Management, and were set aside for public use. But there was an area toward the north end that had been claimed by the military, and cordoned off decades ago.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Nate said, pointing across the highway at a dirt road leading off into the hills.
Quinn glanced at his odometer. They were 4.7 miles north of Lone Pine. “Mileage is right.”
The map Peter had sent them indicated that the road they had just passed was the only direct approach to the facility’s entrance. Chances were good that whoever was running it now had security in place to warn them the minute someone headed their way.
They went a couple miles farther up the divided road, then looped back using a dirt access road between the two strips of asphalt. Besides the main entrance to Yellowhammer, the map highlighted several other roads that led into the hills.
There was one that came within a half mile of the Yellowhammer road before turning back north. Quinn pulled to the side of the highway, a few car lengths away from where it met the highway. He could see that the dirt road cut a straight line across the barren expanse between the highway and where the hills jutted upward, where it then disappeared into a gap between some boulders.
Nate reached into the rear seat, and retrieved the electronics sniffer from his backpack. It looked a little like a palm-size TV remote, and was able to detect electrical signals up to a hundred feet away.
“Be right back,” he said.
He got out, then jogged over to where the dirt road began. Quinn thought he detected a bit of a limp. But maybe it was just Nate’s new gait.
Nate disappeared behind the downward slope just beyond the shoulder, then reappeared two minutes later. Again, there was the limp as he ran back to the car.
“It’s clear,” he said as he climbed in. “No trip wires. Didn’t pick up any signals, either.”
“Good,” Quinn said as he put the BMW back in drive.
Up until the dirt road entered the rocky hills, it was a smooth ride. But the moment they passed between the boulders they had seen from the highway, things changed.
Ruts and erosion had deteriorated the surface of the road to the point where Quinn had to take it down to a near crawl. Even then, several times the BMW’s tires smacked the top of the wheel wells. The rocks that lined the way were also a danger. They undulated in a random pattern, often coming within inches of banging into the side of Quinn’s car.
The road bent to the south for several minutes, but then, two and a half miles in, it turned east for a couple hundred feet before swinging back to the north.
“Shit,” Nate said. “I think that was it.”
“Think, or it was?” Quinn asked, stopping the car.
Nate looked at the map for a moment, then said, “Yes, that was it. This will just take us farther and farther away.”
Quinn backed the BMW down a gap between the rocks, following its contour as it curved around one of the hills. Once he was sure the car could not be seen from the road, he stopped.
Quinn popped the trunk, then they both got out and met at the rear of the BMW. From a case in the back, they each chose a firearm— Quinn taking his SIG, and Nate grabbing the Glock.
“Comm gear?” Nate asked.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
Nate tossed a set to Quinn.
“Thanks,” Quinn said.
As soon as he had his earpiece in and mic secured, Quinn pulled out his own equipment backpack and donned it.
He stopped before he closed the trunk and looked up at the sky. While it was still afternoon, their proximity to the mountains meant the sun would pass out of sight in the next hour or so, putting this part of the valley into a deep shadow. That could be helpful while they did their recon, but it might also make getting back to the car difficult.
He reached back in and moved a couple of the boxes out of the way until he found what he was looking for. It was a black hard-plastic container not much bigger than an old-fashioned cigarette case. Inside were four plastic squares stacked together. They were each about the size of a business card cut in half, and an eighth of an inch thick. To their right was a small panel built into the box housing a single button. It was a homing device. All the squares were linked to the device and, when on, would guide the bearer back to the box. Quinn removed two of the squares, then touched the button on the panel, shut the box, and placed it back in the trunk.
“Here,” he said, tossing one of the squares to Nate. “It’s going to be dark soon. We may need a little help getting back.”
Nate pocketed the remote, then they headed out across the hills toward the road that led to Yellowhammer.
“I doubt they’ll have audio sensors, but we should keep conversation to a minimum just in case,” Quinn said after they’d been walking for several minutes.
“Copy that,” Nate said.
The hike wasn’t an easy one. Everywhere there were rocks, most the size of small cars, some the size of a
