Sarah navigated the dirt road as if it were a minefield. Twin muddy tracks were barely visible in the bouncing high beams, and both sides were choked with thick forest, the canopy above sealing an evergreen tunnel. She glanced for the hundredth time at the rearview mirror, but saw only deepening shadows behind. Sarah hated how things were playing out. She was alone and vulnerable. But what choice did she have?
The final call had directed her here, away from the main highway and onto the access road for a hiking trail—it was actually familiar, although she’d never been here at night. The sign a mile behind her had been clear: a stick figure with a backpack, the name of the trailhead. At this hour, of course, there would be no hikers—only a soulless imposter who looked very much like her husband. And with any luck, her daughter.
He’d told her the meeting point was a mile and a half from the highway, and having tripped the odometer, Sarah knew she was getting close. The road begged for four-wheel drive—the potholes looked like bathtubs after the recent rains. She prayed her milquetoast Camry didn’t hang up a wheel.
Sarah wasn’t tactically-trained, but she was married to someone who was—or at least had been. At every decision point since leaving her home, she’d asked herself one recurring question: How would Bryce handle this?
She could almost hear his voice in her head: Control what you can, then use it.
At that moment, she controlled the car. When she reached the meeting point, she would leave it running, parked with the best chance for a getaway. She had the high beams on to avoid the worst craters in the road, yet also to blind anyone ahead.
What else?
Use all your senses.
She ran down all four windows. Cold air swept inside and mud splashed up from the tires. All the same, it would enhance her ability to hear and smell.
Sarah slowed, the odometer shouting that she was nearly there. The canopy began to thin, the stars above flickering like fireflies. A half-moon prowled behind broken clouds. She rounded a gentle curve and the forest gave way on one side. She braked to a sudden stop. A hundred feet ahead were a row of brilliant lights. Four sources, arranged horizontally.
Two cars.
They, too, had their brights on.
“She made three gas purchases tonight.” Claire’s voice came over a speaker- phone in Truman’s office.
Truman and Burke had discussed shifting to the Strategic Information and Operations Center, but given the delicacy of what they were doing, the director didn’t want to brief in the entire SIOC staff. Fields was in a side office working logistics: the tactical team and helicopter from the Critical Incident Response Group.
“Where were the hits?” Burke asked.
“One in Virginia, two just over the state line in West Virginia. I also nailed her car from a couple of traffic cams and some private CCTV footage. I fused everything together on a map—I’ll transfer it to the network we set up.”
Burke and the director waited behind a monitor they’d linked securely to EPIC’s servers. The map arrived, and Burke saw a solid red line that ran from Sarah’s house into West Virginia, time stamps at various points along the way. The last known location: twenty minutes ago, she was on a minor highway in the Monongahela National Forest.
“Okay, that’s where I’m headed,” he said.
“There’s one more thing you should see,” said Claire. “It’s a clip from a gas station camera.”
Burke and Truman waited, and soon a short video downloaded and began to play. Sarah was at a gas pump, and after hanging up the nozzle she popped the car’s trunk and leaned inside for nearly a minute.
“I can’t tell what she’s doing,” Claire said. “The trunk lid blocks the view. I’ve already checked and there aren’t any better angles. You guys have any ideas?”
Burke shared a look with Truman, then said, “No clue.”
“Okay, I’ll do my best to keep tracking her.”
One of Truman’s secure lines rang, and he picked up. After a brief conversation, he said to Burke, “The Blackhawk with the CIRG team will be landing shortly. I told them you have operational command. They have good comm—I’ll forward any updates that come in.”
Without another word, Burke rushed for the door and was gone.
As Bryce stood staring, bits of what he’d seen in the last ten minutes suddenly coalesced. The flat glade outside, the metal pole that wasn’t a flagpole. A barn that wasn’t a barn. The glade was a runway, the pole the frame of a wind sock. And the barn, of course, was a hangar.
In front of him was the reason for it all: an airplane.
The craft was small and basic, a single engine machine with a cargo door on one side. It looked rugged and worn, and was clearly a Western-built model—manufacturing general aviation aircraft had never been a priority for Russia. Whatever it was, Bryce saw one conspicuous difference from any airplane he’d ever seen: attached beneath the wheels were a pair of skis.
Bryce knew a good bit about airplanes. His father had funded flying lessons when he was a teen, and later, on downtime between deployments, he’d finished up his pilot’s license. Altogether, he had roughly two hundred hours in small aircraft—Piper Cubs, Cessna trainers, Beechcraft. He was nowhere near a professional, but he knew his way around a cockpit. Enough to know his limitations.
Rival thoughts began battling in his head.
I haven’t flown in two years.
Then again, before today I’d never escaped from prison.
He went closer, ran the flashlight over the airplane from nose to tail. The paint might once have been white, but in the dim, dank hangar it seemed a mottled gray. The prop looked fine, and a drip pan beneath the engine held a pint of greasy black fluid. The fat tires were attached to what looked like two giant water skis. Bryce had never seen such a configuration, although he knew it was an option for winter operations. The closest he’d ever come was a few hours in a seaplane owned by a family friend, splashing down in the reservoirs of southern Virginia.
On the fuselage he saw AVIAT, a name that sounded familiar. He opened the left-hand door and trained his light on the instrument panel. It was very basic: attitude, airspeed, heading. Oddly, while the gauges were marked for Western units—feet, miles, and pounds—the switches and controls had been labeled in Cyrillic with what looked like permanent marker. He recognized a few words, but his Russian had never been technical in nature. He easily picked out the ignition switch and saw the key in place. Not at all uncommon. Who would come here to steal an airplane?
Bryce was absorbed by the obvious possibility. Twenty miles over open ocean? He could reach freedom within minutes. But was it possible? He couldn’t be sure the airplane was even operational, but he decided there was a good chance. Rigged with skis, it was probably the village’s winter supply line. Or at the very least, its ambulance for medical emergencies.
What about the weather? He wasn’t trained to fly on instruments, which meant he had to stay clear of the clouds. Even if he knew what he was doing, the airplane wasn’t equipped for it. Yet the weather had begun to break. Would that trend continue? Was there enough twilight to see the horizon, the only reference to keep him from spiraling into the sea?
A shout from outside broke his spell, carried on the wind across five hundred yards of flat terrain. Bryce couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was one of authority. He could easily fill in the dialogue.
“He’s not here!”
“Keep looking!”
There were too many questions, no time for answers. If the airplane ran, it was his best chance—which only emphasized his miserable prospects. In a pocket on the airplane’s door he found a laminated card printed in Russian. The title: Pilot Checklist.
Bryce skipped past the preflight portions, some of which he couldn’t even translate, and found the first relevant step.
Battery … On
His finger went to a red rocker switch on the lower left instrument panel. He snapped it to the ON position and in the confines of the great hangar it echoed like a gunshot.
Nothing happened.