Chapter 1
September 15
Scarlet Springs, CO
Sasha Dillon sent a quick text message to Nicole Turner, her best friend, to tell her where she was going. Years of doing search-and-rescue work had taught her that there was no such thing as being too safe. She always told someone where she was going and when she expected to return.
Going for a ride. Caribou loop. Back in two hours.
She strapped on her helmet, climbed onto her trail bike, and pedaled through Scarlet Springs toward the highway. She wanted to get in another conditioning ride, and the Caribou loop was both strenuous and beautiful, with steep switchbacks and views of the high peaks that stretched all the way to the Divide. So much of rock climbing was leg strength and endurance, and a good ride improved both while giving her upper body a much-needed rest.
Next week, she would pack up for the long flight to Bratislava, Slovakia, where she would defend her title at the sports climbing world championships. Though she was excited to see her international climbing friends again, she wasn’t a fan of long international flights—or flying in general. She felt safer roped in on a two-thousand-foot cliff than she did strapped into an airplane seat.
Sasha pedaled hard, savoring the rush of wind in her face and letting her mind go, the stress of the upcoming competition melting away. She’d promised herself years ago that she would leave competitive sports climbing if it started to feel like work. Climbing was supposed to be fun, even at the professional level. If competition became too stressful, she would quit and go back to climbing for the joy of it.
A red fox darted across the road ahead of her.
“Hey, little guy.”
It glanced her way before disappearing into the pines on the other side.
Sasha loved living in the Colorado mountains. She’d grown up in San Jose, California, where both of her parents still worked as software engineers. But life in the suburbs of Silicon Valley, with its traffic, industry, and boutiques, had been too mundane for her. She’d take a snowy conifer forest over palm trees and traffic jams any day.
The sound of an engine approached from behind.
As a battered, black SUV roared by, the man on the passenger side stuck out an arm, his middle finger raised. “Suck my dick!”
Jerks.
How unhappy he must be to treat a stranger that way.
She glanced at the Colorado license plate and memorized the number.
Sasha had tried to grow a thick skin when it came to harassment and sexism. The world of professional sports was rife with it. From men whose egos were bruised when she climbed better than they did to random creeps on the Internet who threatened her because she was a successful, single woman, she dealt with jerks almost every day.
Forget them.
She turned her mind away from the guys in the SUV and focused on her ride. She was in the best shape of her career, and the exertion felt good—the sweat on her face, the rush of air in her lungs, the nice burn in her quads and glutes.
A truck engine.
Sasha glanced over her shoulder to see a white truck with the words RANGER and Forest County Parks and Open Space painted on the side. She smiled, waved. Austin Taylor, a park ranger and a good friend, waved back as he passed.
Like Sasha, Austin was a Rocky Mountain Search & Rescue Team member. Founded by Megs Hill and Mitch Ahearn, two legends of the climbing world, the Team conducted hundreds of rescues every year, saving dozens of lives and earning the reputation of being the best high-risk SAR team in the nation.
Not that Sasha was biased or anything…
She had joined the Team after its volunteers had rescued a buddy of hers who’d broken both ankles taking a whipper on Desdichado, a route in Eldorado Canyon State Park. Sasha hadn’t been there to watch them work, but she’d heard about it. When she’d learned who managed the Team…
Megs Hill had always been her idol.
Sasha downshifted as the road sloped more steeply uphill. She passed the sign that marked Scarlet’s town limits, the turnoff for Caribou just ahead on the left. Then she saw it—the black SUV.
Damn.
It sat in a vehicle turnout, just ahead to her right, engine running, windows down, heavy metal blaring. She would have to pass them to reach the turnoff, and for a moment, she thought about turning around and finding a different route today.
To hell with that!
She couldn’t let those rat bastards bully her into changing her plans. She checked for traffic and then crossed the road, riding on the left shoulder, putting some distance between herself and the jerks in the SUV.
This time, they said nothing as she passed.
She relaxed into her ride, now only a hundred feet or so from the turnoff. More than once, she’d seen a moose—
The roar of an engine. Tires squealing on asphalt.
She glanced over her shoulder to see the black SUV cross the centerline, heading straight toward her.
What the…?
Were they freaking insane?
On a surge of adrenaline, she turned her handlebars toward the forest, instinct driving her toward the cover of trees. But this side of the highway had a steep five-foot drop from the road to the forest floor. She would have taken her chances and ridden her bike over the edge, but the SUV was too fast. Its bumper hit her rear tire and sent her hurtling over the handlebars, her scream cut short when she struck a tree.
Bone snapped. Brakes shrieked. The forest floor rushed up at her, drove the breath from her lungs when she hit, landing face down.
Men’s laughter.
“Die, bitch!”
She fought to inhale, pain exploding in her side. As the world went dark, she heard them drive away.
It was pain that roused Sasha as she fought to get air into her lungs.
Stay awake, or you’ll die here.
She raised her head, spit pine needles and dirt from her mouth, and struggled to sit up. But the pain in her ribs and chest was unbearable, and it was all she could do to roll onto her back. Without the breath to scream or cry for help, she lay there, feeling as if there were a fifty-pound weight on her chest. She knew what that meant.
Pneumothorax. A collapsed lung.
Your phone.
Where was it?
It was zipped into the right pocket of her cycling shorts.
She tried to reach for it with her right hand, but pain stopped her, her wrist clearly broken. But retrieving it with her left hand was impossible because it forced her to reach across her body, putting pressure on her collapsed lung and ribs that must be broken. She steeled herself against the pain and tried with her right hand once more. The zipper wasn’t completely zipped, the gap at the top large enough for a fingertip. Gritting her teeth, she worked her finger inside, pushed the zipper down, and drew the phone out with two fingers, dropping it onto her chest.
She took it with her left hand, searched her contacts, and called Megs.
Megs answered, the familiar sound of her voice putting a lump in Sasha’s throat. “Hey, Sasha, what’s up?”
Dizzy from pain and lack of breath, Sasha managed to get out only a handful of words. “Help me! Hit … by car … near … Caribou turnoff. Can’t… breathe.”
Then the world went dark again.
Darius Silva poured himself a cup of coffee, relieved that today’s action had gone so well. After nine months of hard detective work, the son of a bitch who’d murdered Reina Hernandez was behind bars.