State Of Emergency

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” Emily said

But did she? From the first moment she’d laid eyes on Jordan, she had found him attractive. “If you lay one hand on me, I’ll—”

“I won’t touch you, Emily.” He straightened his spine. In spite of the lingering trail dust and the prison-issue denims, Jordan exuded the dignity of an honorable man. “You have my word as a gentleman.”

“Who do think you are? Rhett Butler?”

The right corner of his mouth quirked in a grin. “At your service, Miss Scarlett. Get in,” Jordan said.

Emily crawled inside, and the warmth of the lightweight sleeping bag snuggled around her. When Jordan joined her inside the bag, there was barely room to move. She couldn’t escape without waking him. And she wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to leave him.

It had been years since she’d been intimate with a man, and she’d forgotten how pleasant it was to lie close to a large masculine body. Tempting fate, she wriggled against him. His breath whispered deep and slow, echoing the rhythm of his heart. His natural male fragrance mingled with the fragrance of her soap. “Jordan?”

He was silent, already sound asleep. True to his word as a gentleman. Damn it.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Welcome to a brand-new year of exciting romance and edge-of-your-seat suspense. We at Harlequin Intrigue are thrilled to renew our commitment to you, our loyal readers, to provide variety and outstanding romantic suspense—each and every month.

To get things started right, veteran Harlequin Intrigue author Cassie Miles kicks off a two-book miniseries with State of Emergency. The COLORADO SEARCH AND RESCUE group features tough emergency personnel reared in the shadows of the rugged Rocky Mountains. Who wouldn’t want to be stranded with a western-born hunk trained to protect and serve?

Speaking of hunks, Debra Webb serves up a giant of a man in Solitary Soldier, the next installment in her COLBY AGENCY series. And you know what they say about the bigger they come the harder they fall…. Well, it goes double for this wounded hero.

Ann Voss Peterson takes us to the darkest part of a serial killer’s world in Accessory to Marriage. The second time around could prove to be the last—permanently—for both the hero and heroine in this gripping thriller.

Finally, please welcome Delores Fossen to the line. She joins us with a moving story of forced artificial insemination, which unites two strangers who unwittingly become parents…and eventually a family. Do not miss His Child for an emotional read.

Be sure to let us know how we’re doing; we love to hear from our readers! And Happy New Year from all of us at Harlequin Intrigue.

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

State of Emergency

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassie Mlles lives in Denver, one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, with the traffic jams to prove it. She belongs to the film society and enjoys artsy subtitled cinema almost as much as movies where stuff blows up. Her favorite entertainment is urban, ranging from sports to museum exhibits to coffeehouse espresso. Yet she never loses sight of the Rocky Mountains through the kitchen window.

Books by Cassie Miles

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

122—HIDE AND SEEK

150—HANDLE WITH CARE

237—HEARTBREAK HOTEL

269—ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT?

285—DON’T BE CRUEL

320—MYSTERIOUS VOWS*

332—THE SUSPECT GROOM*

363—THE IMPOSTER

381—RULE BREAKER

391—GUARDED MOMENTS

402—A NEW YEAR’S CONVICTION

443—A REAL ANGEL

449—FORGET ME NOT

521—FATHER, LOVER, BODYGUARD**

529—THE SAFE HOSTAGE**

584—UNDERCOVER PROTECTOR

645—STATE OF EMERGENCY†

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Emily Foster—The former emergency-room nurse seeks solitude and peace in the Colorado mountains where she works for Search and Rescue.

Jordan Shane—The Florida-based computer chip manufacturer, arrested and accused of murdering his estranged wife, makes a daring escape and is on the run.

Lynette Afton-Shane—The Aspen jet-setter and owner of two ski lodges is shot before she can divorce Jordan.

Brian Afton—Lynette’s brother inherits the bulk of her estate when she dies.

Sean Madigan—The professional skier who lives in the guest house on Lynette’s estate had an intense relationship with the deceased.

Deputy Ed Cooper—Sloppy police work leads to his downfall when he slides off a cliff.

Deputy Frank Kreiger—The overzealous law enforcement officer secretly loved Lynette and wants her murderer punished.

Dr. Spence Cannon—The local doctor, a good friend for Emily, also works for Search and Rescue.

Pookie—The golden retriever puppy is neither a watchdog nor a detective, but he helps solve the crime.

To Rosie. Hi, Mom!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

July 25, Aspen, Colorado

Jordan Shane woke with a shudder. The guest bedroom in his wife’s house was cold as a morgue. The bedsheets and comforter weighed on his legs like a blanket of snow. He always felt half-frozen in the mountains, even now in the middle of summer.

A white sliver of light cut through the midnight dark. The bedroom door stood slightly ajar.

“Lynette?” He whispered his wife’s name. There was no reason for her to come to him in the night. They hadn’t been intimate for eleven months. They didn’t live in the same house. Most of the time, they weren’t even in the same latitude.

Jordan’s home and his business were in sun-baked Florida on the Gulf coast where semitropical breezes played in the lush green palm fronds. Most of the time, Lynette stayed here in Aspen, Colorado, where she owned two ski lodges and lived in the biggest damn house he’d ever seen. She called it a château. He called it a hotel because of the constant stream of friends and relatives who were usually taking up space in the sixteen extra bedrooms, not to mention Sean Madigan, a professional skier who lived in the guest house, or the housekeeper who had a good-size apartment behind the downstairs kitchen. Lynette didn’t like to be alone…not even with her husband.

She had, however, made an effort at privacy for Jordan’s midsummer visit. There were no business associates, no guests, no cousins, no friends. The granite château-hotel was eerily vacant.

Jordan had come to discuss the dissolution of their estranged marriage. This afternoon, when he proposed divorce, she agreed, asking only that he postpone legal action for a month to give her time to clean up a few business details. The end of their marriage would be amicable. No hard feelings. Their relationship just hadn’t worked out.

From the very start, they shared zero common interests. But Jordan had been blinded by Lynette’s astonishing physical beauty—her long, shining black hair, sapphire eyes and perfect creamy skin. Even now—with the marriage basically over—he fondly remembered her lush curves and full breasts. The thought of her naked body warmed him, and he reached across the king-size bed, hoping against the impossible that she might have joined him. For old times’ sake.

Groping at the pillow, he touched metal. His fingers closed around the grip of a handgun. His memory of Lynette’s perfume vanished as he caught the whiff of cordite and powder. This lightweight Glock automatic had recently been fired.

Jordan bolted from the bed, turned on the lamp and scanned the guest bedroom. Lynette’s antique furniture contrasted his laptop, printer and global cell phone. Nothing seemed to be out of place.

But somebody had been here. Somebody had left the gun.

He checked the clip, making sure the pistol was still loaded. He grabbed the cell phone before he opened the bedroom door and peered into the second-floor landing. One side of the hallway was open with a cherrywood railing that overlooked an atrium foyer. On the other side were the closed doors to guest bedrooms, all vacant.

His wife’s master bedroom suite was fifty yards away, at the south end of the house. Her double doors were wide open.

“Lynette!”

His voice echoed against the dark wainscoting and white walls, hung with original artwork. He didn’t call her name again. He was dead certain she wouldn’t answer.

Wearing only his boxer shorts, Jordan raced toward her suite. He burst through the sitting area into her white bedroom, stark as a glacial landscape. Track lighting blazed reflections against a wall of mirrors. At the foot of the four-poster bed, Lynette sprawled on the plush white carpet, stained crimson with her blood. Her lacy white nightgown hiked up to her thighs. She’d been shot in the chest.

Dropping the gun, Jordan fell to his knees beside her. At the base of her throat, he felt for a pulse. Nothing.

“Help!” Jordan yelled. The housekeeper ought to be downstairs. “Rita, help.”

Lynette’s blue eyes stared, blank and gelid. Her skin felt cool. She couldn’t be dead! There was color in her cheeks.

Jordan punched 9-1-1 into his cell phone. “Ambulance! Send an ambulance!” He gave the address. “How do I do CPR? Tell me!”

“Sir, if you will just stay on the line, I can—”

He threw down the phone. If there was life in Lynette’s body, he had to act fast. He straightened her legs. Her bare arms were slippery with blood. When he lifted her upper body, her head tilted back and her glossy black hair tumbled over his arm. For a moment, he cradled her against him. He’d wanted to end it. “But not like this. My God, not like this.”

Rita Ramirez, the housekeeper, appeared in the doorway, wearing a yellow chenille robe.

“Rita,” he said, “you’ve got to help her.”

The housekeeper took a backward step. Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “Mios Dio, Jordan. What have you done?”

Chapter One

September 16, Cascadia, Colorado

“This is the wound.” With a red marker pen, Emily Foster drew two parallel dots, representing the fang marks of a rattlesnake, on the arm of a seven-year-old Brownie. The other eight girls and the troop leader stood in a tight circle around the Formica-topped table in the Cascadia Search and Rescue headquarters. “Can anybody tell me what to do next?”

“I know,” said an angelic little redhead. “You gotta shoot the dang rattler.”

“The snake will be gone.” Emily preferred not to discuss snakebite treatment in her first aid lectures. Given her druthers, she’d never talk about reptiles at all—those slimy, sneaky, altogether terrifying creatures. But kids always asked about worst-case scenarios. Potential encounters with rattlesnakes, cougars and grizzly bears were a lot more dramatic than learning how to identify poison ivy. “Anybody know what we do next?”

“Suck out the poison,” said Libby Hanson, the daughter of the troop leader. “Then spit it out.”

The red-haired cherub gave a naughty smirk. “What if somebody gets bit on the butt?”

“Gross,” said a tall, feminine girl with a long braid that hung to her waist. “I wouldn’t ever suck anybody’s rear end.”

“Except for Johnny Jamison,” the naughty angel said.

“Settle down, girls.” Yvonne, the troop leader and mother of four, spoke with the voice of authority, but the Brownies weren’t listening. They’d caught an extreme case of the giggles.

“Settle down,” Yvonne repeated. She held up her hand in the sign for quiet.

Those who weren’t making sucking noises on their arms were wiggling their skinny little bottoms at each other.

“Quiet!” Yvonne threatened, “Or no snacks.”

Immediate silence descended, and Emily nodded an appreciative thank-you. She’d never been comfortable with children, especially not in a group. Controlling them was like juggling spaghetti. “Actually, we don’t recommend the suck-and-spit method, anymore. First, we clean and disinfect the wound.” She pantomimed that action. “Then wrap an Ace bandage above the wound. Not too tightly. Most of all, you want the victim to remain calm.”

The supposedly snakebit Brownie eased into a prone position on the tabletop, and Emily completed the treatment by taping a folded gauze pad over the bite. “This is to apply direct pressure to the wound. Now, what’s next?”

“Get help,” said Yvonne’s daughter.

“That’s right.” Emily gave a thumbs-up. “Any other questions?”

Tall and Feminine raised her hand. “Is that your real hair color?”

Emily touched her curly blond ponytail. “Yes.”

“I wondered ’cause your eyes are kind of a weird green and not blue like most blondes.”

“Let’s get back to first aid, shall we?” Emily loosened the Ace bandage on her volunteer victim’s arm.

The irrepressible angel asked, “Did you have anybody die from getting bit by a rattler?”

“Never.”

“But you’ve seen people die ’cause you’re a nurse.” Before she moved to Cascadia three years ago, Emily had experienced more than her share of senseless, violent death when she worked in a Denver hospital emergency room. God, yes, she’d seen people die. The helplessness and horror branded deep into her soul. Real-life death wasn’t an appropriate topic for seven-year-old Brownies. “The important thing,” she said, “is to avoid danger. Can you tell me the first rule of mountain safety?”

“Think ahead and be careful,” they recited back to her.

“Second rule?” Emily asked.

“Be prepared.”

“And if an accident happens?” she prompted.

“Keep calm. Call 9-1-1. Use first aid.”

“I don’t get it,” said Tall and Feminine. “9-1-1 is Sheriff Litvak’s phone number. Why is it the same for Search and Rescue?”

“The 9-1-1 dispatcher contacts S.A.R.,” Emily explained.

“Does he call you at home? Like, what if you’re busy?”

“Drop everything and come running,” Emily said.

“We usually meet right here, behind Dr. Spence’s office.”

The headquarters for the mostly volunteer S.A.R. unit based in Cascadia, Colorado, was the size of a two-car garage and almost as glamorous. The furnishings included secondhand tables, chairs, desks and an ancient refrigerator. Their rescue equipment, however, illustrated state-of-the-art preparedness with skis, snow shoes, carry litters, pitons and miles of nylon rope. Sophisticated aerial-photograph maps covered every wall. There were walkietalkies, a satellite phone and two computers—electronics that were beyond Emily’s comprehension.

Concluding her demonstration, she passed out miniature first aid kits with the address and phone number for Cascadia S.A.R. attached with a sticky label. From past experience, she knew that most of these kits would be used as toys, but at least the girls would be thinking about safety.

Dr. Spence Cannon, a young and much-loved general practitioner, poked his head through the door that connected with the offices for his regular practice. “I thought I heard some mice down here.”

Excited, the Brownies flocked around him. “We’re not mice!”

“Then how do you explain those big ears?” Spence tugged at a couple of their braids. “And these long tails?”

“I’m an eagle,” said the redhead. She spread her arms and began to soar.

“Yeah? Well, I’m a wolf.” Libby Hanson bared her fangs and snarled.

Tall and Feminine struck a pose. “I’m a supermodel.”

Emily stepped back beside Yvonne, and they watched as Spence and the Brownies settled around a table for Kool-Aid and snacks. “He’s great with kids,” Emily said.

“You bet,” Yvonne agreed. “We’re so lucky he settled here. With that streaked blond hair and those baby blue eyes, Spence could’ve made big bucks with a practice in Aspen.”

Though Cascadia lay only an hour’s drive from the fabled ski area, this small working-class community was a million miles distant in terms of economics. Cascadia couldn’t be described as a resort. It wasn’t a picturesque mountain town with châteaus, chalets and cutsey shops. Most of the people who lived here worked in Aspen. Their homes were humble cabins off the beaten path or trailers or rented rooms in the barracks-like motels.

“Spence fits in here,” Emily said. “He’s a nice guy.”

Coming from her, “nice” represented a genuine compliment when applied to an M.D. In her years as an emergency room nurse, she’d developed a potent hostility toward the usually egotistical doctors.

“Thanks for talking to the kids,” Yvonne said. “Those first aid kits are nifty. How did our underfinanced S.A.R. afford them?”

“We received a contribution that was specifically earmarked for mountain safety training and first aid. Ten thousand dollars.”

“Wow!” Yvonne’s eyes popped wide. In addition to motherhood duties, she raised and trained rescue dogs—an endeavor that could always use extra financial aid. “Who is this benefactor? Somebody from Aspen?”

“Somebody who’s dead. Lynette Afton-Shane.”

“Oh my! You know I hate to brag, but I’ve been to that house. The Afton Château. Big stone monstrosity. Gorgeous antiques.”

“How did you manage that?”

“It was a kid thing.” Yvonne clucked her tongue and lowered her voice, not wanting the Brownies to overhear. “That poor woman. Being killed in cold blood by her own husband.”

“I don’t think Jordan Shane did it,” Emily said.

“Do you know him?”

”Not really. I’ve met him twice.”

The first time had been over a year ago when he attended one of her mountain safety lectures in Aspen. The second time, he came personally to her cabin to deliver the contribution. He insisted the ten thousand dollars be credited to his wife’s name even though the check had been written on his personal account.

“Come on, Emily. I want details. What’s he look like?”

“Dark brown hair. He wears it kind of long.” When she’d met Jordan, he was another woman’s husband. It would have been improper for Emily to notice his cleft chin, high cheekbones and smouldering dark eyes. She had absolutely no right to admire the breadth of his shoulders and the way his snug Levi’s outlined his muscular thighs. “He has a southern accent. I think he’s from Florida or something.”

Yvonne’s dark eyebrows lowered in one of those reproachful mother looks. “Please don’t tell me you have a thing for him.”

“How could I? He’s married.”

“Was married,” she said darkly. “Now, he’s a murderer.”

“He’s accused of murder,” Emily corrected. She’d been following the much-reported case in the newspaper. “The trial hasn’t even started.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t he found standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand? And there was nobody else in the house? No sign of forced entry?”

“That’s right,” Emily conceded.

“He had motive, too,” Yvonne said. “I heard the couple was talking divorce, and Jordan would lose out on her inheritance.”

Nearly everybody in the surrounding mountain communities had already decided that Jordan Shane, the outsider, was guilty of murdering his popular, wealthy spouse. On the strength of negative local opinion, Jordan’s attorney had obtained a change of venue for the trial.

“I don’t know,” Emily said, “but Jordan Shane just doesn’t act like a murderer.”

“As if you’d know.” Yvonne gestured toward the giggling girls and Spence. “Why not hook up with somebody like him?”

“Spence? No way. There’s one thing I learned as a nurse—don’t fall in love with a doctor.”

“Why not?”

“It never works.” She’d found out the hard way. “Besides, I’ve already selected my favorite beau. His name is Pookie.”

Yvonne gave a disbelieving snort. “Pookie is a golden retriever puppy and not very bright.”

“But he keeps me warm at night,” Emily said. “Which reminds me, I’ve left him home alone too long. I should be going.”

Before Yvonne could launch into a birds-and-bees explanation on the difference between sharing your bed with a dog and sleeping with a man, Emily bid her hasty goodbyes and left the Cascadia S.A.R. headquarters.

Though community service played an integral part in her life and the demonstration with the Brownies justified her minimal monthly stipend from Search and Rescue, she was glad to have this task over. With her Saturday morning errands already accomplished, she was free to spend the rest of the weekend curled up with a good book or hiking with Pookie or starting on the million and one maintenance chores she needed to do before the first snowfall.

Emily slipped behind the wheel of her old Land Rover, a vehicle too ancient to be considered an SUV, and drove through town. In less than twenty minutes, she was bouncing along the seldom-traveled graded road that led to her even more desolate turn-off. Emily’s log cabin—which had been in her family for as long as she could recall—bordered on National Forest land and she had no neighbors, except for the chipmunks, the elk and the hummingbirds. Sometimes, she went for days without hearing another human voice.

Though she occasionally worried about turning into an eccentric tangle-haired hermit, Emily loved her secluded mountain lifestyle. Tucked safely in her cabin, she no longer needed daily doses of antidepressants. Her anxiety attacks seldom occurred anymore. She’d made the right decision when she left behind the frenzy of activity and constant tension of the big city E.R. where life-and-death situations were daily, if not hourly, occurrences. The pressure had been too great. Now, at age thirty-two, solitude was preferable, even necessary.

She parked at her cabin, surrounded by conifers on a ridge warmed by the western sun. Outside the vehicle, she stood for a moment. On this crisp September afternoon the skies stretched above her in deep, endless blue. God, it was beautiful! A brisk wind brushed against her cheeks and tangled in the curly blond wisps that escaped her ponytail. Autumn was her favorite time of year. The changing aspen leaves colored the slopes with shimmering gold. Fresh snow glistened on the distant high peaks near the continental divide.

A flash of caramel-colored fur loped toward her. She’d been trying to train Pookie, following the program that Yvonne outlined, but Emily secretly enjoyed the way her puppy wiggled all over with crazed joy every time he saw her. And she adored his muffled woofs.

“Moof, moof.” Pookie launched himself at her. His overlarge paws groped at her thigh, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth.

“How did you get out?” she asked as she scratched behind his ears. “I know I left you inside.”

“Burf moof.” He sat back and cocked his head to one side, giving her the doggy equivalent of a shrug.

“Raccoons,” she muttered. Those masked vermin could break into anything. They must have pushed open a cabin window.

With Pookie following, she climbed the front steps onto the porch. Her front door was unlocked. Had she left it that way? As soon as Emily stepped inside, she was grabbed from behind. The cold bore of a pistol dug into the small of her back. A harsh voice whispered, “Don’t scream.”

Though she’d taken self-defense classes in the city, her mind went blank. The sudden assault stunned her, and she froze. Her breath caught in her chest. Her heart paused midbeat.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. There was the hint of a southern accent in his voice. “I need your help, Ms. Foster.”

He knew her name. “Who are you?”

He said nothing. His muscular forearm clamped across her throat, exerting slight pressure on her windpipe. Her body pressed against his, and she could tell that he was very tall. The top of her head barely cleared his shoulder. Struggle was futile. Even without the gun, he could easily overpower her.

What did he want? She trembled, unable to accept this harsh reality. She was supposed to be safe here. Her breath returned in a frantic gasp.

Her impending panic had no effect whatsoever on Pookie. The puppy bounced around them, stumbling over his own paws and seeming to enjoy this new game. “Murf, bork, bork.”

“Please,” Emily said, “let me go.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

He was toying with her, reveling in his superiority. An edge of anger cut through her terror. She had to act, to escape from him. Her arms tensed as she prepared to thrust her elbows backward into his midsection. Caution tempered her actions. Remember the gun. The worst thing she could do was to anger this person and cause him to lash out. In a controlled voice she said, “You wanted my help, and I’ll do what I can. Just don’t hurt me or my dog.”

“Fair enough.” He released his grip.

Free from his grasp, she pivoted and faced him. He wore prison-issue denim pants and a blue workshirt with a black number stenciled above the pocket. His dark brown hair hung shaggy and unkempt. His upper left arm was bloody. More blood smeared his face below the cheekbone. Returning her gaze, his expression hardened in dark, silent desperation.

“Jordan Shane,” she whispered. “You escaped.”

She’d been wrong about him. Until this moment, Emily had believed in his innocence. But innocent men don’t run. Jordan Shane was a cold-blooded murderer. In his right hand, he held a .22 caliber automatic, trained toward her midsection. “That’s my gun,” she said grimly.

“Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this peashooter.”

She kept the unloaded pistol in a wooden box on the top shelf in her closet. And the ammunition was stashed in her underwear drawer. He must have searched her house. The thought of a murderer going through her personal belongings disgusted her.

And yet, Pookie snuggled congenially against him. Weren’t animals supposed to have a sixth sense about danger? Emily warned herself not to take Pookie’s judgment too seriously. Coldly, she said, “I didn’t notice a car outside. How did you get here?”

“I parked in that shed behind your house and latched the door. Hope you don’t mind.”

Of course, she minded! She was not in the habit of harboring escaped criminals. His phony politeness didn’t fool her for one minute. Jordan Shane had not dropped by for a spot of tea. “What do you want from me?”

“I’m in need of medical attention. I’ve been shot.”

Even if she hadn’t seen the blood, Emily would have suspected serious injuries from the occasional tremors that shook his shoulders. His breathing was shallow. His complexion blanched white.

This was a far different Jordan Shane than the handsome benefactor who had visited her cabin a year ago. When he’d been here before, he had a deep Florida tan. Six weeks in the Pitkin County jail erased that healthy glow. He looked thinner but not at all frail. His features were sharpened, as if his ordeal had sliced close to the bone.

As she stared at him, her instinctive empathy emerged. It was an emotion more deeply ingrained than her fear or rage. For as long as she could remember, Emily had been driven to reach out to those who needed help and nurturing. She was a natural-born nurse. She truly believed in the motto of S.A.R.: “…That Others May Live.” In this case, however, her instincts were dead wrong. Jordan Shane was a dangerous man. “I can’t help you,” she said. “If I did, I’d be aiding and abetting a criminal.”

“Not if I force you,” he said, casually displaying the gun. “I didn’t come here to get you in trouble, Ms. Foster.”

“Then why? Of all the places in the world you could have run to, why did you come to me?”

“It was logical.” Jordan took a step away from her and leaned against the arm of the plaid sofa. He was light-headed, but he didn’t think his condition came from loss of blood. More than likely, he was disoriented by his own audacity. He’d never been the sort of man who acted without thinking, and now he was on the lam from the Pitkin County sheriff. At this very moment, a massive search effort would be getting underway.

“Logical? You came here because it was logical?” “That’s right.”

His mental process was a little fuzzy, almost as if today’s events had happened to someone else. He clearly remembered being left in a windowed room at Sardy Field in Aspen. He was being transported to Denver where his trial was slated to start on Monday. Another prisoner waited with him. With no explanation, Deputy Frank Kreiger had entered the room, removed their shackles and cuffs and left them alone again.

The other guy went to one of the windows, unfastened the latch and pushed it open. Fresh air washed inside, and Jordan was drawn toward the scent of freedom.

“I don’t understand your definition of logical.” He heard Emily speaking. Her voice echoed as if she were talking from the bottom of a deep well. “Would you explain?”

He truly didn’t know. Jordan hadn’t consciously decided to escape, but he was suddenly outside, ducked down and running alongside the hangar toward the tarmac.

Gunshots exploded. A stinging heat penetrated his left arm. He turned halfway around and heard a bullet whiz past his cheek. The other prisoner lay flat on the ground, awaiting recapture.

Jordan ran. He dodged and backtracked through the airport where he’d been dozens of times before. He found the employee parking area. After he hot-wired a late model Dodge, he drove away from Aspen. He had no clear escape route in mind but found himself on the road leading toward Cascadia. He remembered the directions to Emily’s cabin from when he came here to drop off the contribution. He also recalled that this location was remote with no troublesome neighbors.