Friday, October 13, 1933
Northern Wisconsin

Miles Wright pressed his eye to the A5 telescopic sight attached to his Springfield long-range rifle. Instead of being hunkered down in the trenches of Europe or in the humidity of Central America, as he would be if he’d stayed in the Marines, he flattened himself against the rough branch of a monstrous pine one hundred yards from the ruins of a stone house lost amid the forests of northern Wisconsin.

He breathed deeply, the smell of decaying leaves filling his nose even as the action calmed his heart. Dusk had come, but he could still spot the shadows of his four fellow retired soldiers darting from tree to tree toward the stone structure where Lily Moore’s kidnappers likely stashed her. His team was tasked with a simple rescue and had yet to meet any resistance. Miles’s job was to keep it that way.

Tommy Darens, the lone British ex-soldier and their company leader, halted, and the others stood motionless. What had Tommy heard? Miles used his scope to scan the remnants of what could have been a happy home decades ago. Before the Depression. Before the war.

In the small clearing rose a four-foot-tall, hollow square of tightly layered stone—the roof now part of the forest floor that covered the interior with a bed of grass, rock, and saplings. A chimney, still intact, anchored the rear foundation wall.

Nothing moved. No breath of wind to stir the trees overhead. No scamper of chipmunks on the leaves below. No lifting of the rock sitting in Miles’s stomach. Something was wrong.

Darens and the other three men crouched as they quick-marched closer to the house. They had followed a rumor that a woman matching Miss Moore’s description was seen in this part of the forest three days ago. Was she still here?

Miles swept his scope over the deepening shadows. His companions reached the structure as darkness settled like a veil. Moonlight from the three-quarter moon struggled to filter through the heavy canopy. It was too quiet. Too still. As if the nocturnal animals saw what Miles could not.

Like a phantom of the night, Darens raised an arm, halting the men just outside the break in the stone foundation, the place where the front door must have been.

Miles gripped his Springfield. Searching. Searching. Memories of a similar feeling nagged him. The time he nearly got flanked as a green sharpshooter somewhere in the French countryside. Only a misfired shot and quick action saved his life that day. Where was the feeling coming from today?

He searched the area again, darkness deepening by the minute, making it harder and harder to see. Dampness pressed through his dark vest, the buttons digging into his breastbone and his sweat causing the cotton shirt underneath to stick. He never wore a jacket when sniping and always rolled up his shirtsleeves. It didn’t help today, even with the October chill in the air.

He breathed out, slowing his heart. Darnes gave the silent command to move forward, to enter the stone ruins. Miles wanted to yell at them to stop, to wait until he figured out the puzzle. As a sharpshooter, he usually had more time for reconnaissance. What was he missing?

The four men rushed into the space. Miles’s heart pounded against his chest.

One heartbeat.

Two heartbeats.

Three—

The ruins exploded in a blinding column of fire and smoke. Miles covered his head, nearly losing his grip on his rifle as debris flew. Visions assaulted him like a silent picture—men dying beside him as shell after shell ripped through their ranks. And then the picture stilled on two faces. Faces he should have been able to save.

He shook his disoriented senses into submission and looked through his scope, forcing his eyes to see the present, not the past. No movement. Not from his friends. Not from the unseen enemy. Bile pushed up his throat.

Suppressing the panic that was never more than a gunshot away, Miles shouldered his Springfield, snagged his suit jacket, hat, and pack from the branch where he’d stashed them, and scrambled down the tree trunk. Had anyone else heard the explosion? Would they send policemen? The fire brigade? The area had seen its share of forest fires lately. He stuffed his arms into his jacket and planted his hat on his head as he closed the distance between his tree and the old stone structure.

He still saw no movement as he neared the remnants of the house. Leaving his Springfield hanging from his back beside his pack, he snatched his Colt from where he kept it holstered under his left arm. Fire smoldered in the stone rubble, devouring the dry grass and lighting Miles’s path. He picked his way through the blackened brambles and singed saplings.

His gaze snagged on a wire attached to one side of the doorway, snapped where his friends had entered. He followed it to the source of the explosion—the remnants of a booby trap.

He shook his head. Why hadn’t he anticipated a trap?

That’s when he saw Darens and the other three men. His gut roiled at the sight of them. He’d left the army because he couldn’t stomach the violence any longer, but it haunted him even here. It took only a moment to confirm they hadn’t survived the blast. Kneeling beside his team leader’s body, he fought the urge to demand answers of the Almighty, but in truth, only Miles himself was to blame. He closed his eyes. Decay invaded his nose. Ash singed his skin. His lips tasted of salt—from tears or sweat, he didn’t know.

Then, through the stillness, sticks crunched over the soft hissing of the smoldering fires. He had moments before he’d be discovered. If by coppers, they could think him a suspect. If by whoever set off the explosion … policemen would be the least of his worries.

Just as he turned to make his escape, his ear caught a cry. Someone had survived the blast? Could Miss Moore be here and still alive? He followed the sound to the center of the house but saw no one. The footsteps and voices outside the structure grew louder.

“Help me, please!”

The call came from below ground. He stepped back, brushed aside burned brambles, and uncovered a metal plate embedded in the dirt floor. The three-by-three-foot square wasn’t anchored, so he crouched off-center and aimed his Colt at the opening in readiness for what he might encounter. Then, using his free hand, he flipped the hot cover away.

A hole gaped in the dirt. Miles leaned over the edge, gun muzzle first. A woman with the most gorgeous, albeit terrified, green eyes looked up at him. Oval face smudged. Brown hair hanging in a tangled mess about her shoulders. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman so disheveled and yet still so beautiful. He’d found Lily Moore.