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Listening intently, he heard the crunch of snow beneath boots. More than one person. Straining to hear, he made out low murmurs. Whoever they were, they were talking. But also making an effort to be quiet.
The boots crunched past their room and continued down the motel. As the sound of their boots became fainter, he slid out of bed and crouched beside Alex. Setting his hand lightly over her mouth in case she cried out, he bent close and whispered, “Alex. Wake up. We have company.”
Her eyes flew open. She swallowed. Nodded. Sat up in bed. He let his hand fall away from her mouth, but the memory of her lips burned against his skin. “At least two people walked past the room. I heard them talking, but I couldn’t make out the words. Get dressed. Get your stuff together. I’m going to see what’s going on.”
He stood up and turned his back to her. Stripped off his sweat pants and tee shirt and pulled on the jeans, flannel shirt and sweater he’d worn yesterday. Then he tugged on his socks, shoved his feet into his boots and reached for his hat and coat. The last thing he did was open the nightstand drawer and remove his Glock. Slid it into his coat pocket.
He pawed through his suitcase, looking for his bag of zip ties. When he found them, he removed a handful and slid them into the other coat pocket.
When he turned around, he caught Alex wearing only her bra and panties. He forced himself to focus on her face as he walked toward her and pressed his mouth to hers. Whispered, “Keep your gun handy. And after you’ve packed, throw my stuff in my suitcase. Search the room and make sure we haven’t left anything behind. If you have cash, leave some in the bottom dresser drawer. I’ll pay you back later.” He kissed her again. “Lock the door behind me. And stay in the room. Under no circumstances open that door.”
She nodded, and he turned away. It was his job to protect her, and he wasn’t doing that by lingering in this room.
He eased the door open, the blast of icy air stinging his face. He listened for a long moment, but didn’t hear the crunch of boots moving through the snow.
Taking a chance, he stuck his head out the door. Looked in both directions and saw nothing.
The barn door was still closed, thank God.
Since the boots had been moving from his left to his right, he turned right. Tried to step in the footprints already created, to lessen the noise.
As he moved in the direction of the barn, he noticed the door to the office, and he assumed the owner’s home, was ajar. He paused. Was this merely thieves taking advantage of the storm to break into an empty building?
He thought of the tracker they’d found in Alex’s tote. He’d crushed it beneath his boot and tossed it out the door, but maybe Trotter had already pinpointed their location before it stopped working.
He’d made a mistake. He should have insisted they move as soon as they’d found the damn thing. Head toward the high school. He could have dumped that tracker on the highway for one of the plows to crush into dust.
Now he had to assume the worst. As he moved toward the office, he touched the zip ties in his pocket. Made sure he could access them quickly.
At the open door, he stopped. Listened.
His blood ran cold. The two men weren’t speaking English. If he had to guess, they were conversing in Russian.
Lifting his gun out of his pocket, he made sure a round was chambered, then nudged the door open wider. Just wide enough to see that they weren’t in the office. But he heard them speaking from the room behind the office.
He moved across the floor as silently as possible, gripping the gun tightly. When he edged around the counter and approached the doorway, Gideon took a deep breath. Steadied himself. He’d made countless raids during his time as an FBI agent. He knew what to do.
Go fast. Go hard. Overwhelm them before they could react.
Taking one last breath, he stepped into the room. Both men had their backs to him, heading toward the next room. “On the floor! Now!” he shouted.
Both men spun around. They had broad, unshaven faces. Hard, soulless eyes. Their hands were already diving into their pockets.
“Hands on your head!” Gideon barked. “Right now! If I see your hands anywhere but on your head, I’ll start shooting.” When neither man moved, he fired a shot past the one on the left, making sure the bullet grazed his side. The man yelped. Slapped his hand over the wound.
“That’s just a flesh wound, scumbag,” Gideon snarled. “Not even close to serious. But the next shot goes between your eyes. Move!”
When the men merely stared at him, he aimed the gun at the guy on the right. Centered it on his forehead. “Now! Hands on your head! Hit the floor.”
