Going Gone Read Free Page A

extreme cold had been as successful as cauterization, and what blood there was had soaked into her black slacks unnoticed, and then into her shoe.
    She fumbled around in the first-aid kit for the bottle of disinfectant and poured it into the gash. The burn was intense, but it was better than getting infection and having gangrene set in. Once the burn began to fade, she got a couple more pain pills and chewed them up, then washed them down with another sip of water.
    Her belly growled, but putting food in her mouth was more than she could handle. She crawled back into her bed and began to pray. She didn’t want to die, but unless a miracle occurred, it would happen.
    When she closed her eyes, she thought of Cameron. He belonged to the FBI. They found bad guys who murdered people, and good people who were kidnapped. Surely they could find this plane.
    “Please, find me,” she whispered as she started to shake.
    She pulled the covers up over her head.
    The wolves were still circling. She could hear their whining and digging, and every so often the sounds of a quarrel as one trespassed on another’s space. The first time she heard one on top of the fuselage, she realized they were getting braver. Would this nightmare never end?
    * * *
    Once Cameron had given the director a quick explanation of what had happened, he headed home. After packing for cold weather, he caught a ride on a government jet flying a team of forensic specialists to the West Coast after the pilot agreed to drop him in Denver on the way. After takeoff, there was nothing to distract him from the fact that the woman he loved might be dead. The passengers he was traveling with were otherwise occupied, which suited him fine. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
    It was late afternoon and only hours away from nightfall when they landed. He had a text from the assistant director giving him the location of where search and rescue had set up, and after renting a car, he wasted no time getting there.
    The search-and-rescue station was in a small community center in a suburb on the outskirts of Denver. When he pulled up and began looking for a place to park, a local police officer flagged him down.
    “I’m sorry, sir. This area is closed to the public.”
    Cameron flashed his badge. “Special Agent Winger, FBI. Who’s in charge here?”
    The officer immediately relaxed.
    “That would be Lieutenant Clark. You can park in that lot just ahead. The lieutenant should be in that long building behind it.”
    “Thank you,” Cameron said, and a few moments later he parked and killed the engine.
    The sudden silence inside the vehicle made him shudder. Then his phone rang. It was his friend and fellow agent Tate Benton.
    “Hello.”
    “Cameron...I just heard about Laura. Do you know anything yet? Have they located the plane?”
    “I don’t know. I just arrived at the main search-and-rescue site.”
    “Is there anything the rest of us can do?” Tate asked.
    It was the sympathy in his friend’s voice that did him in. Breath caught in the back of Cameron’s throat as he swallowed a couple of times to keep from crying.
    “I’ve got to go,” he said quickly. “If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”
    “Will do,” Tate said.
    Cameron pocketed his phone and got out. He had a large duffel bag over one shoulder and a hiker’s backpack on the other as he headed for the building.
    Inside, the place was a hive of activity. Maps of the mountainous area around Denver were taped to the walls and marked up with search grids. Radio communication was at the other end of the room, and, from the static and squawks of intermittent traffic, it was obvious that they were already in search mode.
    He stopped a young woman hurrying past him.
    “Is Lieutenant Clark in here?”
    She pointed at a tall, stoop-shouldered man with graying hair near the com center.
    “That’s him on the phone.”
    “Thank you,” Cameron said, dropped his gear against a wall and quickly moved