A Navy SEAL watched a man push his wheelchair-bound wife off a ridge, then risked everything to save her—but the husband returned with a chilling performance...

The sirens did not sound like salvation. To Nora, huddled under the rock ledge, they sounded like the tolling of a bell.

Through the veil of dripping brambles, Cole watched the high ridge through a pair of compact tactical binoculars. Red and blue strobes painted the underbelly of the clouds above the tree line. At least four vehicles had arrived: two county sheriff cruisers, an ambulance, and a volunteer fire department rescue truck.

He adjusted the focus. Marcus was standing in the center of the flashing lights. He had collapsed against the hood of a cruiser, his face buried in his hands while a female deputy rubbed his back.

Then Cole saw something that made the hair on his arms rise.

Behind the emergency vehicles, a second civilian vehicle pulled up. A matte-black Dodge Ram with tinted windows and an extended cab. Two men stepped out. They weren't wearing first-responder uniforms. They wore tactical hiking pants, waterproof shells, and baseball caps pulled low. They didn't speak to the deputies.

Marcus separated himself from the female deputy, walked over to the men under the pretense of borrowing a flashlight, and engaged them in a brief, hushed conversation. Marcus pointed his finger not toward the overlook where he claimed she fell, but directly down toward the secondary drainage basin—the very path Cole was taking.

"He brought his own team," Cole murmured, lowering the optics.

Nora looked up from the bivvy sack. "What?"

"Two men just arrived in a private truck. Marcus just gave them coordinates. He knows the sheriff's department will stick to the standard search grid near the overlook. He’s sending those two down the flanks to find you first."

"Who are they?" panic bled into Nora's voice.

"Contractors. Fixers. Whoever they are, they aren't here to offer first aid." Cole knelt, checking the straps on Nora’s litter. "We can't stay under this shelf. If they have thermal optics, this undercut will stand out like an oven against the cold rock."

Cole unstrapped his sidearm—a customized SIG Sauer P226—checked the chamber, and reholstered it. He clipped a suppressed combat knife to his vest.

"Ranger," Cole whispered.