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  “Lars, we have company!”

  “I thought you said the roads were empty.”

  “They’re coming in with their lights off. There are at least two of them. West road. I’d give us three minutes, tops.”

  “Get your ass down here! Now!”

  WES FLEW ALONG THE SECOND-FLOOR BREEZEWAY and dove through the door into the stairwell. Taking the steps three at a time, he hit the first-floor door twenty seconds after he’d hung up the phone.

  “Lars?” he called out.

  The five office doors of the first floor were all closed. He moved quickly from one to another, trying each. The fourth knob he turned was unlocked.

  “Lars,” he said, sticking his head inside. “They’ll be here any second. We need to go!”

  His friend was across the room, standing next to a printer.

  “Two more sheets,” he said. “Go wait in the truck.”

  “Just leave them.”

  “I can’t. This is the only thing that will keep us alive.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Lars didn’t answer, so Wes pushed out of the doorway and raced to the end of the building. He peeked around the edge. From this angle he could see where the road that ran between the buildings intersected with the road the cars were on. As of yet, it was clear.

  Hearing a door close behind him, he looked back. Lars was heading toward the truck, several sheets of paper in his hand.

  Wes checked the intersection again. It was no longer empty.

  “We’re not going to make it,” he yelled, running to join his friend. “They’ll be here in just a couple of seconds.”

  “Here.” Lars shoved the papers into Wes’s hand. “Hide somewhere. I’ll distract them.”

  “What?”

  “You said yourself we’re not going to make it. If they find you here, we both go to jail. If it’s just me, I’ll get a hand slap. When we’re all gone, walk back, and find a way off the base without being seen. Can you do that?”

  Wes was scared to death, but he nodded.

  They could now hear engines approaching.

  Wes started to turn away, but Lars grabbed him. “Wait.” He snatched back one of the papers, pulled out a pen, and scribbled on the back of the sheet. “That’s the key,” he said, shoving it at Wes. “Now go! Hide!”

  Wes turned and ran straight into the desert.

  About one hundred feet out, he found a shallow ravine cut by an ancient flash flood. It was just deep enough for him to lie flat below the prevailing ground level. Once prone, he tilted his head up and looked back at the buildings.

  Lars was in the truck and had started it up. But he only went a dozen feet before a dark sedan darted out from around the corner of the building and skidded to a stop half a car length in front of him.

  Brake lights flashed, and the truck slammed to a stop. Just then a second car swung around the back of the building and cut off any potential retreat. Two more cars soon joined the first near the front, then, almost as one, doors flew open, and over a dozen armed men rushed out, their weapons pointed directly at the truck.

  This is not going to be just a slap on the hand.

  Wes heard sharp, raised voices, but couldn’t make out the words. Then the driver’s door of the truck opened, and Lars stepped out, his arms above his head.

  “On your knees!” a single voice barked, just loud enough for Wes to hear.

  Lars immediately complied.

  The men surrounding him began closing in, their weapons still drawn. When they were within ten feet, two of the men behind Lars rushed forward. They grabbed Lars’s arms and shoved them down. One of the men pulled something out of a pocket and secured Lars’s hands, then they yanked him to his feet.

  More voices as most of the guns were lowered. One man walked up until he was standing just a few feet in front of Lars. Even at this distance, Wes recognized Lieutenant Jenks.

  After about a minute, Jenks looked back at the other men. As one, the remaining guns that had not been stowed were lowered. More talk, and then Lars was led to one of the sedans. Jenks opened the rear door and guided Lars’s head as he climbed in, then Jenks got in after him. Two others got into the front. The doors were barely shut when the sedan made a quick U-turn and sped off the way it had come.

  Wes watched the twelve remaining men, willing them to get into their cars and leave, too. But instead, they gathered together. When they finally split, two went over to Lars’s truck and began searching through the cab. Six others headed to the first-floor breezeway of the building, disappearing from view. And while the final four men got into a sedan, instead of leaving, they began driving between the buildings, stopping every once in a while to shine a handheld searchlight at one of the structures.

  After several minutes the car disappeared behind the buildings on the far side of the road. Just when Wes was beginning to think maybe it had driven off, headlights swept out from around the end of the building to Wes’s left.

  The sedan now drove slowly along the edge of the raw desert, the spotlight beam pointing into the wilderness as the vehicle drew closer and closer to Wes’s position.

  Run! The word reverberated in his head. But he held his position, knowing that if he did take off, there was no question he’d be spotted.

  The sound of an engine roaring to life caused Wes to look back toward the buildings. It was Lars’s truck. The headlights were on, and the two men who had been searching it were sitting inside. Someone trotted out of the building and over to the truck, the headlight temporarily lighting him up.

  Wasserman.

  He leaned in the open window for several seconds, then turned back to the building as the truck drove away.

  Wes cursed silently. There had been a small part of him hoping they would leave the truck behind. He’d been toying with the idea of using it to get out of there.

  He looked back at the sedan with the spotlight. It was almost parallel to his position now.

  Again the urge to flee nearly overwhelmed him. But he resisted. He wasn’t simply trespassing on private property. This was a military base. If he ran, there wouldn’t be a shout ordering him to stop. The only shout would be from the gun firing the bullet aimed at his back.

  When the spotlight touched the bushes only a few feet to his left, Wes tucked his head down as far as he could, burying his face in the dirt.

  Five seconds passed. Then ten.

  With each breath, he felt like he was inhaling more dust than air. But he didn’t move, not even a fraction of an inch. He waited for the sound of car doors opening, then shouting and weapons being drawn, but the only thing he heard was his own heartbeat.

  Finally, when he was sure he should have already been spotted, he twisted his head to the right and opened an eye. His view of the world was limited to sky and the edge of the shallow ravine. But it was all dark.

  He listened intently, trying to pick out the sound of the sedan. After a moment, he heard the tires passing over dirt, faint and getting fainter.

  The relief that coursed through him was tempered by the knowledge he wasn’t out of trouble yet. He held his position, and counted off the minutes in his head, telling himself he’d take another look when he reached ten. Then when he did, he made himself take another five just to be safe.

  Once that had passed, he carefully raised himself up so that he could see above the crest of the depression.

  Unbroken night on all sides.

  He focused on the buildings. Both the sedan that had been circling with the spotlight and the ones that had still been parked were gone.

  He did a full scan, examining every inch in case this was some kind of trick.

  No one.

  He was alone.

  IN MANY WAYS, THE JOURNEY TO GET OFF THE base was more nerve-racking than lying in the ditch waiting to be caught. Keeping at least twenty feet off the road, Wes paralleled the route the sedans had arrived on, hoping that if he suddenly needed to hide, he could do so without being seen
.

  He had determined his location first by spotting the distant shadowy line of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west, then by the much closer form of B Mountain—so called because of the white B painted on the front each year by the Burroughs High School senior class—just to the north.

  The quickest way to the fence would have been to take a hard left to the south, toward the highway to Trona, where he could probably hitch a ride. But going in that direction would have meant crossing a couple of miles of untouched desert. Not necessarily an attractive option.

  If he went west, though, he would not only be heading in the direction of the motel, but also toward a portion of the fence where he felt confident he could find an easy place to get over.

  So onward he hiked, ever mindful of any light he saw or sound he heard.

  An hour later, he reached the road that led up to where his house used to stand. It was on this very strip of asphalt that he’d first gotten behind the wheel of a car. It had been his mom’s 1975 VW van. Red bottom, white top, with a stick shift longer than his arm. He’d stalled twice, but eventually got it to the top of the incline.

  Now he ascended it on foot, then crossed into the area that had once been the neighborhood he’d grown up in. Just that afternoon he’d looked at it from the other side of the fence, but now he was actually standing on the same streets where he’d played.

  Angling southwest, he headed toward the fence that separated the area from the high school. Teens had been hopping that particular section since before Wes was born. That meant there’d be at least one spot along the expanse that could easily be scaled.

  It wasn’t until he’d already passed it that he realized he’d walked right through the space where his family’s home had been. But as he turned back to look, what caught his attention wasn’t the structural ghost from his childhood, but two sets of headlights moving quickly up the hill, one right after the other.

  “Dammit.” He started running.

  He had to assume he’d been seen. The problem was there was absolutely nowhere to hide in his old neighborhood. His only hope lay with the high school on the other side of the fence.

  There was no time to hunt for the easiest section, so Wes headed straight for the expanse closest to him. When he was three feet away, he leapt, his hands reaching for the support rail that ran across the top. As soon as he clamped on, he pulled himself up and over. But while he might now be on the town side of the fence, he was still in plain sight.

  Wes ran, his eyes desperately searching for a place to hide. The closest structure was the school administration building, but he wouldn’t be able to reach it without being seen first. He glanced left and right, trying to locate an alternative.

  There! he thought, angling slightly to the left.

  His target was a six-toot-high red cinder-block wall with the words SHERMAN E. BURROUGHS HIGH SCHOOL on the front.

  He sprinted flat out, skidding around the wall just as the first set of headlights crested the hill.

  He peered around the edge of his hiding place and watched the cars race into his old housing tract. Almost immediately spotlight beams shot out from the windows and began panning across the empty land. One of the cars came near the section of the fence Wes had gone over, but its light never turned toward the high school.

  The cars then headed toward Hubbard Circle on the other side of Knox Road. Once they’d moved off, Wes made a dash for the admin building, then moved deeper into the school. By the time he reached the student parking lot near the lecture center, the cars on the base were gone.

  He allowed himself a moment to lean against the building and catch his breath. As he did he felt a stinging sensation along his ribs on his right side. He reached down and found an inch-long, upside-down L-shaped tear in his T-shirt. Underneath, his skin was sticky with blood. It must have happened when he’d hopped the fence.

  He winced as he probed the wound. He didn’t think it needed stitches, but it did need to be cleaned as soon as possible. Scratched arm, singed wrist, cut on his rib cage, and no doubt bruises everywhere else from the ride in the back of Lars’s truck—there was nothing like coming home.

  WES FINALLY REACHED THE DESERT ROSE MOTEL at nearly 2 a.m., a sorry mix of pain and exhaustion. He carefully opened the door to his room so as to not wake Anna, but he needn’t have been so cautious. She wasn’t there. She’d apparently gotten tired of waiting for him and gone back to her own room. He thought about letting her know he was back, but he was just too exhausted. She’d be mad at him in the morning, but he convinced himself it was better to just let her sleep.

  He took four Advils, then forced himself into the shower and washed out his wound. The gash was as unattractive as it was painful, but his initial instincts had been correct—he wasn’t going to need any stitches.

  Once he was finished with the shower, he found a couple of Band-Aids in his shaving kit and slapped them over the wound—inadequate at best, but better than nothing—then stretched out on the bed with the papers Lars had shoved in his hand. The last thing he remembered was looking at the top sheet and trying to make sense of the words. Sleep had other ideas.

  AT 7 A.M. WES WOKE IN THE SAME POSITION HE’D fallen asleep in. The papers were in a pile on the bed next to his outstretched hand. He picked them up and shoved them partly under the pile of clothes that were still on the dresser, then trudged into the bathroom.

  He skipped a shower and just splashed some water on his face to wake up. He then dressed, threw a Padres baseball cap over his head, and headed out. By the time he got to the SUVs, Dione, Danny, and Monroe were already there.

  “What happened?” Dione asked. “You guys have a party last night?”

  “Not that I know of,” Wes said.

  “Then where the hell is everyone?”

  “So glad you’re back, Dione.”

  “Please tell me that PA guy is bringing coffee,” Monroe rasped.

  If anyone looked like they’d been at a party the night before, it was Monroe. She was wearing dark shades, and had the energy of a piece of petrified wood. Wes, remembering how well she’d bounced back after the night of tequila shots, wondered what she could have done over the weekend to cause her current condition.

  Dione took a few steps away from the cars and motioned for Wes to follow her. “Did you read Tony the riot act?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet,” Wes said. “I was out last night.”

  “Great. So I have to do it.” She frowned, then looked down at the clipboard with her schedule and other information.

  Wes winced, remembering the papers Lars had given him.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Left something in my room.” He looked around. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Check on the others while you’re over there,” Dione said. “Tell them to move it.”

  “Sure.”

  Wes headed across the parking lot, but he’d barely reached the walkway when Alison came racing out of the courtyard passageway.

  She immediately spotted him and ran over. “He’s not back,” she said.

  “Tony?” Wes said. “I thought—”

  “He still hasn’t come back.”

  She put a hand on Wes’s arm and started pulling him toward the passageway.

  “I was awake until one, and then up again at six,” she told him, her voice panicked. “I’ve already knocked on his door a dozen times.”

  Wes stopped her. “Get the manager. I’ll try the door.”

  Alison nodded, then headed toward the motel office as Wes ran in the other direction. The first thing he did when he reached Tony’s door was try the knob. As expected, it was locked.

  “Tony!” he yelled, pounding on the door. “Tony!”

  As he started to yell a third time, Dione came jogging around the corner.

  “I saw Alison and she just pointed in this direction,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Tony’s not back,” Wes said. He pounded again. “Tony!”r />
  Just then Alison and Harold Barber, the manager who had given Anna her new room, showed up. Unlike the manager from the day before, Barber immediately stuck the master keycard in the slot and pushed the door open.

  Everything in the room was exactly as it had been when they’d checked on Sunday.

  “Oh, God,” Alison said.

  Wes ran to the phone on the nightstand and called 911.

  TWO SQUAD CARS SPED INTO THE PARKING LOT, lights blazing but sirens off. As soon as he saw them, Wes stepped out from between the cars and waved them down.

  “What the hell are the police doing here?” Monroe asked.

  “Tony’s missing,” Dione said. “All his stuff is here and he’s not. Something happened to him.”

  “Oh,” seemed to be all Monroe could muster.

  The two police cars pulled to a stop, and the officers got out—one from the lead car and two from the trailing. Wes walked quickly over.

  “Are you the one who placed the call?” the lead officer asked. His nametag read “Rockwell.”

  “Yes,” Wes said.

  “I understand someone’s missing?”

  “Our PA.”

  The officer’s brow furrowed. “PA?”

  “Production assistant,” Wes explained. “We’re working on a TV show.”

  Rockwell nodded. “What’s the missing person’s name?”

  Wes spent two minutes giving him details.

  Once he was finished, Rockwell said, “Can you show us where his room is?”

  “Of course.”

  Wes and Alison led the officers to the room. Barber was still there, standing guard at the door. At Rockwell’s direction, he opened it again. The officer and his two colleagues stepped over the threshold and looked in.

  “Have any of you been inside?” Rockwell asked.

  “A couple of us,” Wes said. “Seeing if he was here.”

  “Anyone touch anything?”

  “Only me. I used the phone to call you.”

  “Okay. We need to secure the scene until the detectives and the techs get here. Stay around, though. They’re going to want to talk to you.”