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Stormtower Mountain—”
    “For me?”
    “Well,” she said, “the message he left says a man would be coming to meet with him, and we were to tell him where he’d gone.”
    “I see.”
    “It says here he’s climbing Stormtower by the Sawmill Trail, expects to be back by six.”
    “How long is the climb?”
    “About two hours each way.” She looked at him with a smile, her eyes running up and down his physique. “For you, probably less.”
    Dajkovic checked the time. Two o’clock. “He must have just left.”
    “Yes. The message was left at the front desk…just twenty minutes ago.”
    “Do you have a map of the mountain?”
    “Of course.”
    She produced a map—an excellent topographic one, with the trails clearly marked. Dajkovic took it back to his car and climbed in. The Sawmill trailhead was down the road, and the map showed it to be a winding path going up the ridge of the mountain, apparently following an old fire road.
    It was entirely possible Crew had left the directions so his contact could find him. Yet it seemed unlikely. No one involved in espionage would be so ham-handed as to leave such a trail. Yes, it seemed more likely that this was a trap. Not a trap for him, specifically, but for anyone who might be pursuing Crew. And if so, then Crew would be on the mountain—waiting along the Sawmill Trail to ambush anyone coming up behind him.
    He examined the map. A much quicker, more direct way to the summit led straight up the main ski lift cut, on the back side of the mountain.
    Driving through the resort and past the golf course, Dajkovic came to the parking lot for the ski area. He got out and opened the trunk, removing a gun case. Back inside the car, he unlocked the case and removed an M1911 Colt and a shoulder holster, donned the holster, tucked the loaded weapon into it, and pulled on a windbreaker. A fixed-blade knife went into his belt and a smaller one into his boot, and a Beretta .22 was slipped in his trouser pocket. Into a small backpack he threw some extra ammunition, binoculars, and two bottles of water.
    Once again he examined the map. If Crew was planning an ambush, there were a couple of obvious places for it where the Sawmill Trail passed through an area of exposed knobs.
    As he stared at the map, he became convinced this was where the ambush would take place.

9
    D ajkovic started up the ski lift cut, moving fast. It was half a mile to the top, and unrelievedly steep, but he was in peak physical condition and could make it in ten minutes; then, cresting the mountain, he would head down the Sawmill Trail, bushwhack to the summit of a secondary peak he’d identified on the map, an ideal place from which to surveil the area of exposed knobs, locate the ambusher—and then ambush him.
    Five minutes later, halfway up the slope, a maintenance hut for the ski lift, shuttered for the summer, came into view. Dajkovic churned up the slope, detouring around it. As he moved past the hut he heard a tremendous boom! and suddenly felt a violent blow to his upper back—which, with his upward momentum, pitched him forward onto the slope and knocked the wind from him.
    As he struggled for his .45, fighting the pain in his back and gasping for breath, he felt a boot press down on his neck and the warm snout of a weapon touch his head.
    “Hands spread-eagled, please.”
    He stopped, his mind racing, trying to think through the pain. Slowly he spread his hands.
    “I knocked you down with a load of rubber,” came the voice, “but the rest are double-ought buck.”
    The barrel remained on the back of his head while the person—he had no doubt it was Crew—searched him, removing the .45 and the .22 and the knife in his belt. He did not find the knife in Dajkovic’s boot.
    “Roll over, keeping your hands in sight.”
    With a wince, Dajkovic rolled over onto the dirt of the trail. He found himself facing a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties, with straight black hair, a long nose, and intense,