Appalachian Abduction. Debbie Herbert

       Chapter One

      Only one road climbed Blood Mountain to the exclusive Falling Rock community and its luxury mansions. But Charlotte had no interest in accessing the gated community through the pretty lane lined with oaks and vistas of manicured lawns and gardens.

      No, the backside view of the swanky neighborhood was where she’d find clues to the ugly mystery of Jenny’s whereabouts. And to get to this precious vantage point in the hollow, she’d hiked a good two miles down from neighboring Lavender Mountain. She raised her binoculars and focused on the nearest cabin’s massive wooden deck.

      Nobody milling about there.

      She slanted them to the cabin’s impressive wall of windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jenny—or any other young teenage girl, for that matter. The bastards.

      Still nothing.

      But she wasn’t discouraged. If nothing else, her career as an undercover cop had taught her patience. She waited and, after a few minutes, scanned the row of houses yet again before dropping the binoculars and taking a swig from her water bottle.

      Faint voices rumbled through the air, low, deep and indecipherable. Quickly she raised the binoculars to search for the source. But the field glasses weren’t necessary. Near the base of the cabin, only one hundred yards away, stood two men armed with shotguns and wearing walkie-talkies belted at their waists. Where had they come from?

      Suddenly the muscular guy on the left raised an arm and pointed a pair of binoculars at her.

      Oh, no.

      She’d been spotted, despite the fact that she was dressed in camouflage and had tucked her red hair into an olive ski cap. The man on the right raised a shotgun to his shoulder and scanned the area. Charlotte dropped to the ground on her stomach, praying she was out of sight. Three deep breaths, and she raised her binoculars again. The men had disappeared.

      Strangely, she wasn’t comforted by that realization. They could be creeping their way downhill to find her. Time to get the heck out of Dodge. Charlotte tucked the binoculars and water bottle into her backpack and withdrew her pistol. Not the standard-issue one provided by the Atlanta Police Department—they’d forced her to turn that in—but the personal one she always kept stashed in her nightstand. If they found her, she’d be ready for them. The cool, hard wood snuggled in her right hand provided a surge of comfort, just as it always had on those nights when she’d been home alone and whispers of danger made her imagine some ex-con had discovered where she lived.

      Charlotte eased the backpack onto her shoulders. Cocking her head to the side, she paused, listening for anything out of the ordinary.

      Wind moaned through the trees, and dead leaves gusted in noisy spirals. Then she heard it: a methodical crunching of the forest underbrush that thickly carpeted the ground. At least one of the men was headed her way.

      Damn it.

      She jumped to her feet and ran, heart savagely skittering. Its pounding beat pulsed in her ears, loud as the echo of dynamite. A slug whistled high above her, and bark exploded from near the top of a pine sapling eight feet ahead.

      Did they mean to kill her or merely frighten her off? Because if their aim was the latter, it was working. Charlotte kept running, this time darting behind trees every ten yards or so. No sense providing them with an easy target. The path seemed to stretch on forever, though, and a stitch in her side finally screamed in protest at the brisk pace. Charlotte stumbled behind a wide oak and sucked oxygen into her burning lungs.

      Another shot rent the air, but she couldn’t tell where the bullet landed. Hopefully not anywhere nearby. She pushed off and ran once more. Wind blasted her ears and cheeks, stinging her eyes as she sped down the trail, mentally calculating her best escape. If only she knew how close they were.

      There were three options. One, return to the nearby abandoned cabin and hope they didn’t see her sneak inside. Two, if there was enough time, hightail it to her truck hidden in a copse of trees and take off. The problem with the first two was that her cover might be compromised if she were spotted. The third option was riskier, but it would leave her free to continue her planned surveillance.

      Another shot torpedoed by like an angry hornet, grazing the side of a nearby oak. This shot was much closer. Again, she ran. Gnarled roots gripped her right foot and she fell flat. A pained cry slipped past her lips. She stared down at her twisted knee and the ripped denim on the outside of her right thigh where brambles and rocks had cut deep. Blood oozed and created a widening stain on her pants. Her right temple throbbed and she knew a knot would form on her scalp. Charlotte swallowed hard, pushing back the sudden stab of dizziness that narrowed her vision. No allowing the blessed relief of unconsciousness to take hold. The things men like them could do...she’d seen way too many victims and knew a thousand ways evil people could inflict pain upon another.

      Focus. You can’t let them catch you.

      Option three it was, then. Quickly she ripped off her jacket and pressed it against her wound. Couldn’t let blood drip to the ground and become a trail that would lead the men to her. Not to mention the danger of passing out from blood loss.

      She hissed at the wave of pain that slammed into her knee. It was as if someone had tripped a live wire inside her that burned through her veins and traveled up and down her body. Even her mouth had a metallic, coppery taste. Charlotte spit a mouthful of blood, clamped her teeth shut and crouched low. Plenty of time later to moan and groan. Right now she had to find cover.

      It hurt like hell, but she managed a stumbling trot, forsaking the main path and stumbling through shrubs and bands of trees. Winter was a hell of a time to seek shelter in the Appalachian forest. The plants were practically stripped bare, their only foliage a few withered, stubborn leaves that had not yet broken loose. But there were patches of evergreen shrubs and small pine trees still to be found. She’d checked on that in her earlier recon of the area.

      “Where’d he go?” one of the men shouted from afar.

      The answering voice was much closer. “Lost sight of him.”

      She dove behind a clump of rhododendrons and curled into a tight ball. If they hadn’t seen her, she had a chance. Her breath sawed in and out—to her ears, loud enough to doom any hope of going unnoticed. She crossed her left hand over her thigh and pressed down on the wound to staunch the bleeding. Those damn briars ripped flesh like tiny surgical knives. The pistol was in her right hand, loaded, with the safety off. If they came too close and found her hidey-hole, she might be able to fire at them first.

      They tromped through the area and continued the search. Subtlety wasn’t their strength.

      “You go that way,” one of them shouted, pointing in the opposite direction, “and I’ll head this way.”

      A tide of relief whooshed through her body. One would be easier than two if it came to a showdown.

      Footsteps approached, and she rounded into herself even tighter, not daring to breathe.

      Please don’t stop. Keep walking, she prayed as the nearest man stomped not twenty yards away. He wore black leather boots and dark denims—that much she could see—but she didn’t dare lift her face and examine him further.

      He stumbled on a rock and tumbled forward several steps, managing to catch his balance at the last minute. “Damn it,” he snarled, then yelled, “Anyone out there?”

      Right. Like she was going to raise her hand and pop up like a jack-in-the-box to answer him.

      “If you can hear me, you were trespassing. Stay away from Falling Rock, got it? Hey, Ricky, let’s get back to the house,” he called to his fellow tracker, then walked back toward the main trail.

      Another voice, deeper and more gravelly, spoke. “Probably just a hunter, anyway.”

      “I didn’t see no shotgun on him, but he was wearing camouflage. Scrawny little fella.”

      “Might