“Are they coming?”
“He said they’ve deferred murder investigations to his department in the past, but of course will likely offer assistance if we need it, and he would keep them informed.” Jack rubbed his neck. “They rarely investigate murders unless it involves a serial killer or crosses state lines.”
“They just want to focus on politicians and terrorists?” She sent him a wry grin.
He barely nodded, his lips shifting into a grim line. Terra wondered if he would feel awkward working with the FBI, now as a county detective, if it came to that.
As for awkward, that feeling wrapped around her but for an entirely different reason. That, and well, this felt far too surreal. Why did it have to be Jack Tanner standing there asking her for help? Of all the places she could be right now and of all the people she could be with, why Jack?
And he looked good. Too good. She hadn’t seen him in almost six years. Those years had been good to him in some ways—she hadn’t thought he could be more attractive, but she was wrong on that point. In other ways, he seemed rougher. Like life hadn’t been good to him, when she hadn’t thought his life could get any harder. Terra realized she hadn’t given him an answer.
She dusted off her pants and stared up at the trees. “Case suggested maybe he was taking a selfie. You know how people are doing that and fall these days. Happens too often.”
“I don’t know. This guy was in his fifties, and he’s up there on the cliff, out there alone?”
“Right. He doesn’t seem to be dressed for the hike. No pack, unless it’s up top. Worn cowboy boots, not the best for hiking, though people do often set out for a breath of fresh air, then end up hiking farther than they planned.” And got lost sometimes.
Jack walked around the body. “Pine needles in his hair and clothes. A small black wire protruding from his hand.”
She could almost imagine Jack was the deputy coroner. “A black wire? What do you think it is?”
Jack scratched his chin. “No idea. It’ll be sent to the state lab to see what they make of it.”
Terra approached the body too. She couldn’t very well give Jack her opinion without getting closer, and she kept her features cool and calm.
Jack crouched much like Case had done but touched nothing.
“Terra.” The way he said her name sent alarms through her head. He gestured for her to come to his side of the body.
Dread built in her belly, and she strove to keep it from spilling out and crawling over her. In all her imagining—and, unfortunately, she had spent too long doing just that—she never could have dreamed up meeting Jack again in this moment, under these circumstances.
She marched around the form and forced herself to crouch next to this man from her past, only to peer down at a familiar face.
FOUR
Chance’s eyelids seemed stuck together. He didn’t bother trying to muster the strength to open them. Not yet. Instead, he would be safer if he pretended to sleep while he figured out what he was doing here, wherever here was.
Location, location, location.
Was he in a good, safe place?
Or was he in the lair of a dragon?
Did he need to hightail it out of here?
His pounding heart settled enough so he could listen. Familiar sounds took him back to his mother’s last days on earth in a hospital room. He must be in rough condition. Chance slowly opened his eyes and took in the room he shared with another guy—at least he thought it was a man that was snoring on the other side of the curtain.
His skull ached as though it were cracked. He lifted his arm and pressed his hand to his head. Good, he wasn’t wrapped up like a mummy. He could feel his toes and move his legs. Move his arms. His chest ached. Bruised ribs?
Concussed skull.
Ole Blue. He’d crashed Blue, and now the events came rushing back.
Panic engulfed him.
His belongings. Chance ripped out the IV in his arm and threw off the covers. He ignored the fierce headache and his stiff, aching limbs as he searched under and behind the bed.
Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?
His pounding heart only increased the pain in his head.
He spotted a slim closet.
He took a step toward it, and dizziness swept over him. He steadied himself against the bed until it passed, then focused on the closet. Please, please, please . . .
He eased forward and took one slow step at a time. The fuzziness in his head seemed to clear with each step. Now if only the headache clawing at his skull would let go.
At the closet, he pressed his hand on the small knob, hope and fear lodging in his gut. He opened the door and found a bag with his tattered clothes.
Where was the package that could have meant his freedom?
His throat might just close up and he’d drop right there for lack of oxygen. That would be a better way to die than to face what came next—whoever requested he deliver the package would come looking for it. Come looking for him.
How did he find it and get it back?
Chance yanked the torn, bloody clothes out of the closet. He tossed his bomber jacket on the bed. He dug around in another bag and pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to see his ID. Chance Carter. Except that wasn’t his birth name. He’d been forced to change it all and build a new life. He never should have left the armed forces of the United States of God Bless America. Crashing Ole Blue had caused all this garbage to resurface, and he pushed it back down to be dealt with another day.
He also found
