parking lot, she’d have to make do, at least until he figured out what to do next.
Contacting Quinn directly was out, at least for the moment, even though he had another burner phone stashed in the cabin. His second call to his boss that afternoon had gone straight to voice mail, a preordained signal that Quinn suspected their line of communication might be compromised.
Hunter didn’t know what constituted “compromised communication,” but he knew better than to doubt the instincts of his wily boss. Quinn might be borderline paranoid, but he’d managed to survive some of the most hair-raising covert ops in history. Survival skills like those meant something, even to a former Army infantry grunt like Hunter, who’d never cared much for the spooks who’d haunted the perimeters of the battlefield during major military ops.
He might not ever really like Quinn, but he trusted the man’s finely honed sense of caution.
They veered off the barely visible path as they neared the hidden cabin. Behind him, Susannah was still struggling to keep up with his long strides, though she walked with less noise than he’d expected. It was taking sheer determination on his own part to maintain as much stealth as possible, because his old war wounds were hurting like hell.
The clearing appeared almost without warning, with no discernible path to announce its existence. A ring of firs, pines and hemlocks stood sentinel around the tiny homestead, protecting the cabin from view even in the winter, when hardwood trees would shed their leaves for the season. The evergreens had been planted there nearly a half century earlier by his grandfather, who’d preferred seclusion to the increasingly dangerous world outside.
Catching up as Hunter slowed his gait, Susannah sucked in a small gasp of air, and he wondered idly what she thought of the place.
The cabin wasn’t much to look at from the outside, a low-slung edifice built from rough-hewn logs. The porch extended along the whole front of the cabin, but it wasn’t very wide because the cabin wasn’t large.
Two steps up and they were at the front door.
Because of its seclusion, there had never been any reason to put in a lock, and for decades, the door had remained unlocked and the cabin undisturbed. But Hunter didn’t see the point of taking chances, not after how easily he’d been ambushed and abducted several months ago. He’d installed a sturdy padlock on both the front and back doors of the cabin, and new latches on all the windows.
He saw Susannah eyeing those latches as he led her into the cabin and turned the dead bolt behind them. Probably thought he was keeping her prisoner, and he didn’t hurry to disabuse her of the idea. If a little healthy fear would keep her from doing something foolish, like trying to sneak off on her own again, then he’d use it.
“Nice place,” she said. Her tone wasn’t obviously sarcastic, but he assumed she meant the comment that way.
He knew the place wasn’t much, but it offered him a sense of security in an increasingly insane world. It was one of the few things he owned that he hadn’t sold to raise his sister’s bail money.
“I know it doesn’t look very big, but there’s a good-size bedroom. You can have it, of course. I’ll take the couch.”
He saw her eye the old sofa with skepticism, and he couldn’t really blame her. He’d bought the battered piece of furniture at the thrift store in Barrowville a few months earlier, but for all its shabby appearance, the springs were sturdy enough and the cushions comfortable, even though his legs hung off a bit when he slept there.
He’d stayed in the cabin several times since returning home from Afghanistan, when his guilt about his sister’s legal troubles had gotten to be too much for him to cope with back at her place. He’d bunked down here on the sofa more often than not, finding its rougher embrace easier to deal with than the civilized softness of the bed.
“How can
Contacting Quinn directly was out, at least for the moment, even though he had another burner phone stashed in the cabin. His second call to his boss that afternoon had gone straight to voice mail, a preordained signal that Quinn suspected their line of communication might be compromised.
Hunter didn’t know what constituted “compromised communication,” but he knew better than to doubt the instincts of his wily boss. Quinn might be borderline paranoid, but he’d managed to survive some of the most hair-raising covert ops in history. Survival skills like those meant something, even to a former Army infantry grunt like Hunter, who’d never cared much for the spooks who’d haunted the perimeters of the battlefield during major military ops.
He might not ever really like Quinn, but he trusted the man’s finely honed sense of caution.
They veered off the barely visible path as they neared the hidden cabin. Behind him, Susannah was still struggling to keep up with his long strides, though she walked with less noise than he’d expected. It was taking sheer determination on his own part to maintain as much stealth as possible, because his old war wounds were hurting like hell.
The clearing appeared almost without warning, with no discernible path to announce its existence. A ring of firs, pines and hemlocks stood sentinel around the tiny homestead, protecting the cabin from view even in the winter, when hardwood trees would shed their leaves for the season. The evergreens had been planted there nearly a half century earlier by his grandfather, who’d preferred seclusion to the increasingly dangerous world outside.
Catching up as Hunter slowed his gait, Susannah sucked in a small gasp of air, and he wondered idly what she thought of the place.
The cabin wasn’t much to look at from the outside, a low-slung edifice built from rough-hewn logs. The porch extended along the whole front of the cabin, but it wasn’t very wide because the cabin wasn’t large.
Two steps up and they were at the front door.
Because of its seclusion, there had never been any reason to put in a lock, and for decades, the door had remained unlocked and the cabin undisturbed. But Hunter didn’t see the point of taking chances, not after how easily he’d been ambushed and abducted several months ago. He’d installed a sturdy padlock on both the front and back doors of the cabin, and new latches on all the windows.
He saw Susannah eyeing those latches as he led her into the cabin and turned the dead bolt behind them. Probably thought he was keeping her prisoner, and he didn’t hurry to disabuse her of the idea. If a little healthy fear would keep her from doing something foolish, like trying to sneak off on her own again, then he’d use it.
“Nice place,” she said. Her tone wasn’t obviously sarcastic, but he assumed she meant the comment that way.
He knew the place wasn’t much, but it offered him a sense of security in an increasingly insane world. It was one of the few things he owned that he hadn’t sold to raise his sister’s bail money.
“I know it doesn’t look very big, but there’s a good-size bedroom. You can have it, of course. I’ll take the couch.”
He saw her eye the old sofa with skepticism, and he couldn’t really blame her. He’d bought the battered piece of furniture at the thrift store in Barrowville a few months earlier, but for all its shabby appearance, the springs were sturdy enough and the cushions comfortable, even though his legs hung off a bit when he slept there.
He’d stayed in the cabin several times since returning home from Afghanistan, when his guilt about his sister’s legal troubles had gotten to be too much for him to cope with back at her place. He’d bunked down here on the sofa more often than not, finding its rougher embrace easier to deal with than the civilized softness of the bed.
“How can
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