Griffin swallowed one GPS tracker, another one was sewn into his pants, and a third one was hidden in his collar. Duquesne really, really didn’t want to lose track of his location.

He was given a belt with a video camera installed in the buckle, a thin, flexible battery lining the entire belt. It would run for at least twenty-four hours of continuous video feed to a satellite. That was all the gear the comm guys were able to plant on him before he had to leave. Cal personally drove him to the coordinates in the Mojave Desert, close to the Nevada border.

The mission would run as a full-blown operation, complete with gunship support on standby, search-and-rescue helicopters ready to launch, intel and attack drones loitering overhead, and sixteen armed-to-the-teeth SEALs following him and Cal at a safe distance in a pair of Hummers.

“Do you think they brought her all the way out here?” Griffin asked Cal.

“It’s where I’d come with a hostage if I wanted to be left alone and not be spotted by a living soul.”

“Rough terrain,” Griffin commented grimly.

“We’ll have drones with IR cameras over you at all times. If Sherri’s nearby, we’ll find her. They’ll see her heat signature.”

Griffin couldn’t even allow himself to think about the possibility that she was dead and had no heat signature.

“You know the drill,” Cal said briskly. “Get visual on the kidnappers, then go to ground and don’t get caught. Follow on foot if able, or let us take over pursuit from above.”

“Got it.”

“And Grif?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be a hero.”

He snorted. Too late for that. He was headed out there with one goal, and one goal only. To save Sherri’s life. His own safety—his life—was completely irrelevant.

* * *

Sherri moved steadily west, paralleling the truck tracks. By her reckoning, it had been dark at least four hours, placing it near midnight when the now-familiar truck tracks abruptly cut across her path, heading due south. Why the change of direction?

She peered ahead and spied the black silhouette of a rocky outcropping thrusting up from the desert floor. The truck must be detouring around that. She debated following the truck or continuing due west.

The least number of steps taken won out, and she pushed on toward the ridge. Rising gradually, it appeared to drop off more steeply on the other side. She climbed it carefully, wary of turning an ankle or otherwise making herself immobile.

As she approached the top of the ridge, she eased down onto her hands and knees, and then down onto her belly, to crawl the last few yards. She peeked beyond the rim and stared.

A heavy-duty pickup truck was parked in the valley below. It had to be her kidnappers. Who else would be out here in the middle of freaking nowhere?