It had already been determined that the phone number in the message went to a burner phone, which would no doubt be destroyed the moment the call ended. Griffin’s instructions were to loiter on the line as long as he could so the tech guys could locate it. The kidnappers would surely move after the call, but it would give the SEALs a general starting point of where to hunt for Tate.

At a nod from a tech guy, Griffin made the call. The phone rang a half-dozen times, and then a voice, electronically distorted, said, “Griffin Caldwell is to come alone and unarmed to the following coordinates. He will exit the vehicle and head due north on foot until we approach him.”

The line went dead.

The people around Griffin swore. No way had that little burst of signal been traceable. Honestly, it was about what he’d expected. If the working theory was right and Haddad’s men had Sherri, they were professional Special Forces operators.

A communications guy called out, “We just received an image of Tate with yesterday’s newspaper under her chin. We have proof of life.”

Griffin darted across the room to look over the guy’s shoulder. It was her, all right. She looked haggard, sitting in a metal chair in what looked like a cabin. But she was alive. Profound, knee-weakening relief soared through him.

Duquesne said grimly, “All right, gentlemen. Gear up. Let’s bring her home.”

* * *

If she didn’t find cover in the next minute or so, she was dead.

Although the ground looked table flat, it was deceptive. The desert was riddled with ripples and gullies left over from the rare rains out here. She spied a shallow gully not too far away and rolled over to it as fast as she could. She frantically dug it wider with her bare hands.

As soon as the crevice was deep and wide enough to hold her entire body, she stretched out in it. She buried her legs with some of the loose dirt, and then she piled the rest of the dirt on top of the upholstery cloth on her lap.

The sound of an engine became audible. They were getting close.

Working quickly, she lay down and then eased the cloth and its load of dirt over her torso and face. The weight of it settled heavily upon her, and she turned her head to the side, breathing through a single tiny crack between the fabric and the ground above her.

It felt like being buried alive. Her breathing accelerated in panic, and she frantically did the four-count breathing technique Griffin had taught her to use when shooting a sniper rifle. It supposedly slowed the pulse and respiration.

In. Count to four. Out. Count to four.

Okay, so she was counting to four really fast. But she was doing it. Over the next half-dozen breaths, her counting slowed a tiny bit.

And then a tiny bit more.