With the aid of her handheld GPS unit, Danya covered the roughly two-mile distance to her truck in about twenty minutes. Stealth was not a significant issue anymore, and she maintained a steady speed, weaving between the trees and dense patches of immature evergreens, preferring the moonlit openings whenever possible.
The forest service road she had parked alongside was little more than a rutted dirt path that at one time had served as a road for log trucks to haul their valuable cargo out of the forest. The road had not been maintained in decades, but fortunately it was still passable with a rig that had high ground clearance and four-wheel drive.
The rough condition of the road was a plus, as it meant she was very unlikely to encounter any traffic—not like the maintained gravel lane that directed visitors to Reggie’s barn every few weeks. She placed her tomahawk and weapons on the passenger seat and then climbed into the Ford pickup. After starting the engine, she dialed 9-1-1.
“What is the nature of your emergency?” the voice said.
“There’s some men running a dogfighting ring. Tell the sheriff he’ll find them at a barn on private land just north of La Pine.” Danya read the coordinates for the barn from her GPS. There was a pause, and she imagined the operator was making a notation on paper. She didn’t repeat the coordinates since she knew the call was recorded and available for reference.
“Are you there now?” the operator asked.
“Where I am doesn’t matter. The men are armed and dangerous. They tried to kill me.”
“Are you okay ma’am? What’s your name?”
“I’m a concerned citizen—you don’t need to know my name. Oh, and you’d better send animal control and a veterinary doctor if you can get one out of bed. Those dogs that are still alive are badly hurt.”
“Is anyone injured? Do we need an EMT?”
Danya paused before answering. She turned the wheel and slowly nudged her truck forward on the rutted dirt road.
“Yeah, the lucky ones. You might need a couple EMTs.”
“Ma’am. Where are—”
Danya disconnected the call and threw the cheap burner phone out the window. She’d pay cash for another phone tomorrow. With both hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, she accelerated the Ford, slowing just enough when a rut or hole was encountered to maintain control. Soon, she came to the junction of Highway 97 and turned left, heading north for Bend.
s
It was still dark when she arrived at the RV park between Bend and Redmond. She turned off the headlights and navigated by the dim amber glow of the parking lights. She parked next to a modest travel trailer, turned the engine off, and quietly closed the door, not wanting to attract any attention.
Inside the trailer, Danya placed a pot of water on the gas stove. She was still running on adrenalin and a cup of herbal tea would help her to relax.
She glanced at her watch. “Might as well do something useful,” she murmured to herself as she powered up her laptop. Only a few emails had been received since the last time she’d checked her mailbox several days ago, and all were junk—except for one. It had been received less than two hours ago. The sender’s address simply read ‘info@information.com’, and he called himself Carlos, although she doubted that was his real name.
Danya had found Carlos through the dark web, and both parties had insisted on anonymity. In fact, Danya knew almost nothing about Carlos. She didn’t even know his gender, but she assumed he was male based on his phrasing of messages and his chosen name.
“New job you might be interested in,” he wrote. “A contract on an American. Reply for details.”
She started typing, hoping that Carlos was still at his computer. “Like I’ve told you before, I don’t do that type of work anymore.”
The water began to boil and Danya filled a cup and added a tea bag. As she sat down, a reply came in from Carlos. “I know. But like I said, you might be interested in this one.”
She pinched her eyebrows. “Why?”
“The mark—I believe you may know him. His name is Peter Savage.”
She stared at the monitor for a full minute, her mind filled with swirling thoughts. “How do you know that?”
“The police report about that incident in the Cascade Mountains. The media called it the Battle at Broken Top.”
“You hacked the Bend police report?”
“Of course. Mr. Savage seems to be the main character, although I think you’re named in it, too. Nadya Wheeler is one of your aliases, right?”
“Not anymore.”
“My instinct tells me that you know a lot about what happened out there, maybe even why the police were so convinced he was a murderer, but then cleared his name almost immediately after he surrendered. Curious that you went missing. Seems the authorities would still like to talk to you.”
“The feeling is not mutual.” Danya continued typing. “And before you get any stupid ideas about turning me in, forget it. You’ve got nothing on me other than an IP address which can’t be linked to a physical address.”
“Relax. I don’t snitch—bad for business. Just letting you know, that’s all.”
“Why are you telling me this? I don’t do murder for hire.”
“Like I said, just thought you might want to know. Besides, that information you shared with me about the Sinaloa cartel proved to be quite valuable to the right people. Consider this a return favor, payback. Anyway, this guy—Peter Savage—the contract is large. It’s already drawing attention.”
“From whom?” Danya asked.
“Can’t say. All I can see is that several persons have replied. From their questions, some are pros, others may be amateurs trying to look like professionals. But even an amateur can get lucky.”
Danya’s mind was racing. She’d had zero contact with Peter following the gunfight on the slopes of Broken Top about a year and a half ago. She’d left Mossad right after that and had been on the run ever since. “Who put out the contract?”
“Someone with a hell of a lot of money. And they don’t want him alive, proof of death is all that is required for payment. You’re a smart lady, so you tell me who would be motivated to pay five million for this guy’s head?”