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THE SUN WAS FALLING, and the wind picked up. There was still snowpack on the ground, which meant I had a long way to go before reaching the valley. Ordinarily, civilization rested in the foothills or between the peaks where the water flowed and the land could be cultivated. I was heading in that direction, but it took me forever.
I had no survival equipment on me, though I did have my training. I knew that if night fell and I was unable to reach help, I could bury myself in the snow to create a warm cocoon. Sled dogs did that in frigid temperatures, allowing the very thing that most people would try to avoid to provide them comfort through the night.
I estimated that I was traveling at about four miles per hour. It wasn’t dismal, but it wasn’t effective either. I needed to pick up the pace if I was going to make it out of the woods in time. I hadn’t seen another car all day. I had no way of knowing if I was even still in Sweeden, or if I had been transported to another Nordic country while I was asleep.
Just as the last dying rays of light snuck away, I found a fork in the road. One path lay down the mountain in the same direction as I had been traveling. The other path diverged into the forest itself, indicating that there might be something there worth investigating.
Maybe a house or some other kind of building where I could take shelter had been installed halfway up the mountain. I was tired, thirsty, and weak from the beating I’d endured at Regg’s hand and the fight in the car. If I could even find a power station, or a cabin with a roof, I would be much more comfortable. My expectations lowered from finding a physician and a telephone to simply finding a place to sleep for the night.
I moved up the driveway, feeling like a zombie with one foot slower than the other. I had no weapon and no communication device. It occurred to me that if this was a house I had found, its owner might not appreciate the company. I debated hiding in the bushes along the roadside and sneaking up on whatever lay beyond. But that would only serve to alienate a potential source of assistance, if I could convince whoever might be up there to help me.
So I walked down the middle of the road, my hands down by my sides. There was nothing I could do about the awkward shuffle I’d perfected, but I could demonstrate that I was unarmed. It worked. A moment later, a gentleman who looked to be about forty years older than me appeared from farther up the drive.
He carried a shotgun. It wasn’t an old-fashioned variety either, but a newer model that told me he knew his way around an armory. He hoisted it to his shoulder, staring down the barrel at me.
“Stop right there,” he said in perfect British English.
“Theo Wells,” I identified myself. “MI6.” It was a risky proposition letting a stranger know that I was a spook. But I was at the end of my rope, and it was one of the only cards I had left to play.
The man thought about it for a moment, then lowered his weapon. “You’ve been shot?” he asked as if it was the most natural question in the world.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, holding my breath.
“Come on,” the man said reluctantly, waving me forward like a bouncer into a club.
I exhaled in relief, following him up the rest of the drive to a stark mountain cabin about half a mile off the main road. Waiting for us on the porch were an older woman and a younger man, potentially the wife and son of the gunman.
“This is Molly and Piere,” the older man said. “I’m Russel.”
“Theo Wells,” I introduced myself again.
“Theo’s hurt,” Russel said.
“Let me see,” Molly replied, holding out one arm.
I went to her like a lost child, allowing her to poke at my shirt. I couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the adrenaline, but I didn’t feel as much pain as before.
“He’s freezing,” Molly said. “Come inside and get warmed up.”
I followed her lead into a cozy living room, a crackling fire built up in the center. With a sigh that I felt down into my bones, I sat beside the hearth, holding my hands up. More than food, water, healthcare or revenge, all I wanted was to sit still and soak up the heat. I hadn’t realized how deep the chill had crept into my skin, turning me to ice from head to foot.
“Don’t try anything,” Russel warned, sitting down next to me with his gun in his lap.
It was a good reminder that I shouldn’t get too comfortable. I could make use of their fire and perhaps their phone, but I would have to keep moving shortly. Even if they offered me a place to sleep and a hot meal, I wasn’t going to take advantage of their hospitality. Russel was just looking out for his family, and I wasn’t a part of it.
“We should take him into town,” Molly suggested.
“I don’t want to be seen with him,” Russel argued.
“He needs a doctor,” Molly pointed out.
“I’ll go,” I offered. “Just give me a minute.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Molly said sternly, putting a hand on my shoulder.
She must have had a magic touch, because all the fight left me as soon as her comforting hand came down. I felt the warmth of the home and the genuine concern for my well-being, and I passed out. It was as if I’d struggled so hard to arrive somewhere safe, and I had nothing left in the tank.
I remember dim images of Russel and his son standing over me. There was the bite of rubbing alcohol in the air and the soft pressure of blankets on my chest. When I woke, I had a monster headache, but I was clean and warm, tucked into bed on an impossibly soft mattress.
Running my fingers through my hair, I discovered that there wasn’t that much pain in my chest. I was free to use all my limbs without tearing the wound any bigger. I wore a different shirt, not my style, but clean and blood-free. Pulling it away, I took a peek down at my chest. There were a few dark stiches closing what had once been a gaping hole. And the sides of the wound were a muted pink instead of the dark red that might indicate an infection. The family had probably used some kind of medicinal cleaner to sterilize the spot before extracting the bullet and sewing me shut. That kind of operation took experience. I was beginning to suspect Russel was even more knowledgeable than I thought. Was he some kind of retired special agent, up here to escape from the British government?
“Morning,” Russel said, surprising me from the doorway. That I hadn’t heard him approach spoke volumes. He had some real training—either that or I was slipping. It was probably a combination of the two, since I had pushed myself to the limit earlier and was only just recovering.
“Morning,” I responded.
“I’d like you gone after breakfast,” Russel said, his ever present shotgun slung up in his arms like a baby.
“Got it,” I answered, sitting up.
“Don’t be rude,” Molly said, pushing her way into the room behind her husband.
“It’s not about being rude,” Russel argued. “He knows.”
“I do,” I agreed. “I don’t want to bring you any hardship after you’ve been so kind.”
“Pierre stitched you up,” Molly said. “He’s a veterinarian.”
I took another peak at the black stitches, realizing that they were a rough approximation of surgical thread instead of the self-dissolving hospital kind. I didn’t care. I was just grateful to be on the mend.
“Tell him thank you,” I responded.
“Tell him yourself,” Molly quipped. “If we’re tossing you out after breakfast, then the least you can do is fill your belly.”
I looked at Russel and smiled. He shook his head, but I could tell he was proud. Finding a solid woman who would help nurse a wounded soldier back to health wasn’t easy. Russel was a very lucky man.
I followed the couple into their little kitchen where Molly had prepared a traditional English breakfast of boiled eggs and toast. We sat down to eat, but I didn’t feel like I needed to rush. Russel wasn’t being aggressive, just practical. He obviously knew as well as I did that any enemies of mine wouldn’t stop to ask questions before bulldozing the house.
“Can I use your phone?” I asked.
Molly and Russel exchanged a look that was as easy to read as the front page of a newspaper. They were concerned about caller ID. Depending on who I attempted to contact, it might lead sinister forces directly to their home.
“I’m not going to contact the home office,” I said, hoping to placate them. “Just a friend.”
“And who does your friend work for?” Russel asked.
“He’s self-employed,” I answered, giving away nothing but the most important fact. I wouldn’t be alerting any known agency to my location. I would limit the conversation to a single person that I trusted.
“All right,” Russel agreed reluctantly.
I finished my egg and moved to the phone. It was a land line, hardwired into the hills. Picking up the receiver, I glanced at Russel. He accompanied me to listen in on my conversation. I couldn’t blame him; he didn’t know me from Adam. Though I seemed to be agreeable, he was still on guard.
“I lost the woman I love,” I told him.
“Dangerous thing, love,” he replied.
“That it is,” I said. “I’m hoping that someday, me and my lady might end up like you and Molly. Is that what happened? You fell in love and got out of the game?”
“Something like that,” Russel allowed.
I dialed the only number I could think of, the only person who knew both Clark and me and had enough respect for both of us to help. Clark’s long-time friend and foster brother Lukas had established an underground organization called Dark Sparrow to champion environmental issues. While he didn’t operate within the law, his heart was in the right place. He wanted to stop people who were profiting from climate destruction and protect the world for the next generation. Yet his tactics included violence at times, which put him squarely in the crosshairs of MI6.
At Regg’s behest, I’d spent several weeks tracking Dark Sparrow across Europe only to learn that Lukas wasn’t my enemy. He had as much to lose as I did, maybe more. And regardless of my involvement, he would want to make sure Clark was safe. He had given Clark his personal number, and I’d memorized it out of habit. I had more than five dozen numbers swimming around in my head, but only his was viable.
“Who is this?” Lukas asked as soon as the call went through.
“Theo Wells,” I announced myself.
“Theo?” Lukas responded, relieved that he was speaking to a friend. “Where is Clark?”
“We were ambushed at a safehouse,” I explained. “I was shot, and Clark was taken.”
“Taken where?”
“I don’t know,” I said on the exhale. “I was hoping you could help.”
“They’re saying that you and Clark were responsible for the deaths of three MI6 agents and one CIA agent,” Lukas reported.
“What?!” I demanded.
“They found the bodies in a remote cabin in the Alps.”
I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling, fuming with rage. It had been my fervent desire to rescue those men before they turned up dead. Now to have the bad guys drag their corpses up to my own home to dispose of them seemed almost too offensive to be real. What had their last moments been like? Did Regg kidnap them and force them to my home only to shoot them there? Or had he kept their bodies on ice and merely delivered them to my doorstep like so many Amazon packages?
“I didn’t do it,” I said numbly.
Russel raised an eyebrow, stroking his gun unconsciously.
“I know,” Lukas responded. “You must be trustworthy if Clark is so interested in you.”
“We have to find her,” I pleaded.
“I’m on my way,” Lukas promised.
I glanced up at Russel. “I’ll meet you on the road.”
“Give me about an hour,” Lukas said. I knew he was checking his navigational software and comparing my coordinates to his.
I hung up, giving my host a tight smile. “I’ll be going now.”
“Good luck,” Russel said gruffly, walking me to the door to make sure I didn’t try anything on the way out.
