Cold Pursuit by Carla Neggers Page B

“Elijah’s on the falls trail. Go ahead. Try to catch up with him if you want.”
    “You figure you’ve bought him enough time.”
    “No, Jo.” He gave her a small grin. “I figure Elijah can handle you.”
    “Before I leave here today, A.J., you and your brother are going to level with me about what’s going on.”
    “Don’t get lost.”
    Jo left through the front entrance. The wind went right through her fleece jacket, and she almost reconsidered the pie, the book and the fire. Hunching her shoulders against the cold, she walked over to the edge of the road. The lodge trails were part of a network of recreational trails on state, federal and private land. Nora Asher could go for miles—days—if she wanted to. She’d started out a few hours ago. Who knew where she could be now?
    Cameron Mountain rose up above the open fields across the quiet road. Jo hadn’t spent much time up here in recent years—and she’d repressed a lot of memories, since most of them involved Elijah.
    She heard laughter behind her and turned, seeing Lauren, A.J.’s wife of five years, who was businesslike but not as flinty as her husband, and their four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter. The little ones were running in circles on the grass, the wind catching the ends of their blond hair, their cheeks rosy red as they squealed in delight.
    They made an abrupt ninety-degree turn and bolted back toward the lodge. In an instant, Jo saw why, as A.J. walked out and scooped up his children.
    She felt a tug of emotion she didn’t expect.
    “I wake up on cold mornings and see the grandchildren you and Elijah should have had…”
    Jo got out of there, quickly crossing the road, making her way onto a beaten-down grass path that would take her through the field and out to the falls trail. She wasn’t equipped for a full-fledged hike in the mountains, but she’d do her best to pick up Elijah’s trail.
     
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
     
    Ryan “Grit” Taylor stood in front of the hotel where Alexander Bruni had met his end six hours ago. Cabs, limos, delivery trucks and regular cars packed the street now, but Grit knew the cops hadn’t all disappeared once they’d released the scene. He didn’t see them, but there was no question they were there. The D.C. police, the FBI, maybe even a Diplomatic Security Service or Secret Service agent or two.
    An ambassador getting run down on a Washington street was a big deal.
    Television reporters had set up a little ways past the revolving doors for live shots and were on the lookout for anyone who’d been there that morning.
    Bruni had been run over on a bad spot on a bad street. Grit had been out there for ten minutes, and with the traffic, the distracted tourists, he decided it was not out of the realm of possibility for Bruni to have been hit by accident. A busy man with a lot on his mind crosses the street without looking, and—that’s it. He’s done.
    Leaving the scene was another matter. That didn’t look good.
    Moose Ferrerra, a fellow Navy SEAL, materialized next to Grit.
“The Grim Reaper comes for you fast or slow. Either way, he always wins.”
    “I know, Moose,” Grit said. “I know.”
    Moose didn’t respond. He looked the same as he had thirteen years ago on his first day of SEAL training. Fresh, young, eager, cocky. Nothing like he had in April when the Grim Reaper had swooped down on their position in eastern Afghanistan.
    A hellish mountain pass, newly opened after the harsh winter. A helicopter with mechanical trouble. Heavily armed, pissed-off bad guys.
    Not a great combo.
    Grit and Moose and the rest of their SEAL team had joined up with a Special Forces unit to take out a series of enemy weapons caches. Everything went fine until the SEAL exfiltration. The Green Berets stayed behind to protect friendly local villagers, who’d helped pinpoint the caches, from retaliation and continue their work.
    The helicopter ran into problems almost immediately and was forced