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  “Why the boathouse?” Unzipping a bag, she pulled out jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes.

  “I’d like to get out of here before they get too trigger-happy.” Harry’s assassins were into overkill. Finesse wasn’t a factor in their testosterone-driven world. He’d counted ten goons out there at least—all armed. He’d once seen this crowd pour ten thousand rounds into a farmhouse—that turned out to be empty.

  Grabbing Zoe’s backpack, Nick slung it over his shoulder along with his laptop bag, zipped up the duffle bag, and picking up both the bags, waited grim-faced for her to dress.

  She could have won a prize for fastest dresser in the world.

  But then she had incentive.

  She didn’t want to be anyone’s target—particularly if real bullets were involved.

  Nick was halfway through the bedroom door the second she tied her last shoelace. Racing down the hall to catch up with him, Zoe breathlessly said, “Tell me everything is going to turn out all right so I don’t die of a heart attack. Lie if necessary.”

  He shot her a look over his shoulder. “We should get out of here safely enough. But we have to hustle.”

  While it wasn’t exactly the assurance she was looking for— like this is all a dream and you’ll wake up soon—at least he sounded bluntly determined.

  Since she didn’t actually have a choice—it was go with Nick or wait to be shot by men with guns—she followed close on his heels without further self-examination or questions.

  They took the basement stairs at a run, entered an underground tunnel, its entrance hidden in an abandoned coal storage room, and raced down a timber-lined passageway that sloped downward. Toward the lake presumably.

  When they reached a small doorway, Nick put out his hand to halt her. “Stay here. I’ll see what’s going on outside first.” Setting down the baggage, he slowly opened the door, the hinges silent and obviously well-oiled. He disappeared from sight only to reappear a moment later. “We’re clear. Stay close.”

  As if, she thought, but she didn’t say it, given the circumstances—such as the fact that her life was in mortal danger.

  She just stuck to Nick like glue as he dashed across a small stretch of grass between an old root cellar and the boathouse. He carried all the bags as if they were weightless, leaping onto the dock with a light-footed tread.

  Shoving open the boathouse door, he waited until Zoe was inside, then locked it behind them and moved toward a large seaplane. Jumping onto a pontoon, he opened a side door and tossed in the luggage, while Zoe was trying to come to grips with the notion of flying away. It seemed a hundred times more dangerous than driving away—like to the police, for instance. Like to Nick’s cousin, the sheriff, for a real good instance.

  “Untie that mooring strap,” Nick said, pointing to the opposite side of the plane as he moved to unlock the large door facing the lake.

  She obeyed because her brain was short-circuiting and alternative escape plans didn’t seem to be rushing to her rescue. “Couldn’t we just call the sheriff?” She had to at least make the effort.

  “He wouldn’t get here in time.” Nick tossed the padlock on the deck and shoved open a large accordion-pleated slat door, the panels sliding smoothly over a metal track.

  Oh God! He won’t get here in time meaning before we’d be killed!

  “We’ll call him later—once we’re out of here. How would that be?” She was frozen in place. This was the time for lies. “Everything’s okay. Don’t worry.”

  A second later, Nick was unfastening the strap she was supposed to untie. And a second after that, he picked her up, swung her onto the pontoon, opened the plane door, and said, “Get in . . . please, right now,” he softly added.

  More or less in shock, she wasn’t capable of speech; she did as she was told. It wasn’t as though a better choice was available or even any choice.

  Once Zoe was inside and seated, Nick climbed in, slammed the door shut, and sat down in the front of the cockpit. The R-985 Pratt & Whitney nine-cylinder engines of the Twin Beech 18 roared to life a second later, and the seaplane slowly taxied from its berth. Nick flashed her a quick smile over his shoulder. “You’re doin’ good, babe.”

  She tried to smile, not very successfully.

  But Nick had already turned back and was checking the gauges and easing the throttle forward.

  As the propellers cleared the open portal, he advanced the throttle another small measure. The nose of the plane slid past the door, the cockpit next, and suddenly the lake opened up before them—shimmering under a moonless sky and dark, scudding clouds.

  “Buckle up,” he ordered, shifting his grip on the joystick as the tail cleared the doorway. He glanced back—left and right, once, twice, then he said as quietly as the noise of the engines allowed, “Hang on. Here’s where it gets interesting.”

  He slammed the throttle into the dash.

  The scream of the engines blasted through the stillness of night, the reverberation echoing over the lake like a sonic boom as the plane rapidly picked up speed.

  Zoe watched the speedometer needle steadily climb. She could feel the hard slap, slap tattoo of the waves as the pontoons sliced through the water, the roar of the engines vibrating through the plane, and she hoped like hell Nick knew how to fly—really well—because she’d always been warned about the dangers of flying in small planes. Especially at night. When it was really dark and moonless.

  Oh shit.

  A flash of light or flame streaked by, inches from the left wing.

  “What was that!” she shrieked.

  “Shoulder-fired missile!”

  “A missile!” she screeched, even as another vivid flash exploded way too close for comfort directly in front of them.

  “We’re lifting off,” Nick shouted over the roar of the engines, wanting to give her some warning because he was going up as sharply as the plane design would allow. He jammed down the flaps and the plane began rising from the water in a precipitous canting slope. If they made it to the security of the cloud bank above, they’d be out of sight and home free. Fortunately the sky was overcast and the moon obscured, making them a more difficult target.

  But they’d need more than darkness to outfly a missile. They needed Lady Luck as well. Running full flaps for both speed and lift, Nick flew the heavy twin engine bush plane like a featherweight crop duster. Banking hard left and right, side to side, always climbing steeply, he managed to evade two more missiles before they finally reached cloud cover at ten thousand feet. Exhaling, feeling as though a fifty-pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he leveled out the plane and set it to cruising speed—a fast two hundred miles per hour.

  “How you doin’? Okay?” he shouted, like they’d just finished a rousing tennis match.

  Zoe gave him a thumbs-up because she wasn’t capable of politesse when she was so far from okay the concept wasn’t even remotely in her frame of reference. Nor did she contemplate that okay feeling surfacing anytime soon after having been fired at by freaking missiles. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her limbs were shaking, and the only reason she hadn’t jumped out of her skin was because she was strapped in her seat.

  “You can relax now,” Nick shouted, flashing her a smile. “We have about two hours of flying time ahead.”

  Relax? If she could relax after what she’d just been through, she would have been fully capable of becoming the next astronaut to the moon. No further training required.

  “We should be out of range now, and my outpost camp is hard to find even if you know where it is.”

  He was trying to be nice. He really was. She wished she could join him in happy land, but jeez, this scary shit was way too unnerving for her to quickly switch gears.

  Missiles had never figured prominently or otherwise in her sheltered world.

  She offered him a smile that was more like a grimace, but she couldn’t help herself. Right now, she was feeling as though things were only going to get worse and no w
ay, no how, could she dredge up even a modicum of Pollyanna emotion.

  In contrast, her pilot was whistling and apparently unconcerned with her frame of mind. He’d switched on a radio and a second later he was talking/shouting in what could only be code to God knew who.

  Twenty

  Alan Levaro was sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning over his shortwave radio, deciphering Nick’s message as he spoke. Harry had sent his attack team, Nick and some woman had escaped and were on their way to his outpost camp in Canada. Nick needed some serious artillery. ASAP.

  Since Alan happened to deal in said arms, and since he’d been to Nick’s camp, and even better since he also flew, he promised Nick prompt action. “Late tomorrow,” he said in code. “I’ll bring the full package.”

  Nick reminded him Mandy needed close supervision.

  Alan said it was in place—everything was copacetic.

  The men signed off, and Alan turned to his wife, who had come awake when his message center had started buzzing.

  “Someone should eliminate Harry,” she said, having heard the conversation. “He’s out of control and has been for way too long.”

  “He still has friends in high places, sweetheart, but his lease on life is getting shorter. And I won’t be gone long. Nick needs some ordnance at his outpost camp.”

  Alan’s wife had been an analyst at the CIA before she resigned five years ago. She knew Harry and despised him, as did most people who had the misfortune to cross his path. She was also Alan’s source for information within the agency. Many of her former colleagues were disgruntled and willing to cooperate with those with more reasonable convictions. The upheaval within the CIA was unprecedented; morale was at an all-time low. Almost everyone was opposed to Harry Miller’s appointment to director.

  In personal terms, with the mass resignations and defections from the agency to private security firms in the last few years, Alan’s field of contacts had expanded. As had his business.

  “I’ll pack you a lunch. Which camp are you going to?” Ginny Levaro had met Nick years ago when the three of them had been in Kosovo, and they all vacationed together from time to time.

  “The one on Jackfish. He has a woman with him.”

  “Nick brought along recreation at a time like this?”

  “I couldn’t tell. Probably not.”

  His wife smiled. “Make sure you ask. I adore gossip.”

  Twenty-one

  “I don’t fucking believe it! You lost him? Ten of you lost one fucking man!”

  “He had a bush plane in his boathouse. It was a boathouse. Who knew?” Bob Hanover had been listening to Harry scream for years. It never rattled him, because he knew Harry was a wuss and if anyone dangerous needed to be wacked, Harry sure as hell wasn’t going to do it himself. “We’ll find him, Harry. Don’t get your pants in a bundle.”

  “The congressional hearing is in five days! He has to be gone in five days! Do you fucking understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah, save your breath. I’m not looking for a promotion so I don’t have to kiss your ass. Remember, Harry, you need me more than I need you. In fact, you need me real bad right about now.”

  “Point taken,” Harry muttered. “Accept my apology. But you do understand the very limited time frame.”

  “Apology accepted,” Bob Hanover said just to piss Harry off. “And we’ll get him. It’s not a problem.”

  “Allow me to be skeptical after the recent malfunction.”

  “Things don’t always go like clockwork and the bastard had his house covered from every angle. I never saw such a security layout other than, say, your house, Harry,” Hanover drawled.

  “Very funny. I hope you realize now, he’s not going to be an easy target.”

  “I never thought he was. You forget, I met him once in Pristina—right after he broke your jaw. So listen up, Harry. Here’s what I’ll be needing. And don’t give me any shit about having to go through channels. You and I both know there isn’t time. Gotta pencil?”

  Twenty-two

  They glided in for a landing just as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon. The air was still, the lake deep blue and mirror-smooth, dark pines and green poplar stretched far as the eye could see—the scene that of tranquil nature with a capital T. On the distant shore, a small assortment of buildings were the only sign of human existence—not just here, but in the wilderness they’d flown over ever since crossing the border. Not that the line between the United States and Canada had been distinguishable in the vastness of forest and lakes below them.

  But Zoe was willing to take Nick’s word for it.

  Nick brought the aircraft down lightly on the placid surface of the lake, the silver plane glistening in the morning sun. Slowly taxiing to a long dock, he cut the engines shortly before reaching it and was out the door and onto a pontoon in a flash. Jumping onto the dock, he secured the bush plane to mooring rings with a few efficient twists of the wrist.

  Returning to help Zoe alight, he said, “I’ll run the plane into the boathouse later. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

  Disoriented maybe, frightened surely, hungry, not so much. “Not really,” she replied, stepping onto the dock, wondering how he could think of food when their lives were in crisis. “Maybe later.”

  “How about a latte?”

  He was so damned chipper, she found herself mildly resentful. Not that she wasn’t grateful to be alive—thanks to him. But she also was in the middle of a bloody wilderness that she couldn’t find her way out of in a million years, people with lethal motives might still be after them, and she wasn’t altogether sure her pilot and savior was entirely stable. So sue her if she wasn’t a happy camper.

  “Sorry, I really like this place,” he said, recognizing her restive, frazzled air. “But this isn’t business as usual for you, is it?”

  “Not exactly,” she retorted, a tad snappishly.

  “Let me show you around and you might feel better,” he graciously offered, taking her hand, forgetting in his pleasure at reaching his favorite spot in the world that she was still a partial unknown. Although the percentages that he believed her were definitely on the rise. “Once you’re settled in, you’ll be able to relax.” He smiled and started walking down the dock. “And this is a helluva lot safer than Ely.”

  “They still could follow us,” Zoe muttered, not ready to smile yet.

  “We’re hard to find.”

  “Because we’re at the ends of the freaking earth.”

  “The good end though,” he pleasantly replied, ignoring her sulkiness. “Wait and see.”

  He pointed out two boathouses as they moved down the dock, one for the plane and one for boats and once they started up a small incline of granite outcropping and wild grasses, he indicated a woodshed with a wave of his hand, then a gazebo perched on a rocky point, and the sauna on the shore, painted brick red with white trim. On reaching the crest of the hill, they approached a sizeable log cabin with a porch running across half the front. “Welcome to my Batcave.”

  “No joke. It’s just as hidden.”

  “That’s the idea—for me at least,” he replied, leading her up a wide staircase. “Although my Grandad bought this lake for the fishing.”

  “You have a whole lake?” In her surprise she forgot her pique. It was a big lake.

  “It didn’t cost much at the time. Grandad got the Twin Beech as war surplus after World War II so he could fly in. By canoe, it’s at least a two-day trip depending on whether you take time to sleep or not.”

  “It looks as though you’ve done work here, too.” Portions of the buildings were obviously more recent than sixty-some years.

  “Yeah, I’ve built a fair amount here—construction therapy,” he added with a grin. “Come on in.” He opened a green door hung on huge black wrought iron hinges.

  Once inside, Zoe’s gaze widened. “Nice therapy,” she murmured, awed by the size and beauty of the cathedralceilinged room. A dramatic fieldstone fireplace stood d
ead center, a wall of windows sparkled in the morning sun, the log walls glowed an aged honey gold, the furniture was oversized to complement the spacious area. Large mission-style chairs and sofas, made for men she suspected, were scattered about while the pine floor was covered with colorful hooked rugs like those at the lake place in Ely. “Your Grandma’s rugs, I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah. She never sat still. She was always busy making things. Nice things,” he softly added. “I’ll show you the kitchen,” he offered in a different tone of voice, conversational and bland. “I have an old woodstove that makes the best pancakes. They end up kinda smoky, but really good. I’ll make you some later.”

  He was proud of his cabin, as well he should be, Zoe decided after being given the grand tour. It had all the amenities: solar heat and light; a propane generator for backup on cloudy days; indoor plumbing; two cozy bedrooms and a little gem of a library that overlooked a sea of pink and white sweet william outside the window.

  “This is an absolute paradise.” Experiencing a sense of snug comfort in contrast to her former misgivings, she did indeed feel better as Nick had predicted. “A person could live here comfortably for a very long time. I see why you like it. And I didn’t need batteries for my laptop after all,” she added with a grin.

  “I was trying to discourage you.” Nick lifted his brows faintly. “You can’t blame me. I had no idea who you were.”

  “And now you have a little better idea?” Zoe playfully noted.

  “Yeah, you might say that,” he said, soft and low. But thoughts of sex instantly triggered all the pesky unknowns— including the possible risk in fucking the seductive Miss Chandler. And no handcuffs here.

  “I feel sooo far away from all the nastiness of the Willerbys of the world,” Zoe breathed. “You were right. One feels safe here.” Overcome by a genuine well-being—their recent perils left behind—she opened her arms wide and offered him a dazzling smile. “I’m very much in your debt, Mr. Mirovic.” Closing the distance between them, she leaned into his body, wrapped her arms around his neck, rose on tiptoe, and kissed him lightly. Leaning back slightly, she whispered, “That’s a thank-you.”