On the hill, Trace fired a series of covering shots into the compound. Edge fired several rounds and moved. Trace changed position, fired more shots, then shifted again, each time moving closer to the Yukon.

By the time Edge arrived, Skye was already behind the wheel, the engine running, Callie in the front passenger seat. Trace had backed the SUV in, so they were ready to roll, just waiting for the rest of the team.

“Get Callie out of here,” Edge said to Skye through the open window. “Head for Denver. I’ll wait for Trace, and we’ll meet you there.”

“No way!” Callie leaned toward him across the console. “I need to talk to the sheriff. I have friends in there. I promised I’d help. If we leave, there’s no way to tell what Henson might do.”

“We don’t know if we can trust the sheriff.”

“We have to try,” Callie argued. “I’m not going back until I talk to him.”

Edge glanced around. Time was running out. He could still hear distant gunshots. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll meet back at the motel. Give us ten minutes. If we aren’t back, forget the sheriff and head for the city.”

Skye’s sea-green eyes slid over his face, her worry clear. She didn’t want to leave him. Maybe it meant something. Maybe it was just a soldier’s honor—no man left behind.

“Get going,” he said.

Skye gunned the Yukon, and the SUV shot off down the dirt road. Edge moved toward the place designated as a secondary rendezvous point. He sent out a call through his earbuds, but got no reply. Time passed, turned into minutes. He could hear men’s voices as they searched the area, fanning out and moving closer.

He made several more attempts to raise Trace but got no response. He checked his black tactical watch. He’d give Trace another two minutes, then head out in search of him. Worry dripped acid into his stomach. Where was Trace? Had he been wounded? A few seconds later, he heard the hoot of an owl, soft but distinctive.

Edge breathed a sigh of relief as his friend rose up out of the shadows, sniper rifle in hand.

Neither of them spoke, just moved off together into the darkness, heading for their secondary vehicle, the Nissan, a low-slung, welcome black shadow awaiting their arrival.

Trace found a place for his weapon, and they both slid into their seats. Easing quietly down the narrow dirt track with the lights off, Edge picked up a little more speed, stretching the distance between him and their pursuers.

“About that guard . . .” Trace said, his features grim in the faint light coming from the gauges on the dash.

“You kill him?” Edge flicked him a sideways glance as they reached the wider dirt road that led away from the compound to the highway. He made the turn and pressed the accelerator.

“Not unless the shot scared him to death,” Trace said. “Upper chest wound. Should be survivable. I came damn close, though. I would have taken the kill shot if Skye’s sister hadn’t engaged with the bastard the way she did. Damned brave thing to do.”