Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller) (2 page)

Through her lens, Stephanie watched as the girl flung herself at Rick, who had moved to intercept her. She heard shouts, but the voices came outside her framed shot and she was forced to swing her camera back along the trail where the girl had appeared. She found three men charging up the path; they wore makeshift military uniforms. Each of the men moved quickly, rifles at the ready. Stephanie squeezed off three more shots, then swung back smoothly to Rick and the girl as the shouts grew louder.

As if she were completely separate from events, but only thirty yards away, Stephanie crouched to make herself smaller and continued to shoot. She focused on their security guard who had now raised his weapon. He was yelling in Spanish when a bright plume of red erupted from his chest. Stephanie caught the image as the single shot echoed through the clearing. In her viewfinder, Rick was pushing the girl behind him as the gunmen moved closer. Two more gunshots reached her ears, and she saw Rick’s knees buckle, two crimson stains spreading out from the center of his USGS sweatshirt. The force of the bullets staggered him backward and he fell to the ground.

Oliver moved sideways, reaching for the girl, when a small round hole appeared on his forehead followed by a plume of red mist from the back of his head. Wordlessly, he crumpled to the ground, landing face first in the dirt. Fighting her horror, Stephanie tried to make herself invisible behind the vegetation. Afraid to move, she watched as one of the gunmen grabbed the young girl around the waist and held her there as she flailed helplessly in midair.

Stephanie knew she hadn’t been seen. Carefully, she began to inch backward toward the trees. If she could make it to the heavier foliage, she could disappear into the forest. If she panicked, she knew she’d be killed along with the others. She tried to visualize how far she would have to circle around to make her way back down the mountain for help. She stayed low, backpedaling in the soft dirt toward the trees. She never took her eyes off the armed men as she inched her way toward safety. Stephanie hesitated as she sensed something behind her, more of a feeling than a sound, then she felt cold steel pressing into the tender skin just behind her left ear. She wanted to scream, but no sound came from her throat—it was as if in her final moments she’d been robbed of the ability to speak. She silently pleaded with the gods to let her live—but all she heard was the dry metallic click of a gun being cocked.

Donovan heard the helicopter long before he could see it; the sound echoing off the granite cliffs told him the chopper was coming low and fast. Probably the forest service. Several fires had been touched off by lightning a few days ago and aerial activity had picked up in the valley.

The morning sun had just peeked above the mountain tops in southwest Montana. Donovan was thigh deep in the cold water of the Bitterroot River, working his casts upstream toward an eddy and the big cutthroat trout he’d seen feeding on the surface. He made two false casts and then set the dry fly perfectly so as to drift naturally within striking range of the cutthroat. The fish inhaled the fly and Donovan set the hook and began stripping line to keep the tension. The fish powered downstream, using the current to take back the line that Donovan had fought to win. Forced to move downstream to stay with the fish, he maneuvered past a fallen log when the unmarked helicopter burst from behind the cottonwoods and made a tight turn overhead.

Donovan forgot about the fish, dropped his fly rod, and reached under his left arm for his holstered .40-caliber Sig Sauer. There was no need to jack a shell into the chamber. The gun was always ready. Slowed by his chest waders, Donovan ran up the path toward the cabin. He caught another glance of the helicopter through the treetops. It slowed to nearly a hover, and Donovan was convinced they were landing in the clearing next to his cabin, effectively cutting him off from communications and the
remainder of his arsenal. There was no cell phone reception this far up the West Fork River valley and, in a rare lapse, he’d left his satellite phone in its charger.

The whine from the helicopter’s turbine engine eased back to idle, telling Donovan it was on the ground. From the size of the helicopter there wouldn’t be more than five on board, including the pilot. The Sig held fourteen rounds. Donovan slowed his pace, his rubber-soled wading boots moving him silently toward the intruders. He watched as a solitary man stepped out of the helicopter, seemingly unafraid. He was tall and solid, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. His dark glasses made recognition impossible. Donovan guessed he was in his early thirties, both of his hands were empty, but he could easily be carrying a concealed pistol. In Montana, he would be the exception if he wasn’t. The pilot sat behind the controls and made no move to exit the machine as the engine idled.

“Mr. Nash!” The man called out in the direction of the river. “We saw you as we flew over. I’m a friend of your wife, Dr. Lauren McKenna. She sent me to find you. It’s urgent we talk.”

Donovan surveyed the scene, two men against his fourteen rounds. He’d spent months practicing with the Sig, and was confident that if the interlopers caused any problems, the advantage was his. He lowered the Sig to his side and walked into the clearing. For Lauren to enlist someone to track him down from his self-imposed exile was more than worrisome.

“Who are you?” Donovan called out as he neared, mindful of the spinning rotor blades.

“I’m Special Agent Gregory Charles, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I understand I’m intruding, but please holster your weapon.”

“As soon as I see some ID,” Donovan said, as he closed the distance between them while holding a position that allowed him to keep an eye on both men.

Agent Charles slowly reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his FBI credentials. He handed them to Donovan. “Dr.
McKenna told me to expect this kind of greeting. I know what you’ve been through and, actually, I don’t blame you, but we’re losing valuable time. Can I brief you in the air?”

Donovan handed Agent Charles his ID and slid the Sig back into its holster. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about. Start by telling me how you know my wife.”

“I once did liaison work with the Defense Intelligence Agency. I met Lauren while working with her department on some classified matters. Since then, she’s needed a few favors from inside the Bureau, as you both have. This is another of those favors.”

“What’s her boss’ name?”

“Deputy Director Calvin Reynolds.”

“Okay, why are you here?” Donovan felt his mistrust of the man diminish. He at least knew the right names.

“First of all, I need you to understand I’m not here in any official capacity. Today’s my day off. Lauren called me early this morning. She said she’d chartered a helicopter and asked me to come get you.”

“How did you know where to find me?” Donovan couldn’t drop his suspicions. In the last year he’d almost been killed by a terrorist, and most recently, an enemy from his past had nearly destroyed everything Donovan held dear. People he cared about had died. That’s why he was out here in the wilderness of Montana—he’d needed some perspective.

“Three months ago she alerted me to the fact that you’d rented this place. As a favor, she asked me to keep a general watch on the activity down here in the valley.”

“Sounds like her,” Donovan replied, not knowing whether to be touched by the gesture or pissed off that she was having him watched. “Now, what does my estranged wife think is so important that she’s sent you out here to get me?”

“A Stephanie VanGelder is in Guatemala on a photo shoot. She’s missing. It’s a suspected kidnapping.”

The words sent a sick icy chill straight to the pit of Donovan’s
stomach. He resisted the urge to lean over and put his hands on his knees for support. Stephanie was one of Donovan’s closest friends—she was like family, a younger sister—they’d practically grown up together. She was the niece of William VanGelder, the man who Donovan thought of as his father.

“What can I do to help?” Agent Charles asked. “Do you need assistance to close up the house? We’re flying from here to Missoula. A chartered jet will be waiting to take you to Washington. Your wife has made all the arrangements. She told me to tell you William needs you, but that he doesn’t know you’re coming.”

“Give me five minutes to grab a few things and we’ll be out of here,” Donovan said as he turned and ran for the house. The moment he was inside, he shed his fishing vest followed by his waders. He ran to his bedroom, slipped on a pair of khakis, a clean shirt, a pair of loafers, grabbed the go-bag he kept packed for emergencies and tossed it on the bed. He slid in the framed picture of his daughter Abigail he kept on his nightstand, his Sig, and two extra clips of ammo. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped. He was lean and hard from a summer of chopping wood, fishing, and hiking the Bitterroot Mountains. He was toned and strengthened, and in better shape now than he was at thirty. His full beard was peppered with gray, as was his hair that easily fell past his ears, a by-product of cutting himself off from civilization. A few weeks earlier he’d turned fifty, but the reflection was that of a younger man. He’d shave and get a haircut when he could. He made a mental note to call the real estate agent and have her come and close up the house. He zipped the leather bag, snatched his briefcase, wallet, phone, and keys, then ran for the helicopter.

When the pilot spotted him, the turbine engine immediately began to spool toward full power. The moment the door was closed and he was strapped in his seat, the helicopter lifted off, pivoted smartly, and began to accelerate down the valley.

Donovan wore a headset against the noise of the helicopter.
He stared at the shadow of the helicopter as it raced across the trees, rivers, and hay fields of Southwestern Montana. Lost in the maelstrom of his thoughts, he inevitably spun back in time to when he’d last seen Stephanie. It had been a little over three months ago. They’d been together in the San Juan Islands in Washington State. He’d been there to pay his final respects to a friend, and Stephanie had shown up unannounced and helped him through a difficult time. She ended up staying with him a week. She’d traveled with him to Montana and helped him set up the leased cabin. They’d talked at length about death and transition, his separation from Lauren and the state of his marriage.

They also spent hours discussing her return to professional photography. He’d urged her to pick up her camera again and to get back out in the world. She was a brilliant artist. A decade ago, her photo reporting from Africa, chronicling child soldiers, had put her in the running for a Pulitzer. The fact that she’d been shooting pictures in Guatemala made him feel even worse, as if his nudging had led to her disappearance.

He couldn’t imagine what his longtime friend William must be going through. Stephanie was all that was left of his family and the two were close. He doted on her, as would any uncle.

Donovan thought back to when he first met Stephanie. They were just kids, brought together because his family was close to her Uncle William. She grew up in London, but spent almost all of her summers with William—Donovan remembered her natural grace and athleticism were trumped only by her keen artistic talents. From the time she was ten, she always carried a camera that her Uncle William had bought for her, taking pictures of everything except other people. Her habit of waving him out of her field of view was maddening, and he could remember trying to peek into her shots, only to receive a verbal tongue lashing. In the end, what Donovan most liked about Stephanie was that she could mix and float in and out of any different social setting. A proper upper-crust debutante one moment; the next, yelling and
cursing at him as they chased each other through the trees and meadows on his family’s country estate in Northern Virginia.

When he was fourteen, Donovan had lost his parents at sea. He’d been the only survivor as their private yacht, caught in a storm, began to break up and take on water. It had been William who’d flown halfway around the world to be at his side after he’d been thought lost, and, not long after that, Stephanie had made it clear that she was there for him as well. In those dark days, she once described to him that she felt like they were cousins, and then later revised her position and pronounced that they were more like brother and sister. She was one of the few bright spots in a very difficult time in his life. Donovan loved her and would do anything for her.

She’d been instrumental in getting him to talk about the loss of his parents. William tried, as did many others, but it was Stephanie who got through to him, helped him honor his grief, yet keep pushing forward. Two years later, her own family was killed in an automobile accident on the M4 outside London. It was July, and Stephanie had been with him and William in Virginia when they received the news. The three of them boarded the Concorde, and Donovan remembered the depths of her sorrow and loss as they flew to England faster than the speed of sound.

They each had seen how quickly the universe could snuff out the life of a loved one, and the specter of that violence created an even tighter bond. As time had passed, the one element they always had in common was the fact that they were both identically wounded.

Donovan noticed the change in the sound and speed of the helicopter. The Missoula airport was straight ahead. After Donovan said his good-bye to Agent Charles, he walked across the ramp toward what looked to be a brand new Falcon 900, the airplane that would have him in Northern Virginia in three hours.

He settled into his seat and his thoughts drifted not to Stephanie, but to Meredith Barnes. A woman he’d loved and
lost twenty years ago in Costa Rica. Instead of suppressing the inevitable memories of Meredith, he allowed his guilt, anguish, and rage to wash over him. It was a volatile mixture that threatened to undo him, but it also provided an almost divine focus and clarity of purpose. Meredith was dead and Stephanie was alive. Despite what William, or Lauren, or anyone else thought of his current emotional state—Donovan promised himself that nothing on earth was going to stop him from going to Guatemala. Regardless of the cost, he’d do everything in his power to save her. The clock was ticking, and rescuing Stephanie became as important as if he were trying to save his own life. He’d do whatever it took—even if he died trying.