When you’re working undercover and your gig goes south, it usually happens so fast that any hope of initiating some brilliantly conceived contingency plan flies out the window—usually at about the same time you realize Plan B wasn’t quite as brilliant as you’d initially thought anyway. My emergency plan had been pretty simple: Grab the cell and the .22 mini Mag and hope five shots are enough. The best I can hope for now is the opportunity to run.

Don’t let down your guard.

Tomasetti’s words ring hard in my ears as we trudge through the snow to two snowmobiles parked a hundred yards into the woods. Before mounting, one of the men—the one I kicked in the groin—reaches out, grasps my throat with his right hand, and squeezes hard enough to cut off the blood to my head. Even in the darkness, I see the threat in his eyes as he peers at me through the slits of the ski mask.

“You do anything stupid and I’ll put a rope around your neck and drag you,” he snarls. “You got that?”

I nod and he releases me.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask.

The other man removes a stocking cap from beneath his coat, pulls it over my head, yanking it down over my eyes and most of my face. Then I’m lifted and put on the back part of the seat. I feel him climb on in front of me.

“Shut up and hold on to my coat,” he tells me.

The engine revs and the snow machine lurches forward.

*   *   *

For the first few minutes of the ride, I entertain fantasies of jumping off and running into the woods under cover of the night. I’d take refuge in the trees, somehow loosen the binds at my wrists, and make my way back to the trailer. Once there, I’d arm myself with my .22, contact Suggs—and kill anyone who came through the door before the sheriff’s department arrived.

All the while my mind races through a myriad of unpleasant reasons why I’m here. Are they taking me to Schrock so he can finish what he started? Worse, does he somehow know who I am? Are they planning to kill me?