But was the hill high enough?
Gasping, she forced her legs to pump harder. Nikko raced silently alongside her, ignoring the occasional burst of a nesting sage sparrow or the bound of a black-tailed jackrabbit.
At last they reached the summit. Only then did she risk a glance over her shoulder. She watched that towering wave of smoke break against the shoal of the tall hill and spread outward, filling the lower valleys all around, turning the hilltop into an island within a poisonous sea.
But how long would this refuge remain safe?
She fled farther away from that deadly shore, toward the highest crown of the hill. Near the top, sharp-edged silhouettes cut against the stars, marking the dilapidated remains of an old ghost town. She counted maybe a dozen barns and buildings. Gold-rush-era outposts like this dotted the local hills, most forgotten and unmapped—with the exception of the nearby town of Bodie, a larger ghost town that stood as the centerpiece of Bodie State Historic Park.
Still, she hurried gladly toward that meager shelter, taking strength from the stubbornly standing walls and roofs. As she neared the closest structure, she pulled out her cell phone, hoping she was high enough to get a signal. With her truck’s radio drowned in that toxic sea, her cell phone was the only means of communication.
With great relief, she noted a single glowing bar of signal strength.
Not great, but I’m not complaining.
She dialed the dispatch office. The line was quickly picked up by a breathless Bill Howard.
Though the connection was dodgy, she heard the relief in her friend’s voice. “Jen, are you o . . . ay?”
“I’m banged up little, but I’m okay.”
“What’s . . . banged up?”
She bit back her frustration at the reception. She tried speaking louder. “Listen, Bill. You’ve got trouble rolling your way.”
She tried to explain about the explosion, but the spotty signal made communication difficult.
“You need to evacuate Lee Vining,” she said, almost shouting. “Also any of the area’s campsites.”
“I didn’t . . . et that. What’s that about an evacuation?”
She closed her eyes, exasperated. She took a couple of breaths.
Maybe if I get on the roof of one of these barns, I could get a better signal.
Before she could consider the best course, a low thumping sounded. At first she thought it was her own heart pounding in her ears. Then Nikko whined, hearing it too. As the noise grew louder, she searched the skies and spotted a blip of navigation lights.
A helicopter.
She knew it was too soon for Bill to have sent up a search-and-rescue team. With her nerves jangling a warning, she flicked off her flashlight and rushed toward the shelter of the ghost town. Reaching the outskirts, she ducked alongside an old barn as a helicopter crested into view.
She recognized the sleek black shape of the aircraft. It was the same bird she had seen lifting off from the military base just prior to the explosion.
Had they caught sight of my truck racing away from the blast zone and doubled back? But why?
Not knowing for sure, she kept out of sight. Reaching the gaping barn door, she hurried inside with Nikko. She rushed across the dark confines, halting only long enough to check her phone.
Her call to Bill had dropped, and the screen now showed no bars.
She was cut off, on her own.
Reaching the far side of the barn, she peered carefully out through the broken glass of a window. The helicopter lowered toward a meadow on that side. Once the skids were close enough to the ground, men in black uniforms bailed out on both sides. The rotor wash of the helicopter pounded the scrub brush around them.
Her heart thundered in her throat as she noted the shouldered rifles.
This was no rescue party.
She touched her only weapon, holstered at her hip. A taser. By law, California Park Rangers could carry firearms, but it was mostly discouraged when assisting with tours like today.
Nikko growled at the growing commotion outside.
She waved him silent, knowing that their only hope of surviving was to stay hidden.
As she slunk lower, the last man—a true giant—hopped out of the helicopter and strode a few steps away. He carried a long muzzled weapon. She didn’t recognize it—until a jet of fire shot out the end, lighting up the meadow.
Flamethrower.
It took her a moment to understand the necessity for such a weapon. Then her fingers tightened on the sill of the barn’s window, noting the dried and warped wood. She was hiding in a veritable tinderbox.
Outside, the cluster of armed men spread wide, preparing to circle the small outcropping of buildings.
They must know I’m here, hiding somewhere in the ghost town.
Their plan was clear. They intended to burn her out into the open.
Beyond the men, the toxic sea swirled around the hill’s crown. There was no escaping this island. She sank to her heels, her mind feverishly running through her options. Only one certainty remained.
I can’t survive this.
But that didn’t mean she would stop being a ranger. If nothing else, she would leave some clue to her fate, to what really happened out here.
Nikko sidled next to her.
She hugged him hard, knowing it was likely for the last time. “I need you to do one more thing for me, buddy,” she whispered in his ear.
He thumped his tail.
“That’s a good boy.”
3
April 27, 11:10 P.M. EDT
Takoma Park, Maryland
When it rains, it pours . . .
Gray Pierce sped his motorcycle down the wet suburban street. It had been storming solidly for the past week. Overtaxed drains left treacherous puddles along the road’s edges. His headlamp cut a swath through the heavy drops as he aimed for his father’s house.
The Craftsman bungalow lay midway along the next block. Even from here, Gray spotted light blazing from all the windows, illuminating the wraparound porch and the wooden swing that hung listlessly there. The home looked the same as it always did, belying the storm that awaited him inside.
As he reached the driveway, he leaned his six-foot frame into the turn and rumbled toward the detached garage in the back. A harsh bellow rose from behind the house, heard even over the roar of the Yamaha V-Max’s engine.
It seems matters had worsened here.
As he cut the engine, a figure appeared from the backyard, stalking through the rain. It was his younger brother, Kenny. The family resemblance was evident, from his ruddy Welsh complexion to his dark, thick hair.
But that was the extent of the similarities between the two brothers.
Gray tugged off his motorcycle helmet and hopped off the bike to face his brother’s wrath. Though they were the same height, Kenny had a beer gut, a feature well earned from a decade living the soft life of a software engineer in California, while nursing a drinking problem. Recently Kenny had taken a sabbatical from his job and returned here to help out with their father. Still, he threatened to head back west almost every week.