Page 65 of Claimed on the Ridge

"I'm aware."

"Then don't make me circle. Are you managing me?"

"Yes."

He gives me just the word, flat and certain, delivered with steady eye contact.

"I'm managing the tactical situation," he says. "You're inside it. The two aren't separable right now."

"They are from where I'm standing."

"I know."

Through the kitchen window, the ridge is a dark shape against a sky full of stars, and the road below it is invisible in the blackness.

A sound cuts through the quiet, low and distant, carried on the wind. It's an engine. We both hear it at the same time. Alex's head turns toward the window. I go still.

The engine noise is wrong for Cameron's truck. I've been listening to Cameron's truck pass the lodge for days, the diesel rattle and the grind of his transmission as he shifts on the grade. This engine is smoother, quieter, the kind of hum that says rental, not local.

Alex is already moving. He crosses to the window and stands to the side, not in front of it, trained positioning rather than instinct.

"Kill the light," he says.

I reach for the switch above the counter. The kitchen goes dark. The main room is lit only by the dying fire in the hearth.

Outside the glass, headlights appear at the bottom of the access road, two pale points moving through the trees. Theydisappear behind the tree line on the first switchback, then reappear higher on the grade, taking the turns at a crawl. The driver knows where he's going.

"That's not Cameron." My grip tightens on the mug.

"No."

Alex disappears down the hallway. I hear the office door open. When he comes back, he's carrying a rifle in one hand and the satellite phone in the other. He handles the rifle with casual competence, balanced in his grip like an extension of his arm.

He's shirtless and barefoot, armed before he bothered to dress. My pulse kicks hard enough that I feel it in my throat.

The headlights climb the grade, deliberate and patient. The pace reminds me of Gary. He never rushed when he was closing in. He let the approach do the work, let the target's imagination fill in the details he hadn't supplied yet.

"Cameron should have called in," Alex says. He checks the phone. There is no signal from Cameron and no missed calls.

"If Cameron hasn't called, he was at a different section of the road when they passed." My voice is level. The cold starts in my fingers, a tingle that works its way up my forearms and into my shoulders. Years with Gary taught me to metabolize fear into data. "Check Dash."

Alex dials. The phone rings twice. Dash picks up.

"Vehicle on the access road," Alex says. "Not Cameron. East side clear?"

Dash's voice comes through compressed and tinny. "Clear. Nothing on the logging road."

"Cameron's not checking in. Hold position, but keep your eyes open." Alex hangs up and dials again. It's Bryan this time. The answer is faster.

"I see them," Bryan says. "Single vehicle, SUV, dark colored. Moving slow on the switchbacks. About a mile out."

"Plate numbers?"

"Too far. Give me a few minutes."

"Cameron's not answering. When the vehicle clears, I need you on the road to find him."

"Copy."