can’t leave my team, Audrey, and you shouldn’t take on a hike like that by yourself. For starters, we don’t have the right camping equipment—not backpacking gear. What we have is too heavy for one person.”
He was right. She was an avid hiker, but she knew better than to hike alone, especially in winter conditions. One bad step, and a sprained ankle could be her death.
But if she wasn’t alone, it would be worth the risk. “We need to find George.”
“You want to hike out of here with a seventy-two-year-old as your backup?”
“He’s been hiking these woods for seventy of those seventy-two years, so yeah. I do.”
“And how do we find him?”
An idea stirred. “We don’t. We let George find me.”
Xavier’s brow furrowed. “What makes you think George even knows you’re here?”
“I left him a half dozen messages and told him I was coming. Plus, my SUV is parked right in front of his woodshop. He knows my vehicle.”
“He might not have listened to your messages. He might not have seen your SUV.”
“But what if he did and has? He made pipe bombs in Jeb’s garage last night. He knows what’s going on—probably better than you do, because he might’ve witnessed them digging up the weapons cache. And if he knows I’m here, I think I know where he’ll expect to find me.”
She reached for her clothes from the bottom of the sleeping bag and pulled them on. It was time to pack up and get out of here. They had a long way to go if they were going to have a chance to meet up with George before the moon rose and lit up the forest like a football stadium.
“Where are we going? His cabin? I told you, it’s too close to the storage pit. And the tango we ran into on the cliffside trail could be a sign they were looking for him or his cabin.”
“No. Not his cabin.” She grabbed the zippers of their joined sleeping bags and made quick work of separating them. “Let me tell you a story about a summer afternoon ritual I called ‘teatime with George…’”
Paul was dizzy from loss of blood and lack of sleep, and his legs wobbled as he was led to the restroom for the third time in the last twenty-four hours. Each time he passed through the great room, it was an opportunity to gather intel. Count mercs.
He and his fellow trainers might have been gagged to prevent them from communicating after Smith tended Collins’s gunshot wound, but they’d all been SEALs once upon a time, and they knew how to communicate without words. Between them, they’d determined the minimum number of living mercenaries was eleven.
The current number of living hostages was six. Collins was hanging on. Unconscious thanks to the drugs he’d been given, but breathing.
Now Paul walked across the lodge great room as if he were drunk. The gag chafed, but he paid it no mind. This restroom break was a reconnaissance mission, a chance to see out the front window toward the dock. One of the mercs had just been ordered to pick up more supplies now that the sun had set and the sky remained cloudy. The storm had ended, and the clouds were thinning. The moon would be bright tonight and the boat easy to spot.
Paul wanted to see which direction the boat headed. Maybe they could get a fix on where the mercs had staged their supplies. He didn’t think they were storing their weapons here—which made sense if they expected an assault from an entire platoon at some point. They wouldn’t want to lose their stockpile all in one blow.
The darkness of the lodge allowed him to see through the large picture window toward the lake. There was just enough shine from the moon to see the outline of the boat bounce on the water as two mercs stepped aboard.
He paused, and the merc who’d been assigned to ferry him to the bathroom jabbed him in the back.
Paul took advantage of the motion to pitch forward as if the guy had shoved him hard enough to make him lose his footing. It wasn’t that far off given how cramped he felt after being bound to a chair for hours and only catching minutes of sleep at a time.
The man cursed in Russian and kicked at Paul to get up. He rolled and stumbled, drawing out the process as he watched the boat. If he could just delay long enough…
All at once, a massive blast rent the air, and the boat disappeared in a blinding flash of white and orange.
Satisfaction filled Paul as he adjusted his calculations.
Now there was a minimum of nine living mercenaries.