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Amelia headed out to her Jeep, hopped in and headed home. She parked in her reserved spot and took the elevator to her ‘penthouse’ condo. She laughed every time someone called it that. Her condo occupied the very top floor of the old mansion—but there were only two other floors below her. Somehow, ‘penthouse’ seemed rather grandiose.
The elevator opened onto the small landing outside the entry door to her condo, and Amelia keyed in her access code. One of the things she’d liked about the condo was that it had an excellent security system, open floor plan, and a lot of ‘smart’ features. It was one bedroom with an attached bath and a powder room off the main living area. The entire back wall for both the living area and the bedroom was windows with a gorgeous view of Bellingham Bay. There was a balcony that stretched the entire length with plenty of room for seating and a built-in outdoor kitchen, which Amelia had yet to use. What she did use was the small seating area with the fire pit off her bedroom.
But tonight, she was more tired than she’d thought she’d be. Coming into her main space, she set down her food on the kitchen counter with its built-in eating area and headed into her bedroom to strip out of her clothes and pull on a pair of pajama pants and tank top—not glamorous but functional. She had designed the built-in eating area, which had a banquette along the kitchen island, a table, and two more low profile chairs. It sat four comfortably and could be expanded to seat eight.
Amelia detoured through the kitchen, grabbing her food and an excellent, local IPA before sliding into the well-cushioned banquette and sat down to enjoy her food and watch the sunset. She picked up her tablet and pulled up information regarding the Phoenix Corp. Everything appeared to be on the up and up. Finishing her meal, she cleaned up and headed out to the deck, igniting the firepit and sipping her IPA.
It might not be exciting, but her life was good and she enjoyed it. She meant to take a long, hard look at the Phoenix Corp’s package, and it might not go amiss to call up to the Otter Cove Sheriff’s Department to see if they knew anything about them and what they might be having dropped off outside of town. Maybe the sheriff wasn’t the way to go. After all, anyone going to these lengths to have something dropped off clandestinely might not want the local law enforcement knowing about it.
Over the years, she’d worked with a man known as The Finder. It was said there wasn’t anything Deke couldn’t find out if the need was great enough and you were willing to pay. It might not be the worst thing to ask him if he thought it was worth her paying him to do a little investigating. If nothing else, it might not hurt to have him standing by as some kind of backup.
CHAPTER3
CARSON
Normally, riding a snowmobile was something Carson enjoyed. These were not normal times. More than once before he got on the bush plane, he’d thought someone might have been following him, but then had dismissed the idea. As he’d never seen the same person twice, he convinced himself that his paranoia was running rampant. Still, not seeing anything, or anyone for that matter, at the remote landing strip had gone a long way to settling his nerves.
As he made his way up into the Aleutian Range, he thought about what his bolting from Reykjavik might have cost him. Surely by now NLGP knew he had gone missing. Given the growing paranoia within the ranks, they most likely would assume the worst. In his haste to get away, he’d done nothing to lay the groundwork for why he might have to be gone. He could have invented a family emergency or even called in sick and maybe not have raised their suspicions.
Had he raised their suspicions? That was a stupid question. He’d disappeared. His phone was in Canada and hadn’t moved. They had to know something was up, didn’t they? Of course, they did. They had to. He’d left Reykjavik without a word to anyone and virtually disappeared in Quebec. He wasn’t so arrogant as to believe that he had covered his tracks so completely that no one would be able to trace him. He did think it would take some effort on someone’s part to figure out he’d come to Alaska as he’d been sparse with the details about his brother.
NLGP, if not actively looking for him in a physical sense, had to be making calls and working digitally in an effort to find him. Even though Carson hadn’t told anyone what he’d heard, those working on the EnGen project tended to be incredibly secretive, territorial, and suspicious about anyone outside the project knowing anything about the project. Perhaps Bartles and Perkins had somehow known he’d overheard them. But what had he overheard that could have worried them? The fact that Bullard had thought they had a ‘viable breeder’? Breeder of what? What was EnGen up to?
If, however, the rumors about EnGen being some kind of human cloning or breeding project were true, there was plenty for them to be worried about. That kind of thing was not only frowned on by the world’s scientific community, but in some places it was outlawed. It was the kind of rumor that if it found its way to the public at large, could completely destroy a company.
If NLGP had put two and two together and were concerned that Carson knew something he shouldn’t, would they use whatever means were necessary to silence him? Had he somehow given NLGP a clue as to what he’d heard? Had that been what had caused them concern? The conversation he had overheard had told him in no uncertain terms that Mason had been right in warning him away from NLGP. Carson was now a liability, if not a threat, to the company. Given the millions of dollars at stake, was it that far of a stretch to think his life was in jeopardy?
And it wasn’t only that conversation he’d heard between Bartles and Perkins. Other things were happening, as well. The company had wanted everyone to sign new, more stringent confidentiality and non-compete agreements; security personnel had begun to stroll the halls—breaking up conversations in the staff lounge and by the watercoolers. Tracking apps had been downloaded onto company cells, and NLGP had offered to chip employees with tracking devices for their safety. At the moment, that last part was still voluntary, but rumor was rampant that in the not too distant future it would become mandatory.
Looking back, Carson didn’t wonder why he’d become uneasy and suspicious, he only wondered what had taken him so long. Upon reflection, bolting didn’t seem to be an overreaction to anything, but rather a measured response to an increasingly threatening and restrictive corporate culture. He wasn’t ready to try and reach out to anyone regarding his concerns, mainly because those concerns weren’t well formed. That had been the reason to head to his twin. Between the two of them there had never been anything they couldn’t figure out or handle.
But where was Mason? True, he’d only called him the one time and the message he left would have seemed inconsequential to anyone else. The thing Carson found most concerning was that Mason had not been waiting at the landing strip, nor had there been a message for him. The only thing he had thought to do was get on the snowmobile and head for Mason’s cabin in the mountains. The cabin would be difficult if not impossible for anyone to find, and if they did, Carson could impersonate his twin brother. It made the perfect hiding spot until he could figure out the next thing to do.
Carson pushed the snowmobile for more speed. He had still not reached the thick tree coverage so felt exposed. He kept himself balanced in the center of the seat, shifting his weight from one side to another to maintain the vehicle’s optimum balance. The snowmobile had the capacity for great speed, but with this much snow, it was difficult to tell what lay beneath. Carson opted for a balance of speed and safety. He allowed himself to ride through the bumps and stayed on course. He needed to be at Mason’s before full dark. Being a snow leopard-shifter meant that even in his human form he had better night vision than most humans, but he would prefer to be inside shelter before night fell.
He was forced to slow his progress as the forest became denser. Carson wove through the trees, avoiding deadfall when he could. It had been a long day, and his shoulders were beginning to ache. Normally, he’d take a shower, have some dinner and then shift and go for a run. In Reykjavik that meant getting in his SUV and heading out of town to find some empty farmland or stretch of beach to shift and run. But here in the Aleutian Range, he could shift in the comfort of his brother’s cabin and head out into the wilderness that surrounded him with little worry about being spotted.
To say Mason’s cabin was isolated was a gross understatement. The only thing for miles and miles around Mason’s cabin were more miles and miles. The closest town was Otter Cove, and it was fairly small. It was a pretty little village made up entirely of shifters—all kinds of shifters living in relative peace mainly because the town’s sheriff, Zak Grayson, was a polar bear-shifter and former SEAL. In other words, not someone most people wanted to take on.
As he crested the hill that led down to his brother’s cabin that sat beside the creek that burbled year-round, Carson stopped and turned off the motor. Granted, if anyone was lying in wait they would have heard him, but he wanted to listen to the sounds of the gathering dusk to see if he could discern anything amiss.
The call of a great horned owl sounded. The deep tenor of the soft hoot with a stuttering rhythm was soothing as it did not sound like the owl was warning others of predators in its territory—hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo. He could hear the flap of the giant wingspan of the owl as it flew through the trees.
Somewhere to the left, a rabbit hurried across the snow in search of a warm place to hide.
And the creek behind the cabin gurgled along its path, winding down the side of the mountain.
There was no sound of a human presence. Carson had hoped against hope that he would hear the crackling of a fire or the smell of smoke—although both would have been difficult from this distance—and no lights shone on the front porch or from inside the cabin indicating Mason was there. But still, choosing caution over comfort, Carson pushed the snowmobile to a safe spot and covered it with branches and snow. He meant to enter the cabin unobserved. If it proved to be safe, he’d come back for the vehicle in the morning and store it in the small shed Mason had built for it.
Carson moved along the ridgeline, keeping out of sight and making his way to the hidden entrance to an escape tunnel Mason had constructed at the same time he built the cabin. It was accessed through a trap door in the kitchen pantry, which led to what looked like an adjunct cellar where Mason kept root vegetables, wine, beer, cheese and other things that favored colder temperatures.
Lifting the cover with as little disturbance to the vegetation and snow as he could, Carson climbed onto the ladder that led to the tunnel. He secured the cover and climbed down. He didn’t much care for ladders and always felt better when his feet were once again onterra firma. Foregoing a torch, Carson moved his way through the tunnel using his hand along the wall to find his way. Once he came to the dead end, he activated the lever that moved one of the storage shelves so he could step inside the actual cellar.
He shook his head. He was probably being far more cautious—if not downright paranoid—than he needed to be. But still, better safe than sorry. He stood beside the door, pressing his ear against it to see if there was something he could hear. Nothing. Nothing was a good thing. He cracked the door open and sniffed the air from inside. Again, nothing. Silently, he opened the door and slipped into the kitchen area. One good thing about the way Mason had built his home was that there were few places to hide—namely the pantry and the bath. He moved along the walls of the cabin until he reached the bath. Stepping inside, he was rewarded with the gift of emptiness. There was a door next to the shower that Carson didn’t remember. It was locked with an external keyed lock, which meant no one could be hiding there, and he could respect Mason’s privacy.
Convinced that he was alone, he ensured the cabin was secure and then built a small fire in the fireplace. Carson was cold to the bone, even though Mason’s generator powered his kitchen appliances and kept the interior of the house above freezing. He divested himself of the polar survival suit and stood in front of the fire until he felt feeling return to his entire body. Once he was warm, he thought about going for a run, but decided a hot shower and a good night’s sleep might be more restorative.
Stepping into the bathroom, he turned on the water to let it heat. As he removed his clothes, he stared at the locked door. It was sturdy and had two locks—a keyed deadbolt and a keyed padlock. Whatever Mason had in there, he had no intention of anyone seeing it without his permission. Stepping into the shower, Carson closed the heavy glass door and sighed. While the rest of the bath was in keeping with the rustic feel of the cabin, the shower was over-the-top in comfort and features—tiled, multiple shower heads, body sprays and plenty of room. It was one of the few things Carson envied his twin brother.
