What if we don't?

But Sophia couldn't bring herself to ask him that as they headed up to Tess's room, to watch the miracle of the computer tracking system at work.

"Thank you so much," Tracy said as the car pulled into the store parking lot.

"Now, it's the nine-thirty bus to Concord that you want," the man reminded her. "Not Lewiston or Burlington."

"Got it," she said. There was a pay phone on the wall out front, thank goodness. The trip back to civilization-if this run-down, dimly lit, squat little store in the middle of nowhere could qualify as such-had taken far longer than she'd expected.

Of course, with Crazy God-Man behind the wheel, it was a wonder they'd ever gotten here at all. He'd delivered bags of food to what he called "neighbors in need," ringing their doorbells and running away-giggling like some prank-playing teenager-before they saw him or his car. They'd made twenty different stops since he'd picked her up. That wasn't what made their trip so relentlessly endless, though. No, it was the praying over each bag that took the most time.

Tracy's suggestion that they simply say one big prayer over all the bags at once had not been well received.

Now he frowned at the store, which, according to the signage, was also a FedEx pickup point, a Dunkin' Donuts, a convenience store, and a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. "Place looks like it's closing. I wonder if Stephen's having septic system troubles again. Last time he was shut down tight for days."

There was another car in the lot, and she could see at least one person inside through the window.

"I'm sure it's open. These places are always open," Tracy said. It was time to go-before he decided to pray for her. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. "Is there...?"

He hit a button, and it still wouldn't unlatch. "Oopsie. I always push it the wrong way." He giggled.

Mere fractions of a second before full panic hit, there was a click and Tracy was able to open the door. Trying not to appear too freaked, she jumped out. "Thanks again."

With a wave and a honk, he went on his merry way.

Tracy turned, heading for the phone, and nearly ran right into the man she'd seen through the store window. "Oh, my God," she said.

Up close like that, her first thought was that he was Izzy-that he'd somehow followed her here. But he wasn't. He may have been tall and lean and good-looking, but his eyes were electric blue.

Any disappointment she was feeling was only because she hated the idea of having to take a bus. If she never saw Izzy Zanella again, it would be fine with her.

"Are you a nurse?" the un-Izzy asked. On him, the R-less Maine accent was kind of cute. He was carrying two big plastic shopping bags in each hand.

"What? Oh." She looked down at her pants and shoes. "Yeah," she said, because there was something in his eyes that was a little off. Like he'd come to the-what had Stella called it?-the criminal because he had the munchies from being stoned. It would have taken too many brain cells for him to understand the concept of her pretending to be a nurse for a Navy SEAL training operation.

Out here, in the natural habitat of Crazy God-Man and Hot Guy on Dope, the concept was a little difficult even for her to comprehend.

Tracy inched away, a little afraid to turn her back on him. But he finally nodded and headed for his car.

She picked up the pay phone and punched in the numbers of Lyle's calling card-a number he'd made her memorize after 9/11, when their cell phones hadn't worked due to an overloaded system.

"Now enter the number of the party you are calling," a voice instructed her. Okay, this was the tricky part. She wanted to call Lindsey, but she wasn't sure she remembered her phone number. She was good with memorization, though, and she'd seen it on the list of Troubleshooters personnel that was taped to her desk in San Diego. She'd stared at it for hours as she'd answered the phones. Area code 619. Just do it. If it was wrong, she'd try again. Big whoop.

Across the parking lot, the hot druggie had gotten into his car. He started it, and was just sitting there, watching her, which was a little weird.

The phone rang only twice, and a machine picked up. "Hi, you've reached Lindsey, I can't come to the phone right now. If this is an emergency, try my cell phone-"

Tracy scrambled for something to write with. She'd remembered Lindsey's number all right-but that of her home phone, not her cell. There was actually a pen in the pocket of her jacket, so she uncapped it and quickly scribbled the number on a flyer for a lost dog that was taped to the side of the phone's so-called wind barrier. She'd only been out here for a few minutes, but God, her ears were already frozen. And she seemed to have lost one of her mittens.

"...or leave a message at the beep." Lindsey's recorded voice finished.

"Yeah, hi, it's me, Tracy." She didn't want to hang up, not with stoned-man still watching her like that. Better to let him think she was talking to someone. Like her police-trooper, former-Marine boyfriend, whose jacket she was obviously wearing. "I'm calling from some pay phone on the freaking North Pole. I just got your cell number, so I'll call you right back in a sec. See, there's this guy who's kind of hot, but kind of not-think if Ralph Fiennes sniffed glue-and he's...Shoot, he's getting out of his car. I feel like I should give you the license plate number, in case I drop off the face of the earth. Except it's dark and...I think there's a nine...That's all I can see. There's mud or pig poop on it, or whatever animal they farm up here. It's got New Hampshire plates. Except, okay. He's just refilling his windshield wiper fluid. Silly me. I'll call you back on your cell."

She hung up, which was stupid, because she could have just pushed one of the numbers-was it the eight?-and dialed Lindsey's cell. Now, though, she had to go through the whole long calling card thing again.

Drug guy closed his hood. The sound made her look over at him, which was a mistake, because he took that as an invitation to communicate.

"I need you to hang up now," he said, as he strolled toward her.

Okay, it was probably time to get inside the store, but she only had a few more numbers to dial. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you needed to use the phone." Tracy forced a smile. "I'll be quick. I just need to finish telling my boyfriend about my latest outbreak of herpes."

He reached over and pushed the hang-up button, taking the phone out of her hands and replacing it in the cradle. "Get into the car."

"I don't need a ride. Thanks, though." There was something seriously wrong with this guy, and she was really frightened now, but she knew she shouldn't show it. "I do need some coffee. Excuse me."

He shifted, blocking her. "I don't care what you need. Get in the car."

Dear God, he actually had a gun.

Tracy looked up from the barrel, into his eyes. And she knew with a certainty that was terrifying that if she got into this man's car, it would be the last thing she ever did.

It wasn't bravery that made her run for it, despite the instant death that could come pouring out of that tiny little hole. Running was the only option. She bolted for the entrance to the store, and sure enough, he didn't shoot her.

He did, however, give chase.

She flung open the door. "Call 911, call 911!"

But there was no one behind the counter. She ran for the back, searching for someone, anyone.

And found the store clerk in front of the door to the bathroom. Lying facedown in a pool of blood, eyes open and staring, the back of his head caved in.

There was nothing to grab and swing, nothing to use to fight back, and she tried to open the ladies' room door, tried to lock herself in, when the stoner hit her, hard.

Pain mixed with disbelief. This couldn't be real. Things like this didn't actually happen. Not to her. Please God, no.

But her chin smashed into the floor, and the overhead light seemed to short and spark. He hit her again, and the world disappeared.

CHAPTER.

SIXTEEN.

"So...provided we can get this program to work," Lindsey said, "we'll just...what? See a little blip on a map, and that'll be where Tracy is?"

"That's correct," Tess said, her fingers flying across her computer keyboard. She had hands like a concert pianist or a surgeon-with long, elegant fingers. At least compared to Lindsey's.

Please God, let this work...

"Did we find her?" Dave asked, as he and Sophia joined the crowd in the tiny motel room.

"Not yet," Decker said. He was the only one besides Lindsey who glanced up from the computer. Everyone else-including Tess's fiance, Jim Nash, who'd sheepishly turned up smelling almost as much like a distillery as Tracy had last night-was glued to the screen.

Scanning for signal, was flashing there. Followed by the message, downloading map of sector 817.

Slowly a map appeared, starting at the top of the computer screen, and filling in down through the bottom. It included most of New Hampshire.

They all leaned closer.

"Come on, Tracy," Dave murmured. "Be in Manchester, at some four-star hotel."

"Have we called her ex?" Decker asked. "Lyle-is it Anderson?"

"Andrews," Lindsey said. "And yes. We did."

"He hasn't heard from her, doesn't seem particularly worried," Tom told them.

The map was just about completely downloaded.

"I don't see any blip," Lindsey said. "Isn't there supposed to be a blip?"

"Yes, there is," Tom said. But there wasn't.

"Is something wrong with the computer?" Dave asked. His voice was tight and as Lindsey glanced up, Sophia put her hand on his shoulder.

"The program seems to be working," Tess reported. Again, her hands flew, and info flashed across the screen at lightning speeds. "Yeah, the codes are all correct. I'm sorry." She turned and looked up at Tom. "There's no signal from the jacket."

Lindsey swore. "I so wanted this to work." Disappointment made her stomach hurt.

Dave, too, looked as if he might hurl.

"Is it possible she's left the sector?" Tom asked.

Again Tess's fingers made the keys clack. This time, instead of a map, what looked like programmer's code filled the screen. "There's no signal from anywhere in the hemisphere. Is she in China? I could access other satellites to look. But we'd risk catching the attention of someone at the Pentagon. If they're alert, they might also notice that Team Sixteen is supposed to be in transit to Germany, and cut us off. See, we're kind of borrowing their access codes."

"Oh, good," Tom said. "I love hearing things like that."

"What would keep the satellite from picking up the signal from the jacket?" Lindsey asked. "Something like putting it in a lead box, or...what?"

"It's far more likely that Tracy's in a dead zone." Tess not only looked like a sweet, cheerful second grade teacher, but she had a tendency to try to educate. She couldn't help herself. "You know how it's impossible to talk on your cell on the stretch of road near the Krispy Kreme, if you're heading east past the Troubleshooters office in San Diego? It's some kind of weird no-signal area, probably due to cell towers that aren't spaced closely enough together. This sensor system that we're using for training relies on cell towers, just like your phone. The signal goes from the jacket to a nearby tower to the satellite, then back to the tower nearest to this computer, then to the computer. If the jacket's in a dead zone, we're not going to see it here."

"So what we have to do," Lindsey said, "is map the dead zones and focus our search to those areas."

"Or put up more cell towers," Tess said.

"Or move the towers we have," Dave suggested.

Tess nodded. "That's if we can assume Tracy's stationary-that she's not going to be on the move. If we move the towers, and she moves..." She shrugged.

Tom stood. "I'll make some calls."

"Is there a way to access the history of the jacket's movement?" Lindsey asked, desperate for some good news. Dave looked like he could use some, too. He was rubbing his forehead as if he had a killer headache. "I mean, Tracy put the jacket on, hours ago, starting here at the motel. Is there a record that will allow us to track her past movements out to the cabin-and beyond? Even if we can't see where Tracy is right now, can't we at least see where she was, at least until she entered whatever dead zone she's currently in?"

"Good thinking." Dave perked up. "That'll help us narrow our search efforts."

Tess took a deep breath, blew it out hard. "The short answer is yes. The long answer is...I don't know how long it'll take me to find that information. Since I'm going to have to hack into the system..."

"Just do the best you can," Decker told her. "We don't have much else to go on."

She glanced at him. "Yeah. In the meantime, I'll keep the program running. Maybe we'll get lucky, and she'll move back out of whatever dead zone she's in."

"What are the odds of Tracy still having the jacket on? It's not exactly high fashion," Dave pointed out, his brief burst of hope obviously already deflated. "That's assuming she's not lying somewhere, in some dead zone, literally dead."

"Thanks, Dave. We can always count on your unflagging optimism." Lindsey put her hat and gloves back on. "I'm heading back to the cabin," she announced. Maybe there was something there that they'd all missed. "Please call me as soon as anyone knows anything."

This was ridiculous.

Jenk paced the worn carpeting of the airport's terminal as he waited for the senior chief to finish speaking with Commander Koehl.

The news had come down that the C-5 troop transport that was due to take them to Germany had, once again, been delayed.

Apparently, it was snowing rather hard in Illinois.

To add insult to injury, Team Sixteen's little transatlantic journey was only a drill. It was a test of their ability to be available, immediately, on the other side of the world. They were also, Jenk suspected, putting in an appearance as part of America's "big stick" on the international stage at Ramstein Air Base. Someone was sending a message to anyone who might be monitoring U.S. troop movement that SEAL Team Sixteen was in the house.

Now, if only the seriously disconnected top brass would use them for that which they'd been trained, instead of outsourcing the big jobs-like the capture of bin Laden-to people whose loyalty was for sale to the highest bidder.

And as long as Jenk was wishing for the impossible, he willed his phone to ring. He was desperate for Lindsey to call, telling him that Tracy had been found, safe and sound.

Tommy Paoletti had kept Commander Koehl updated throughout the night. The news that both Lindsey and Decker had tracked Tracy all the way to the road without finding her had landed like a punch to the gut.

Team Sixteen should have been out there, helping to beat the bushes, setting up search patterns from both the cabin and the point on the road where Lindsey had lost Tracy's trail.

The senior chief had told Jenk, over and over, that there was nothing they could do that Tommy wasn't already doing-except provide more manpower. More eyes to search. More boots on the ground.

Izzy had been sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, head in his hands. But now he stood up. "Where's the senior chief?"

"Finally talking to Koehl," Jenk told him.