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  Snow Blind

  Layne Parrish Book 2

  Jim Heskett

  Contents

  Offer

  Prologue

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Sequel

  A NOTE TO READERS

  Books by Jim Heskett

  About the Author

  Offer

  Want to get the Layne Parrish novella Museum Attack for FREE? It’s not available for sale anywhere. Check out www.jimheskett.com/free for this free, exclusive thriller.

  Prologue

  Terran Carswell blinked a few times, trying to defy the absence of light. The world around him was moving even though he’d been unable to see the motion for several hours. This, he knew. He'd been asleep for some of that time, no doubt. Hard to say how many hours.

  Where he’d come from and where he’d been before this? Too foggy. But, he knew he wasn’t supposed to be here. None of the things he felt or sensed were normal.

  He also knew his hands were bound together at the wrists. He wore no shoes, and his bare feet touched metal. Cold and hard. Sounds came from beyond his current enclosed space. Men speaking, a repetitive whine, along with other strange mechanical sounds. Hard to tell what any of it was. He could only see darkness.

  His nose filled with sour smells, like piss and puke. The stench of sweat enclosed in a tight space.

  More of the world faded in, like emerging from a dream.

  Inside this space, there were other sounds near him. Breathing. Crying. The shuffling of feet and scooting across the metal surface. He wasn’t alone in here, wherever here was.

  Memories came back. Straying from his family while walking around the Plaza Mayor. A pretty Spanish teen had caught his eye, twisting him around to gawk at her backside as she walked away. She looked to be about his same age, maybe a little older. Terran had liked older girls, ever since he’d earned his first kiss at age twelve from a hot fifteen-year-old. That badge of pride had bought him months of respect from his friends.

  Within a few seconds wandering alone on the Plaza, he’d lost sight of his parents. The crowd became a writhing organism, thousands of people cavorting in that public space. He was lost in a sea of tourists in this foreign city of Madrid, and couldn’t find his family. As he spun around, he saw nothing but strangers in every direction.

  Then, hands oozed around his waist. Something sharp poked him in the hip, and he became instantly woozy. The hands then snaked under his armpits, supporting him and leading him away. His head dipped and his eyes shut.

  Then, he’d woken in darkness. Maybe he had stirred a few times before, but he couldn’t be sure. Time blurred and comprehension vanished along with it.

  He’d been kidnapped. Stolen from his family. This awareness came at him like a baseball to the back of his head. His chest seized, and his heart thumped against the inside of his ribcage. He wanted to jump up and flee. His instinct told him to run, now, as fast as possible. But he was still dazed. The world still made little sense.

  Right now, this room—or cage or whatever current space—was shifting, as if on a seesaw. Not in a house or apartment. He was mobile, somehow.

  Outside this structure, something changed. Scrapes along the roof of the current domicile. Like laser beams, shafts of lights poured in from the ceiling. Five or six of them. There were holes in the ceiling, and they’d been covered up with something before. The cover had moved, and now he could see.

  He blinked against the new light a few times. The light spread, defining the interior space. Now, he could finally take stock of the inside of this structure. Corrugated metal, like a shipping container. He was on a boat. That explained the constant shifting and tilting.

  Was he not in Spain anymore? Where were his parents? Had he actually been kidnapped, or was he inside a dream? Too much felt like conjecture inside his foggy head.

  Wake up, Terran. Wake up, right now.

  Other figures inside the shipping container came into focus. Five of them. Three girls and two other boys, all roughly his same age—sixteen—or maybe a little younger. Dirty faces and dirtier clothes. Hands bound, with no shoes and bare feet, just like him.

  All of them had Asian facial features except for one blonde girl. Her eyes were closed as she wordlessly mumbled something to herself. They were all paralyzed, huddled together, shaking with fear. A couple of them sat with eyes fixed forward, tears and snot streaking their faces.

  This was real. This was happening. Terran had been kidnapped, along with a crew of other kids.

  “Do any of you speak English?” he said. His voice came out creaky and half-formed.

  They all looked at him, confused. Then, he remembered where he last had encountered people. In Spain.

  “Español? Français?”

  Again, none of them made any effort to open their mouths. After a few seconds, the blonde girl leaned forward. “I speak little English.” Her accent was something European, maybe Scandinavian. She was pretty, or, she could have been. A black eye marked the right half of her face.

  “Where did they take you?” Terran asked her.

  “We were on holiday in Italy,” she said, her lips jittery and the words coming out in snatches. “I was on beach. I don’t know what…”

  As she trailed off, Terran sat back and thumped his head against the wall of the shipping container, making it clang. On holiday in Italy. They definitely weren’t in Spain anymore.

  This was real. This was happening.

  He thought about his parents. They had to be out of their minds right now. But, Terran wasn’t even sure when right now was. Days? Weeks? How long had they kept him drugged?

  He might never see his parents again. This possibility made his head swim.

  How in the hell would they find him?

  “This can’t be happening,” he said as little needles danced up and down his spine. He feared he might hyperventilate. His head thrummed, and he pictured his dad yanking open the door to the shipping container and rushing in here to rescue him.

  But, that would not happen. Terran’s dad had no idea where he was, and Terran knew this. It was the only truth.

  No one was coming for him. Terran would have to do something on his own. He twisted his wrists, trying to wriggle free of the restraints keeping his hands together. No good. They wouldn’t budge.

  This is up to me.

  All of them jerked violently to the left as the boat came to a sudden stop. The Asian kids all chattered in a language he didn’t understand, but Terran shushed them and closed his eyes to listen. Outside of the shipping container, men were speaking. Their voices rose and fell in pitch and tempo. But, Terran couldn’t make out any of the individual words. English, maybe, but he couldn’t be sure.

  In a few more seconds, footsteps settled outside the shipping container. Something screeched. A lock had been removed.

  The door was about to open.

  Now. Opportunity.

  Terran had to do something, right at this moment. Whoever was out there might have guns or knives. They might open this door to kill them.

  He had to do something. This may be the only chance.

  “Get ready,” he said as he lumbered to his feet. He kept his head low since he couldn’t see how tall the container was.

  Also, his legs were so sore, he had to steady himself by spreading them out. Still woozy. His chest hurt as he pushed and pulled air in and out of his lungs.

  None of the other five captives moved when Terran did. Frozen in place. He surveyed their faces, pleading with his eyes for the others to join him in an escape.

  Not a single one of them left their spots. They only huddled closer as the door gave a hideous, creaking screech, and light spread out along the floor.

  Th
e door opened, enveloping Terran with sunlight so bright he had to shut his eyes against it.

  Move. Go.

  And then, he ran.

  He forced his eyes to open so he could see where he was headed. Two men stood at the lip of the shipping container, both tall, heavyset, and Caucasian. Beyond them existed a blur of daylight in which nothing stood out aside from vague shapes, but Terran didn’t worry about that. He bolted forward with all the strength his tired legs could muster.

  He ran between the two men, slamming his shoulder into one. The other got a hand on Terran’s arm but his fingers slicked off Terran’s sweaty flesh, and so the teen broke free.

  Out into the daylight. A slight breeze, sun beating down. His eyes were slits, blinded by the light. Instant warmth on his arms and feet. The outside world seemed foreign, as if he hadn’t seen it in months.

  Indistinct shapes made up his blurry vision, brown and red and blue. Other shipping containers? Probably. But nothing about their layout made any sense.

  He told himself to run, no matter what.

  Feet shuffled behind him. Terran pushed his legs forward with every bit of strength remaining, but he had no idea where to go. He could smell the salty tang of the ocean and hear birds somewhere off in the distance ahead, but he couldn’t see enough to know which direction was the right one.

  Something had to break in his favor. Just run, and let the rest work itself out.

  “Grab the kid!” shouted one clear voice amid the din, something gruff and low. Other voices joined in the chorus. The ground—or deck, actually—of the boat rumbled beneath his feet as he pressed forward, trying to avoid any near shape in his path. Only seeking open space.

  If the boat was no longer moving, there had to be a dock somewhere, right? There had to be a way to exit this thing and escape to land.

  The rumble of feet intensified as his pursuers closed in on him. Then, a pistol blast rocked the air.

  Terran stumbled, unable to use his bound hands for balance. A moment later, another pistol blast went off, this one closer to him. He could feel the air shift nearby.

  Still, he ran. No matter what.

  The rumbling of the deck stopped as hands latched on to his clothes. They’d come out of nowhere, three or four sets of strong arms all over his torso and legs, tugging, slowing him down.

  Terran kicked, trying to use his tired legs to push off. To where, he didn’t know. Away. Had to get away. He whipped his hands left and right, punching anything that touched him. A scream came from his mouth, meek and desperate and making his throat burn.

  The arms were too strong. His resistance faded as they restrained him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said a voice. “Stop making this difficult, you little shit.”

  A face appeared before him. Terran tried to raise his fists to punch, but he felt his body falling back. No, being pushed back. The boat’s deck rose to meet him, and the air whooshed out of his lungs. His head thunked against the hard surface below. Many hands pinned him down. He pushed his elbows against the deck to gain leverage, but he couldn’t move. Captive again.

  Terran yelped and twisted, trying to wrestle free.

  That fat face appeared again, hovering above. Terran could make out more definition in the man’s face than he had before, only a few seconds ago. The man had Asian features and a toothy grin, with eyes like two blue marbles floating in space.

  And menace. As blurry as everything was, Terran could see the menace in the man’s gaze. He loomed close, only inches away. Fish stink on his breath.

  “You’re property, kid. Time to get used to it.”

  The arms dragged Terran back, kicking and screaming, and then slammed him into the shipping container.

  The door creaked shut, screeching as it locked.

  Back into darkness.

  Part I

  Vegan, Nut-Free Muffins

  1

  Layne Parrish slid his fingertips along the wooden ax handle. He appreciated the fine craftsmanship, the quality of the wood, and the razor-sharp edge of the blade.

  “You like it?” asked the receptionist at the lodge’s check-in desk.

  “What?” Layne said, angling his body toward her. As he did, he lowered his hand, since touching the ax had made the sleeve of his hoodie ride up, exposing the web of tattoos on one of his arms. Not that he expressly needed to hide his ink from this woman, but he liked to keep a low profile. During his pre-retirement jobs, Layne had to spend time cataloging what each contact knew or had seen. Too much work.

  Lots of work, yes, but also danger. In a situation like this, when anyone and everyone could be a suspect, care had to be exercised at all times. Letting the guard down for an instant could result in a grave mistake. Mistakes meant the targets would flee without accountability.

  Layne would not let them get away this time.

  “Sorry,” the receptionist said, her face folding like a bashful animal. “I saw you examining the ax, Mr. Priest. It was a gift from a member of the Coast Salish tribe in Vancouver. Their people used to live all up and down these mountains.”

  “Gotcha,” he said as he crossed the lodge’s room. Like a log cabin, the interior was stacked wood deeply stained brown, adorned with other similar objects hanging on the walls. Sets of old-timey snowshoes and long-necked rifles. Sepia-toned photographs in thin frames.

  He paused in front of a wolf’s head, mounted on the wall. The furry beast was in mid-growl, porcelain teeth tinged with yellow. “Is this real?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the receptionist said. “But he wasn’t hunted or anything of that sort. That wolf was a former resident of this area of the mountain. Some of them live in caves nearby, and we happened upon a recently deceased one at exactly the right time.”

  “Interesting.”

  Layne stepped to her desk, and she returned his passport, the American passport featuring his picture, but the name Leonard Priest.

  “There are still plenty of wolves wandering around, in case you decide to go for a hike. Many of them are not afraid of humans one bit.”

  “Noted.”

  “Have you been to Squamish Mountain Retreat Center before, Mr. Priest?”

  “Please, call me Leonard, or Lenny,” Layne said to the young woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight, her eyebrows arched. “And no, I haven’t. This is our first time in the area.”

  “Excellent, Leonard. There will be a formal orientation tomorrow morning, but feel free to grab any of the staff at any time, or call the lodge from your room. It’s a free and open sort of environment here.”

  He flipped through a guest book sitting on the counter. No one had signed it recently, but he made a few mental notes about things previous guests had marked. They talked about the sunsets and the hiking trails and all the typical tourist things. Since it was now in the dead of winter, Layne didn’t anticipate getting out on the hiking trails too much.

  “I appreciate the hospitality.”

  “I hope you’ll find the ‘new you’ you’ve been seeking. Everyone gets something unique from the SMRC and their stay here.”

  Layne accepted the two keycards for the bungalow and slid them into his pocket. “I’m counting on it.”

  Behind the woman’s head hung a set of crisscrossing pistols. Revolvers, at least a hundred years old. They reminded him of the Colt Peacemaker he sometimes carried.

  Layne pointed at them. “Those Mountie pieces?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Donated to us by the Squamish Royal Canadian Mounted Police Sergeant himself. We have an excellent relationship with the town, and we consider ourselves to be something of a point of pride.”

  “Do you receive a lot of donated gifts from the RCMP?”

  “Absolutely. We’re the most respected wellness retreat center on the west coast.” She passed a credit card slip.

  “Hmm,” Layne said as he signed the name Leonard Priest on the receipt. He tried to keep his eyes from bugging out at the cost of
his stay. “Good to know.”

  “I do hope you enjoy yourself over the next week. You’ll find your itinerary in a folder in your bungalow. Nothing else is on the plan for today, so settle in and relax. Visit the cafeteria and try out some Elephant Ear.”

  He cocked his head, and she giggled. “It’s not really elephant,” she said. “It’s a dessert.”

  “I see.”

  “One other note: there’s no WiFi, which is by design. We hope you’ll use this as an opportunity to detach from technology. Let you find you.”

  Layne tapped the desk a couple times and smiled at her, to which she gave a bashful duck of the head. He wasn’t trying to be flirty because she looked young enough to be his kid.

  Then he turned and sauntered out of the reception lodge. Outside, a blast of cold air whipped his face, and he marched out into snow nearly four inches deep along the wooden porch surrounding the lodge. It was coming down too fast for them to shovel and salt all the walkways between the log cabins and bungalows. Record snowfall already this winter, apparently.

  And, more snow on the way, according to the seven-day weather report Layne had seen this morning. He didn’t mind the cold and the relentless flakes of white since he himself lived in a snow-drenched town in Southwestern Colorado. But, if inclement weather forced the retreat guests to hide in their bungalows, that could cause a problem. This week was about mixing with people, to find the ones who weren’t who they said they were.

  Layne possessed a key to a bungalow for seven nights, but he hoped what he needed to accomplish here wouldn’t take nearly that long. He didn’t want to be here at all, actually. But, it had to be done. And he didn’t trust anyone else to do it. Once it was over with, he could go back to his normal life and put a few other things behind him, as well.