TRAPPED…WITH A KILLER?

When an earthquake rips through San Francisco, the last person journalist Sage Harrington expects to run into is ex-soldier Trey Black. After what they survived in Afghanistan, she doesn’t know if she can face him again. But now they’re trapped in the bowels of a ramshackle opera house on a mission to find Sage’s missing cousin. And they may not be the only ones. Someone is desperate to keep them from discovering the truth. With time running out and devastation and danger all around, Sage and Trey must put their trust in each other to make it out alive.

Stormswept: Finding true love in the midst of nature’s fury

“You need to get out of here.”

“Is that an order, Captain?”

“A strong suggestion.”

“And if I don’t comply?”

“Then I will help you to do that.” Trey’s eyes glittered in the darkness.

“You’re not army anymore.”

“No, ma’am. Just a carpenter, but I will see you to the exit, one way or another.”

“If I don’t cooperate, what do you intend to do about it?” Sage fired off the challenge, her gut tightening at the look that rose in his face.

He stood, feet slightly apart, hands loose at his sides. “Sage, you need to leave this theater for your own safety. If I have to carry you out kicking and screaming, I am prepared for that contingency.”

She heard the hardened resolution in his voice. Dimples and charming drawl aside, she knew he would not hesitate, and she was no match for his size and strength. She would lose this battle.

But not the war.

DANA MENTINK

lives in California, where the weather is golden and the cheese is divine. Her family includes two girls (affectionately nicknamed Yogi and Boo Boo). Papa Bear works for the fire department; he met Dana doing a dinner theater production of The Velveteen Rabbit. Ironically, their parts were husband and wife.

Dana is a 2009 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year finalist for romantic suspense and an award winner in the Pacific Northwest Writers Literary Contest. Her novel Betrayal in the Badlands won a 2010 RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award. She has enjoyed writing a mystery series for Barbour Books and more than ten novels to date for the Love Inspired Suspense line.

She spent her college years competing in speech and debate tournaments all around the country. Besides writing, she busies herself teaching elementary school and reviewing books for her blog. Mostly, she loves to be home with her family, including a dog with social-anxiety problems, a chubby box turtle and a quirky parakeet.

Dana loves to hear from her readers via her website at www.danamentink.com.

Shock Wave

Dana Mentink

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Lord is King. Let the nations tremble!

He sits on this throne between the cherubim.

Let the whole earth quake!

—Psalms 99:1

To those emergency workers worldwide who are the hands and feet of God in times of disaster.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

EXCERPT

ONE

The floor lurched under Trey Black’s feet. Wooden planks, crippled by age and neglect, groaned like arthritic joints forced into movement. He waited one second, two.

Another quick jolt and the old Imperial Opera House stilled again.

The second jerk took him momentarily back to another place, to Afghanistan, to the smell of sun-scorched earth and gun oil, sweat and the tangible scent of fear.

He stood motionless between a row of chairs looking toward the stage, eyes scanning the ghostly fly tower with its combination of counterweights and pulleys, the rusty overhead lighting, the dusty floorboards, worn and marred. It hadn’t been his imagination—a few of the fly tower ropes still quivered from the sudden movement.

His mind knew he was not in Afghanistan anymore, but his body had not learned the lesson. He rubbed the back of his neck and ran a palm over his hair, the wild thatch of it still an odd contrast to the buzz cut he’d had until he’d left the army behind a month ago.

It was not enemy fire.

Not the impact from a mortar volley.

The truth materialized.

Earthquake.

Small, probably not more than a 2.5, one of a number of quakes that had rumbled through the city in the past twenty-four hours. He’d heard some scientist on a morning talk show explaining that the miniquakes were the earth’s way of releasing tension gradually as the tectonic plates ground together. Yet another scientist suggested the shakers could be warnings that the “big one” was coming.

Earthquakes were like people, he figured. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if they were friendlies or enemies until it was too late. He shook away the thoughts and called softly into the darkness.

“Wally?” His voice echoed, bouncing in and out of the dark stalls, the mazelike warren of dressing rooms, rehearsal areas and the cavernous empty stage. It was a terrible place for a dog, but Trey had agreed to come check on the little critter when he was done for the evening as a favor to the caretaker. “Wally?” he said again, louder.

He caught the faintest sound, the barest squeak of a floorboard from the royal box, the ornate enclosure at the middle of the lowest tier of seating and the spot with the best sight lines to the stage. Long ago it would have been the place reserved for royalty or VIPs out for a night at the Imperial. Now, on a Sunday night, decades after the theater offered up its last real opera, it was tomblike.

He listened, body taut. The sound didn’t come from the rascally dog. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did.

Nor did he understand why he took cover behind the proscenium and began a surreptitious creep toward the noise.

No reason to suspect it was anything dangerous.

This was San Francisco, not a war zone, and he was in an empty opera house. More likely his unease was paranoia borne of long months dodging sniper bullets or worrying that a careless moment on his part would result in death.

Like the journalist embedded with their unit.

The memory bit at him before he could steel his mind against it.

He recalled the look on Sage Harrington’s face when she saw her colleague hit by sniper fire. Her camera fell to the ground and those eyes, those ice-blue eyes, locked on his, soldering the two of them together in her white-hot grief. She blamed him, it was clearly written on her face.

Blamed him, when they never should have been there in the first place. He felt the burn of anger at Sage for her reckless behavior, and himself, for the stubborn way his heart still kicked up at the thought of her.

Snap out of it, Trey. Sage has to live with her decisions and you’ve got to live with yours.

His mind circled the facts again.

Empty opera house, closed to the public for decades.

Whoever it was making the noise was a trespasser.

Find Wally.

Get out of the Imperial and go home.

He shouldered his backpack, heavy with the tools he’d been using to try to repair and replace the rotting wood of the lobby floor. A whisper echoed over to him, a hushed voice belonging to someone who shouldn’t be there. A vagrant maybe, who had forced their way through the boarded-up windows perhaps, looking to escape the clinging October chill. He could still call it quits, look for Wally on his way out. It wasn’t his problem. Not his responsibility. No reason to feel like he had to protect Mr. Long’s investment from intruders. No reason to stay.

He took a deep breath and crept farther into the darkness, heading for the stairs that would take him to the royal box.

* * *

The chilled air of the opera house made Sage Harrington’s skin prickle all over. Her own hands looked pale and ghostly in the meager light from her lantern, shaking slightly from the temblor she’d just felt and the oppressive blackness. It was ridiculous, really. Stupid certainly, to follow Antonia inside. Not the first time she’d behaved stupidly.

Something about Antonia Verde pricked Sage’s instincts. The woman knew the truth about Sage’s cousin Barbara, she was sure, something Barbara’s husband, Derick, wasn’t telling. Then again the whole situation might just be the product of Sage’s overactive imagination. Barbara might very well be in Santa Fe like her husband claimed.

In Santa Fe.

Not answering the phone.

Not returning emails.

Nearly at full-term for her pregnancy.

Without sending so much as a postcard to check on the renovations to her beloved opera house. Sage had seen Antonia do something inexplicable—pick up a picture of Barbara from the glass side table and hide it under her shirt before sneaking out of the Longs’ house.

The cold feeling deep in her stomach returned. Something had happened to Barbara, and Antonia had some information that would help Sage find the truth. She’d grudgingly agreed to meet Sage at the Imperial and talk. Why in the world had they agreed to meet here?

Toughen up, Sage. She would complete her mission, as a man from her past would say, and she found she could not hold back the feelings.

How many times had she thought about Trey Black? Wondered how things would have been different if they’d gotten to know each other somewhere else instead of the hills of northeastern Afghanistan? It seemed surreal, now, that only a year ago she was snapping pictures for a top-selling news magazine, simultaneously afraid for her life and struggling against a powerful attraction toward the captain.

She flashed back to Luis, his body falling at her feet, gone, at Trey’s horrified eyes in his dust-stained face. Trey’s shock remained only for the barest of moments. Then he was the hardened soldier again, barking orders, shouting into a radio, his attention turned back to the task, the mission, while the medic tried frantically to save Luis’s life. Trey Black, a living reminder of the worst moment in her life, simply refused to get out of her head.

Sage shook herself and tried to offer up another prayer for Barbara. No words would come. Only the same impenetrable silence, the same darkness that had cloaked her since her return.

The sound of a stair creaking stirred her senses. Though the stairs to the box were still more or less covered in tattered carpet, the old wood complained under the weight of someone’s approach.

Someone? She mentally chided herself. It was Antonia, of course, passing the time while waiting for Sage. Who else would be interested in this old relic? She wished she could shine her lantern into the stairwell, but she resisted the urge. Instead she drew back into the farthest corner of the box and held the light down behind the seat. If she’d learned anything being in a war zone it was that being cautious could save your life. Unfortunately, her caution seemed to have slid into the realm of paranoia. She’d wait to be sure it was Antonia.

A vibration started under her feet, rattling harder and harder until the building seemed to come alive around her. Earthquake—and this time, much more powerful. She held on to the arm of the seat. A rending of wood sounded above her head. It must be the overhead balcony, tearing away from its moorings.

Panic swelled through her as she fought to stand against the bucking floor.

She yanked herself upright and tried to get to the exit, but she went down on one knee again, something sharp cutting through her jeans.

A roar from above made her throw her hands over her head as a section of the ceiling gave way. Fragments of plaster and wood rained down, swallowing up her scream. Dust coated her mouth as she gasped for air, panic bringing her back to the war zone, filling her gut with black despair. There was a heavy pressure and then silence.

Sage was not sure in that moment if she was alive or dead. Her own rasping breath confirmed that she was indeed living and conscious. Though the box was bathed in darkness, a weak light came from the gaping hole in the ceiling where the balcony above had come crashing through. A thick layer of dust drifted downward.

Just breathe, take it slow.

She coughed out a mouthful of plaster dust and took stock. Aside from general aches, she did not feel any lancing pain. Gingerly, she wiggled her legs and arms, turning her neck slowly to one side. She struggled to sit up but something heavy lay across her shoulders, pressing her down. She quelled the panic.

A few more deep breaths and she worked again on wriggling her legs, propelling herself forward since she had no hope of lifting the thick beam. Fortunately, it had fallen across the span of two seats, leaving a small spot of clearance. Sage scooted forward again, her feet scrabbling for purchase.

Maybe it was a whisper of movement, or the slow exhalation of breath, but in a sudden wash of fear, Sage knew she was not alone.

“Antonia?” she whispered.

No one answered. Perhaps she had imagined the presence. Her doctor would say it was a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. She caught sight of the lantern, which had tumbled down the aisle and now lay a few feet away.

She pulled herself forward, her efforts only netting her a few inches before she had to stop for breath, face bathed in a combination of sweat and grime.

The sound of quietly placed footsteps caused her to freeze. They were made by someone heavy and solid, not by the willowy Antonia.

“Who is it?” she hissed. Whoever it was came closer, but try as she might, she could not twist herself into a position to look up. Some part of her, the deep-down place where instinct lay, told her whoever was in that box had not come to help.

“People know I’m here,” she said quickly. “People are coming.”

The feet moved closer. Sage could feel the boards shifting and bending under the stranger’s weight.

She could see only the shadow in her peripheral vision, someone watching, thinking. The gloom that settled over her pressed fear deep into her pores. She was immobilized, trapped and in darkness as this person closed the gap between them.

Her blood pounded in her veins. She would yell, but who would hear her?

In a scrabble of noise, something hurtled into the box, knocking over the lantern.

She screamed as the thing streaked at her, eyes glowing.

Then a wet tongue swabbed her face. She batted at the creature, which her brain finally identified as a dog. The exuberant tongue was attached to a wiry animal with a head that seemed too small for its lanky body.

Shoving him away, she tried to get a glimpse of the stranger.

She realized she was alone again. Whoever had left her trapped there was gone.

Relief made her shiver, and she reached out to finger the dog’s velvety ears, which started out erect and then flopped over at the tips.

“Where did you come from?” she managed. He licked her again and sniffed her hair. The dog stopped midsniff, cocked his small wedge of a head.

“Hear something, boy?” she whispered, skin prickling. Was the stranger coming back?

After another moment of listening, the dog took off through the doorway.

She wanted to call after him, to bring the friendly, warm animal back. Instead she applied every ounce of her strength into freeing herself from her entrapment. Inch by painful inch she yanked herself out, scraping her legs in the process. Anger rippled through her like a shock wave. The stranger hadn’t gotten far and Sage was going to find out who it was.

She heard the rumble as she ran, the faraway sound of a door being slammed, or a heavy box being dropped onto a cement floor. She reached the bottom stairs and collided with a man heading up. He was big, over six feet and solidly muscled, and her five-foot-four-inch frame bounced off his chest like a tennis ball hitting a racket.

The man’s flashlight tumbled down and landed at his feet with a soft thunk.

He picked it up, holding it with one hand, the other hand readied in a fist in front of him as if he was expecting an attack.

Sage shielded her face from the light. “Who are you?”

There was a moment of hesitation. “You want my rank and serial number, or will the name suffice?”

Shock settled over her in a numbing blanket. She didn’t need him to repeat the question. The Southern lilt of his voice, the smile she heard hidden in the words. There was no one else it could possibly be. He looked odd in civilian clothes, and the flicker of uncertainty on his face was definitely out of place.

She took the hand he offered and got to her feet, legs gone suddenly shaky. He pulled her up and close to him, one hand grasping hers tightly and the other cradling her shoulder with the gentlest of touches. For a moment she could not summon the strength to balance on her own and she pressed close, her heart swimming with a tide of memory that threatened to drown her. “Thank you.”

Something in her voice must have sounded familiar enough. He lowered the light to play it across her face, and in doing so illuminated his own, the planes of his cheeks and forehead and the look of complete shock that materialized on his face. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

She heaved in a breath and stood up as straight as she could manage. “Do you want my rank and serial number? Or will the name suffice?”

* * *

Trey was not a man comfortable with conversation, and in that moment, words failed him utterly. He stared at Sage in disbelief. Her heart-shaped face, dusty though it was, those blue eyes, were unmistakable. He felt like turning on his heel and marching away to give himself time to think. Instead he forced out a glib remark. “Well, ma’am, this is better than the last place we met.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression grew distant and shuttered. He stumbled on. “Are you hurt? I heard a crash.”

She waved a hand. “Part of the balcony fell. I’m not hurt. Just dirty.”

“Why are you here in this old relic?”

She hesitated and he got the sense she was weighing how much of the truth to give him. “Taking pictures for my cousin Barbara. Her husband owns this theater.”

Trey shook his head in disbelief. “Mr. Long hired me, but I didn’t realize his wife was your cousin.”

“So you haven’t seen her recently?” There was something akin to hope shining in her face as she spoke the question.

“No.”

The emotion seemed to drain from Sage and her shoulders slumped. He wondered what he’d said, or hadn’t said.

She gave him a hard stare. “Was there... Did you see anyone else here?”

Odd question. “No one. Why?”

“I thought...” She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve been watching too much TV or something. I’m sure it was just my imagination.”

He looked her over and noted the latent fear circling under her calm expression. He decided on an oblique approach. “Kinda late in the day to be taking pictures.”

She eyed him with that gleam of determination and shrewdness that always saw right through any smoke screen he’d ever tried to float by her. “Late for you, too. And late for the painter. Her name is Antonia, and I happen to know she’s inside the Imperial now. So what’s your reason for being here?”

Wally scampered up the stairs, his whip of a tail wagging in frantic rhythm. “He is. I’m a friend of the caretaker, kind of. He asked me to come by and make sure this little guy was safe and secure in the utility room. I guess I’ll have to report your misconduct, Wally. You’re out of your assigned area, soldier.” He eyed Sage again. “Why don’t you tell me who or what you’re really looking for?”

She started. “What makes you think I’m looking for something?”

His lip curled. “Your straight face isn’t too convincing, not to mention the fact that I don’t see any camera.” He thought she was going to let him have it, but she smiled that amazing grin that made something in the pit of his stomach flutter around.

“I knew I forgot something. Left my camera in the car.” After a moment, her smile slowly vanished.

He was not sure what to say, how to counter the shadow that hung heavily between them. Luis was the face that swam in Trey’s dreams, the civilian who had died on Trey’s watch. He’d been so right to protest taking outsiders into a war zone, dead right, but he could see in her expression that she still didn’t accept that, wouldn’t take responsibility for her part in Luis’s death. A creaking under their feet hinted that the old theater was settling again, sinking under the weight of unseen pressure.

“Isn’t safe to be in here. I’ll walk you out.”

“I’ll find Antonia first and tell her I’m leaving. She was here a few minutes ago.”

“This place is a death trap. We’ll go now and I’ll come back and find her after you’re outside.”

Sage moved back a step. “I’m not going and you can’t order me to. This isn’t the army, Captain Black.”

He fixed her with a stare. “You didn’t take orders even when you were in my platoon.”

“You never wanted us there.”

He felt the exasperation, the anger, bubble up again, fresh as it had been a year ago. “No, I didn’t and I was right. We were there to fight. There is no room in a combat zone for civilians.”

“Journalists.”

“Whatever.”

She shook her head. “Luis and I were there to bring attention where it most needed to be. Our stories brought the public right to the front lines, to show the world what war is really like. It was worth the inconvenience to your operation.”

He spoke softly, his words floating away into the darkness. “Would Luis’s widow agree with you?”

The wrong thing to say, again, though every syllable was the truth. This time she didn’t even attempt an answer. She pushed past him on the stairs, Wally prancing at her heels. Trey reached out and touched her shoulder, so small in his ham of a hand. “Look, I’m sorry. This isn’t the time. Fact is, I’m glad to see you, Sage.” I can’t stop thinking about you.

Good thing that thought stayed in his head where it belonged. She hadn’t missed him at all, judging from the way she snatched herself out of his grasp. “Nice of you to say. I’ve got a job to do here, so go ahead and see yourself out.”

The old building shuddered and swayed under the grip of another earthquake. The motion sent Sage off balance and he steadied her. “You’re not staying in here.” This time, she would not ignore him.

“I’m not leaving this opera house without talking to Antonia.”

“Every once in a while you should listen to reason,” he snapped. “Since you can’t seem to do that, I will have to be your personal escort.”

She pulled away again and flashed him a smile. “Only if you can keep up with me, Captain,” she said as the blackness closed around her.

TWO

Sage’s knees were shaking, but it wasn’t from an earthquake. Those mischievous eyes, the dimples carved into his cheeks, the lazy twang of his Southern accent. Trey Black could not be here in the wreck of an opera house. Worse yet, it was not possible that her stomach stirred at the sight of him, nerves jangling at the touch of his big hands.

No, no, no.

It was not right, her attraction for this man that started the moment she’d clapped eyes on him. Romance had no place in a combat zone. And it had no place now, when she wanted to forget she’d ever set foot in Afghanistan and finally had something important to focus on, something that might allow her to escape the smothering blanket of PTSD that nearly crippled her.

She could feel him, sense his big presence in the stairwell behind her, and she quickened her pace. It was a useless effort. Trey Black would not approve of her trotting off into a potentially dangerous situation by herself. A woman doesn’t belong around danger, he’d told her calmly with that half-teasing tone. Part of her was flattered, the other part was infuriated. He was a chauvinist. She was every bit as capable, or at least she had been before her self-confidence had blown away in an angry chatter of bullets. Way down deep at the bottom of her fury, she had the dreaded feeling that maybe Trey Black had been right.

Afghanistan had been a nightmarish combination of unbelievable courage and silent grief. She saw it in the eyes of the soldiers when one of their comrades fell and behind their stoic expressions when things went bad. And she’d forced herself in, obtaining approval by using her connections. So where did the blame really belong?

She shook her head to clear it.

Don’t go back there.

Her cell phone chimed and she answered it, still moving down the stairs.

A deep voice filled the line. “It’s Derick.”

That brought her up short. She could picture his fiftysomething face, still with that luminous big-screen quality and easy charm, the perfect thatch of sandy hair. “Hello. It’s good to hear from you.”

He blew out a breath. “I was worried. Are you all right? Just had another quake and the Imperial is a collapse waiting to happen. I was afraid you might be buried alive.”

She wondered how he knew she was at the opera house. “I’m okay. A chunk of ceiling came down.”

He gasped. “You must leave there immediately. It’s not safe and Barbara would never forgive me if something happened to you.”

She wished she could hear Barbara say those words. “I’m on my way out right now. What can I do for you?”

“I want you to reconsider staying with us here. I know Barbara wouldn’t want you to be in a hotel, especially with all these quakes happening. We’ve got plenty of extra rooms, even with Antonia staying in the guest house.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You’ve been worried about Barbara.” He laughed. “You think I’ve stuffed her away in some closet, I gather.”

“No, of course not,” she said, mentally berating herself for not taking things slower with Derick. “I just worry about her, with her pregnancy and all. It didn’t seem like a reasonable idea to take a trip when she’s due to deliver twins in a matter of weeks.”

He sighed. “Anyone who knows Barbara would agree that she is one headstrong lady. That’s what I love about her. It’s maddening, but we make it work for the most part.”

Sage didn’t know what to say about that. He sounded perfectly sincere, but he was an actor. It was his job to sound sincere. To hear him tell it, his career was in top form, but she’d heard rumblings of financial hardship, bad investments. Maybe it was just rumors. Maybe not.

“I just want you to know I received an email from her today,” he continued.

Sage’s heart sped up. Had she been wrong about everything? “That’s great. What did she say?”

“I’ll read it straight from the screen. ‘So enjoying my time in Santa Fe. Tell Sage to photograph only the front lobby of the Imperial. The rest is a wreck, too dangerous. Will call soon, love and kisses, Barbara.’”

The silence stretched between them until Derick spoke again. “Sage? Did you hear that? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” she managed. “I’m here. Thank you for sharing that with me. I appreciate it.” Her tone sounded wooden to her own ears.

“No trouble at all. Is Antonia with you, by chance?”

Sage wasn’t sure how to answer. “No,” she said. “Why?”

“I need to make sure she’s okay, and we have some business. If you see her, can you have her phone me?” He cleared his throat. “It’s rather urgent. I’ve tried calling her cell, but no answer.”

“Of course.”

“I am on my way down to the theater to make sure everything is locked up properly.”

Her stomach tightened, but she forced a light tone. “I thought you had a caretaker for that.”

“I do, but Rosalind thinks more highly of him than I do. Abandoned buildings are a beacon for the homeless or kids up to no good.” He chuckled. “I told Barbara the Imperial was an enormous black hole, sucking up money and attracting trouble like nobody’s business. She never did see things my way.”

Something about the statement chilled Sage.

“She loves the Imperial.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Promise me you won’t go back inside.”

She tried for a light tone. “I never make promises anymore.”

He hesitated. “Well, at least I can be sure you don’t go in there alone. I’ll be along shortly. Goodbye, Sage.”

Sage clicked off the phone. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped moving until Trey joined her on the wide step. So Derick needed to see Antonia urgently. Not until Sage got to her first.

“Trouble?” he asked.

She nodded. “My cousin Barbara is missing.”

He frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Because her husband told me she left a message directing me to photograph the front lobby only.”

Trey frowned. “And?”

Sage locked eyes with Trey. “I spoke to her ten days ago. She wanted me to shoot every corner of the Imperial to document the remodeling project from the basement to the rafters. My cousin never does things halfway.”

“So if the email is made up, sounds like he doesn’t want you wandering around in this opera house.” The concern on Trey’s face deepened. “Been to the police?”

She shook her head. “I have an appointment this afternoon, but first I was going to...um, check on something.”

“Sage,” he started.

“Okay, okay. I just need to talk to Antonia Verde. She’s the painter Derick hired. I saw her at the house and she was having a heated discussion with Derick. Very heated. They both clammed up when they saw me, but Antonia knows something. Several times I got the sense she wanted to talk to me, but she didn’t want him to overhear. So we made an arrangement to meet at the theater tonight, but she got here before me. She’s not answering her cell, so I figured I’d snoop around until I found her.” Her cheeks warmed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Going into the detecting business? You don’t seem cut out for that.”

I’m not cut out for anything anymore. Sleepless nights. Panic attacks. Flashbacks and worst of all, the sense that she was dead inside. She forced her chin up. “I’m just here to talk to Antonia.”

“This place...”

“I know, I know. It’s not safe to stay here. I should wait outside while you go commando and find Antonia yourself, but the fact of the matter is, I’m not going to obey orders.”

“Imagine my shock and disbelief.” He sighed, the sound bouncing along the darkened stairwell as he picked up a pack she hadn’t noticed before and handed her his flashlight.

Surprised, she took it from his calloused fingers. “You gave up easily.”

“No, ma’am. I’m army and we don’t give up. We just get the job done.” His tone was bitter.

Sage huffed. “So you’re going to shadow my every move until I leave this place?”

“That’s an affirmative.”

“You aren’t a soldier anymore.”

Her attempt to rile him didn’t work. He shot her a lazy smile. “Consider me your friendly neighborhood carpenter. You never know when you might need a guy with a bag of tools.”

Biting back a remark, Sage led the way down the stairwell toward the orchestra seating where the nearest exit would be. Maybe Antonia had gone right for it after the last quake, and if they didn’t hurry, she’d make it outside before they caught up.

Wally pranced ahead of them and disappeared.

Suddenly she heard a shrill bark.

A figure loomed out of the darkness, and Sage screamed.

In a moment Trey was in front of her.

Heart pounding, she couldn’t see around Trey’s blocky shoulders until he stepped to the side to reveal an old man, bald head shining in the lantern light. Wally stood next to him, tail wagging vigorously. Even the gloom could not hide the look of irritation on the man’s face.

“Whaddya doing here?” he demanded of Sage, thrusting his lantern in her direction.

Trey held up a calming hand. “Hey, Fred. Sage, this is Fred Tipley, the caretaker. Wally is his dog. I thought you were going to pack up your apartment today, Fred. Isn’t that why you asked me to check in on Wally?”

“Forgot something,” Fred grumbled, eyeing the dog. “I was just on my way back to my truck. Seems Wally busted out of the utility room again.” The look he gave the dog pawing at his pant leg softened the edges of his face. “You’re a troublemaker, Wally, sure enough,” he said, giving the dog a pat. His eyes narrowed as he straightened. “Where’d you find him? Not safe to go poking around this place.”

“He found me,” Trey said. “No poking involved.”

He pointed a gnarled finger at Sage. “What about her?”

Sage gave him a smile. “I’m working for Barbara Long. I’m her cousin, actually. She asked me to take some pictures.”

“Not now, she didn’t. Miss Rosalind would have called me. She manages things here, not Barbara.”

Sage eyed him closely. “Barbara and her husband own this theater and I’ve got permission to be here.”

He grumbled some more. “Dumb idea to come here in the dark. Wood’s rotted. Plenty of places to hurt yourself. Didn’tcha feel that earthquake? Been happening on and off all day. Ain’t you got no sense?”

Trey raised his voice a notch. “Fred, we’re just finishing up here and then we’re leaving for the day. I can keep Wally with me so you can go pack and I’ll make sure the doors are locked when I leave, okay? Call me when you get settled into your new place and I’ll bring Wally.”

“Nah, never mind about that. My plans have changed. I’m here now so it’s you two that need to go.”

Sage bent to pet the dog that was sniffing at her shoes. “When was the last time you saw Barbara, Fred?”

He answered with a shrug. “Can’t remember. While ago. Heard she was in New Mexico or something.”

Right. A very pregnant woman travels to Santa Fe at a moment’s notice.

“Did you ever talk to her?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“Did she hire you to work at the Imperial?”

He folded his wiry arms across his chest. “Why the third degree? I just make sure the doors stay locked and keep trespassers out.”

Had he been the one who left her trapped? Sage saw from the tight set to his lips that she was not going to get any more information from him. A bead of sweat rolled down his wrinkled forehead and he swiped it away with the back of his hand. She would find out what she could about Fred Tipley and definitely mention him to the police that afternoon.

She felt Trey’s gaze on her. He quirked an eyebrow. Done with your interrogation, detective? his eyes seemed to say.

Not anywhere close to done. Not until I find Antonia.

A metallic clank startled them all. Fred whirled in the direction of the stage. “You hear that? Someone’s there.”

“It’s probably Antonia,” Sage said, starting down the stairs again.

“What is she doin’ backstage? I heard she was hired to paint the frescoes in the lobby only,” Fred muttered. “Don’t nobody do what they’re told anymore?”

“Maybe she got disoriented in the dark,” Trey said. He tried to edge ahead of Sage but she elbowed him back.

“Now you gotta stop right there,” Fred said, stepping in front of them. “Miss Rosalind said no one is to be messing around here. I could lose my job.”

Trey called over his shoulder as they went around him, “Fred, I’ll take care of things. We’ll locate this other trespasser and I will personally escort all of us out of this place.”

Fred made no attempt to follow, but his voice carried along the stairwell. “It ain’t right. I’m gonna have to call Miss Rosalind. It ain’t right. Wally, come here.”

The dog barked and darted off again, eliciting an angry tirade from Fred.

Trey kept pace behind her and Sage felt a twinge of guilt. She called to him. “Rosalind may not take this well. I don’t want to cost you your job or anything.”

“A job is a job. I can get another one. I’m mostly just biding time, watching my brother’s place while he’s away.” He paused. “How about you? Where do you call home?”

“Nowhere,” she said, angry at herself for saying it out loud. “Not here, anyway. I’m just in San Francisco for Barbara.”

“Kind of risking your relationship with the Longs, aren’t you? Chances are you are going to be out of Derick’s good graces after Fred makes his report.”

She nodded. “I’m willing to take the chance. After I talk to the cops this afternoon, I don’t think Mr. Long is going to ask me in for tea.”

They took the rest of the steps as fast as they dared until they found themselves at tall metal doors that marked the stage entrance. Her skin prickled as she imagined the walls closing in on them, the darkness reaching out from behind to snatch them. Anxiety burgeoned in her belly like the clouds of dust that erupted under their feet. No panic attacks now. She could not stand the humiliation of turning into a helpless hysterical lump in front of Trey.

After a deep breath, Sage grabbed the handle and yanked.

“It’s locked,” she groaned. “Antonia must have gone to the other side. We’ll have to double back.”

Trey took her hand before she could leave. He pulled her closer and she felt the warmth of his body, the scent of soap on his skin. Her pulse quickened.

“Hang on, there. I think I can help with this.” He fished something out of his pocket and bent over the lock, his back blocking her view. In a moment, he pushed the door open and turned to her with a cocky grin.

She gaped. “How did you do that?”

“I have skills.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged and held up the key ring. “Fred gave me a spare set so I could get in and check on the dog. He forgot to take them back.”

She grinned, her face unaccustomed to the expression. “So I guess you really do have skills.” For a moment, things were easy between them and she wondered what it would be like if he really was just a carpenter and she just a photographer meeting for the first time. Silly thought. Too much hurt. Too much anger. Her heart was a twisted, blighted thing that would not be salved by daydreams.

His grin turned serious, swallowed up as they stepped through the double doors into the tomblike darkness.

THREE

Trey felt a surge of cold air against his face as he eased open the door. Sage pressed against him and his breath caught. She felt just like he had imagined many times when she wasn’t aggravating him, soft and warm, like a delicious breeze trickling through an Arkansas summer day. He cleared his throat and pushed through the opening. Blackness enveloped them. He groped his way to the wall while Sage held the flashlight. The small glow did little to fend off the cavernous blackness.

“Gotta be a switch around here somewhere.”

“You haven’t been in this part of the theater?” she whispered.

“No. Fred knows it like the back of his hand, so he showed me the places I needed to see.” He found himself replying in an equally hushed voice. “Seems I was hired to repair the front lobby and that’s it. Got my orders not to explore except to check on Wally.”

Sage made a thoughtful sound. “That didn’t seem odd to you?”

“Not really. You can see the condition of this place. Not safe for a rat. Personally, I think it’s only suited to the wrecking ball.”

“Barbara doesn’t seem to think so. She’s paying you, so the Imperial must be good for something.”

He couldn’t read her expression, but he caught the tone. “As I said, I get paid through Rosalind, she’s the business manager, but if Barbara thinks there’s value here then I stand corrected. She’s smart. Figure it runs in your kin along with the stubborn streak and mouthiness.”

She huffed. “And I’m sure the women in your family are all delicate flowers.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you about my mom sometime,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice that always kicked up when he considered his mother. Sage could learn a thing or two about quiet strength from her.

“I’m beginning to agree that this place may be beyond repair,” Sage said, her words swallowed up by the cavernous space.

“It’s a little late for that realization,” Trey said. Finally, his fingers found what he sought. He pushed up the lever and the overhead lights flicked on, at least the three that still had working bulbs.

The stage was empty in spots and crammed full in others with boxes piled into crazy stacks. Rising above the boxes was the massive wooden cutout of a clipper ship and several smaller bundles swaddled in sheets. “How did all this stuff get here?”

“The Imperial was purchased about twenty years ago by a man who sank a small fortune into mostly cosmetic repairs. They went bankrupt after only a few shows. Other people bought it, but most of the time it just sat here rotting until Barbara became involved.”

Trey whistled and the sound echoed strangely. “Wonder why the Longs would want to take on such an expensive wreck? Why not demolish and rebuild?”

“Barbara’s always been in love with architecture and the opera. This must have seemed like a dream opportunity for her when she married Derick and he bought it for her as a wedding gift.”

Trey heard the sad lilt in her voice. “An opera house is a pretty big gift. Why would he turn around a year later and make her disappear?”

Sage locked her eyes on his. “Things can change in a year.”

But some things don’t, he thought. Some things last, like faith and memories...and love, at least he used to think so. A restless feeling coursed through him. The darkness pressed in on them both until he could stand the inactivity no longer. He stepped forward, but Sage grabbed his wrist. He turned, struck by the way her hair shone, a strange luminosity granted by the eerie light. “Problem?”

“I did a little studying up on the theater.” She pointed to the floor. “There’s a series of trapdoors built into the stage, triggered by a lever system underneath.”

He squinted at the floor. “Don’t see any open ones.”

“Me neither, but this building has stood without any major repairs since 1919. That’s a lot of time gone by for things to rust and fail.”

He grinned.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Risk assessment. You sound like a platoon leader.”

She shook her head. “Anyway, I don’t hear Antonia.”

He nodded. “Dust on the floor looks undisturbed here. Let’s check back by the rear entrance in case she made her way in that direction.”

Sage stepped in close behind him, her hand on his back as they crept around the perimeter toward the thick folds of curtains.

Something skittered by Sage’s feet and she jumped.

“Just a rat,” he said, repressing a shudder of his own. He’d die content never having to clap eyes on a rat again.

Her fingers clutched at his shirt, balling it up. A sensation on the back of his neck made him stop and pull farther into the velvet drapery.

“What is it?” Sage whispered, her breath tickling the side of his face.

What was it? Nothing concrete, just a feeling, a sensation of eyes following his progress. He looked up at the catwalk far above them. No sign of movement, but plenty of places to conceal a watcher. What for? If it was Antonia she had no cause to climb up the catwalk and even less to stay there and spy on them. So who would be watching? And why?

He shook his head. “Nothing, I guess.” The sad by-product of combat was the paranoia, the inability to fit properly into a normal world again after the shooting stopped.

Lord, help me put that behind me. Way behind.

As he scanned the shrouded shapes festooned with cobwebs and smelling of mold, he decided this was definitely not a normal situation.

As they eased toward the rear exit, his neck prickled again, the instinct that kept him alive through two tours of duty flaring to life.

Someone is watching.

Waiting.

Instinctively, he reached for the M16 that wasn’t there.

He blinked hard and looked up again at the catwalk, where his eyes found nothing but shadows.

You’re losing it, Black. Probably just rats up there.

As if on cue, a fist-size rodent darted along the floor a mere three feet from them.

He expected her to scream, chauvinist that he was, but she didn’t. She tightened her grip on his shirt and he heard her sharp intake of breath, but she did not cry out.

She never had.

Even when the bullets started flying and one of them found the jugular artery of her friend.

When machine gun fire nearly deafened them.

When she climbed into the transport aircraft to carry Luis home for burial.

She’d never screamed.

Maybe things would be better between them if she had.

* * *

Sage steeled her spine against the shudder that rippled up and down her back. Rats. She wondered how many of them were peering at her right now from their burrows deep in the rotted walls and floor of the old place.

Her stomach quivered. She clamped her jaws shut, stuffed the fear down deep and pushed the curtain aside as they went, hoping nothing hairy would meet her searching fingers. Antonia was not hiding here, she was sure. After witnessing the poor woman nearly pass out from fright when she’d seen a mouse skitter across the front walk of the Longs’ home, she knew Antonia was not likely to linger deep in these rodent-infested shadows. She must have exited through the back door.

If they made it there quickly enough, she might be able to stop Antonia from leaving until the woman came clean.

Where is my cousin?

That’s all she needed to know.

Derick’s words echoed through her ears.

She never did see things my way.

Derick was lying. He’d made up the email.

Another possibility struck her.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Barbara had sent the email, trying to convey a message to her without alerting her husband.

Only a few yards to go before they reached the exit. Trey picked up the pace. She felt the corded muscles of his lower back tense as he moved, lithe as a tiger through the dark. Some part of her was grateful that he put enough stock in her theory to follow along.

Why was he helping? For old times’ sake? Guilt about what happened to Luis? No, he was on another mission, to deliver her from a dangerous situation, just like he’d tried so hard to do in Afghanistan, like he would try to do for any hapless stranger he happened to find wandering around. He was a machine, duty above all.

Their feet stirred up puffs of dust that whirled and eddied through the stale air.

From above came the loud squeal of wood. Trey grabbed her arm so tightly she almost cried out. They looked wildly up into the darkness, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, which grew louder and louder along with a whoosh of air that stirred the curtains behind them.

Trey yelled something and shoved her hard, sending her flying into the recesses of the stage. His body landed next to hers as a half dozen wood crates smashed to the floor around them, splinters of wood hurtling through the air. The flashlight sailed out of her hand and clattered to the floor, dousing the light.

Billows of dust whirled past her face, making her cough. She covered her mouth to keep out the filth as she sat up.

“What...what just happened?”

Trey was already on his feet, crouched low, peering into the darkness. “Boxes fell from the top of the pile. You hurt?”

“No.” She clambered to her feet. “We were almost crushed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

She saw a dark trickle of blood on his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

He didn’t even look at the wound, but continued to stare upward. “Scratched.”

“Those boxes fell at just the right moment, didn’t they?” she said.

“Or the wrong one.”

Something in his voice alarmed her. “Do you think the earthquake destabilized them?”

“I think they had help.” His gaze was still riveted to the catwalk above them.

“Trey,” she said, her voice low. “Who would do that? Fred? Somebody else? What are you thinking?”

He shook his head and pulled her back into the covering folds of the curtain. “I’m thinking that we need to leave this theater right now.”

“I’m not going without Antonia.”

He straightened to his full height, a good head and a half taller. “She’s probably gone already.”

“I need to know for sure.”

“No, you don’t. You need to get out of here.”

“Is that an order, Captain?”

“A strong suggestion,” he muttered.

“And if I don’t comply?”

“Then I will help you to do that.” His eyes glittered in the darkness.

“You’re not army anymore.”

“No, ma’am. Just a carpenter, but I will see you to the exit, one way or another.”

“If I don’t cooperate, what do you intend to do about it?” She fired off the challenge, her gut tightening at the look that rose in his face.

He stood, feet slightly apart, hands loose at his sides. Though he kept his voice just above a whisper, every syllable was clear. “Sage, you need to leave this theater for your own safety. If I have to carry you out kicking and screaming, I am prepared for that contingency.”

She heard the hardened resolution in his quiet voice. Dimples and charming drawl aside, she knew he would not hesitate, and she was no match for his size and strength. She would lose this battle.

But not the war.

“Fine. I guess I have no choice if you’re going to be a bully.”

He did not smile. “Great. Let’s move.”

Was he right that someone had helped those boxes to fall on them? The same person who’d found her trapped and left her? Swallowing a surge of fear, she crept behind him back the way they had come. Trey’s body was wire-taut as he led them toward the stage door.

She peered past the proscenium arch into the rows of empty chairs. A flicker caught her eye.

“Trey,” she whispered. “I just saw a light. Out there.” She pointed.

“Might be Fred or maybe Derick has arrived,” he whispered back.

“No, I’m sure it’s Antonia.” She called out. “Antonia? Is that you?” No answer. “Maybe she didn’t hear me. I’m going to go check.”

“No, Sage.”

There was warning in his voice, but she didn’t listen. Instead she darted ahead of him toward the stairs.

He was after her in a moment.

She pushed against the metal door as he put a hand on her from behind.

Her knees trembled, a shaking that spread throughout her body.

Confused, she pushed the door harder but the shuddering kept on, rippling through her body until she could hardly stand.

Fighting for footing, she looked at Trey, unable to see his face clearly.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, the realization hit.

Earthquake.

The floor bucked and rolled under her feet like a live thing.

Trey went down on his back as the wood gave way.

“Get out,” he yelled. “Sage, get out now.”

Suddenly he was snatched from her view.

She tried to reach out to him, but she was being tumbled about as the surface continued to undulate. The sound of distressed wood shrieked and groaned around her. That’s when her mind put it together. This was the moment every Californian held in the back of their mind. The reality that was heightened by the 1989 Loma Prieta quake and captured in faded black-and-white photos from 1906.

This was the day scientists and doomsday broadcasters had predicted would come.

She heard the theater rattle around her, the beams coming loose from their supports, bits of plaster beginning to fracture and fall.

This was no ordinary earthquake.

This was the big one.

A sudden upheaval under her feet tossed her onto her back and she found herself staring at the ceiling, sections of which were breaking away, loosening huge chunks of plaster. She desperately tried to get her feet under her, to find some stability against the violent movement.

Somewhere she heard a scream. Antonia?

No time to process.

She wanted to call out for Trey, but the words froze in her throat as roar of sound enveloped her.

Like a scene from a bad movie, she watched uncomprehendingly as the floor of the stage ripped in half, sections parting wide like the jaws of a hungry beast.

A black chasm of splintered wood gaped in front of her and Sage rolled into the abyss, darkness swallowing her up.

FOUR

Trey tried to figure out which direction was up. His body filled with one desperate need. Get to your feet, soldier. Try as he might, he could not find a point of reference in the tumbling chaos. The thunderous shaking unleashed a tsunami of sound as wood and pieces of the old opera house ripped loose and smacked into him, bashing his shoulders and slicing into his neck. He threw up his hands to shield his head as his body finally made contact with what he assumed was the floor.

Another twenty seconds of tooth-rattling vibrations and the tumult was suddenly over. He sat up, loosening a pile of grit that showered off of him. He blinked hard. It was completely dark and for a moment he wondered if he had been knocked blind. Gradually, a weak filtering of light from somewhere up above made him realize that first off, he was not blind and second, wherever he’d fallen there would no longer be the easy comfort of a light switch.

“Sage?” he called. Trey had not felt fear since his return from the war zone, but he felt it now, thick and weighty, as he received no answer. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He’d fallen through the stage, into this cavernous black space. Far above he could now make out the underside of the wood floor, ripped and jagged, showing through the clouds of dust that billowed everywhere. Perhaps she had not fallen with him. Maybe she was still up there. “Sage,” he shouted again. The quiet was undisturbed.

He got to his feet, wobbling on the debris that slipped and slid beneath his feet. Every movement unleashed another tide of detritus and each sound made him stop, ears straining for some noise, any sign of life, from her. His heart hammered against his ribs as he floundered his way free, peering through the gloom to find her. Where are you? He prayed she was safe, that maybe she’d had time to run off the stage before it buckled. Yet another situation in which she would never have found herself if she’d listened to him in the first place. No time for quiet deliberation.

“Sage Harrington, answer me right now!” he bellowed in a volume so loud it echoed and bounced through the darkness.

It was not an answer, exactly, but a whoosh of debris stirred somewhere at his eleven o’clock. He scrambled over broken boards until he neared the spot, wishing he had not lost his grip on the flashlight earlier. He called again, treading gently on the rubble, turning over sheets of plaster until he saw a tiny pinprick of light. He got to his knees and pawed with his hands until he found the source, the luminous dial of Sage’s watch. He grasped her slender wrist and pulled her arm free, shoving aside as much of the mess as he could until he unearthed her.

She was covered in dirt, eyes closed.

He pressed two shaking fingers to her throat.

At his touch she jerked awake and bolted backward, her feet scrambling for purchase, eyes wild and glittering in the gloom. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me.”

Trey held up his hands, palms forward. “It’s me, Sage. Trey Black. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The crazed sheen in her eyes did not abate. Panting, she scanned the ceiling as if expecting a weight to drop down from above at any moment. Her body began to tremble and a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead.

In the face of her reaction, his anger trickled away. He knew the look, he’d seen it before, long after the bombs had stopped and the bullets went quiet. He’d known good men to suffer from PTSD, even after they were safe at home, back with the people who had anguished over them their entire tour of duty. Maybe for some, there was no safety anymore after war imprinted that fear deep down inside. The realization added to the weight of grief he felt over what had happened to her, to them both, in Afghanistan. He tried again, softening his voice. “It’s okay. There was an earthquake.”

“An earthquake?” she parroted back in a whisper.

“Yes,” he said. “We’re in the Imperial Opera House. We were standing on the stage when it collapsed.” She nodded and he took that as a good sign. “I wondered if you are hurt. Would it be okay if I came closer and checked you out?”

She might have nodded, he wasn’t sure in the dark, but he approached slowly until he was near enough to get a better visual. She’d moved to a spot where the light from above was less obstructed and he could see enough to know she didn’t have any open wounds that he could detect, except for a series of cuts on her face and hands. At his touch she flinched and tensed, so he stopped and smiled. “Just going to make sure there’s nothing broken, okay?”

He tried again and this time she did not pull away so he moved his hands along her legs and arms, until he was satisfied that there were no bones massively out of place. It was impossible to discern if she’d sustained any internal injury or head trauma. He’d just have to pray she’d escaped those, too. By the time he was done with his makeshift medical exam, her breathing had normalized. She drew her knees up to her chest. His heart skipped a beat at how very young she looked, how very small and delicate against the yawning mass behind her.

“It was a big one.”

“Yes. The Big One, I’d say.” He could imagine the frenzy taking place on the city streets—fire crews, police and every available city employee working to salvage life and property. San Francisco was a modern city in every sense of the word, and it had the reinforced steel skyscrapers to show for it, but he’d seen enough of the old buildings during his morning runs to know that there would be plenty of destruction to deal with.

“We’ve got to get out,” she said with only a slight tremble in her voice. “Will someone come to help us?”

“I think we’d be better off taking care of our own rescue,” he said, seating himself on a chunk of broken bricks.

“Do you think Antonia fell, too? And Fred?”

“I haven’t seen anyone but the two of us.” No sign of whoever had pushed the boxes down on them. He looked up at the stage floor some twenty feet above them. What had probably been a set of two ladders leading up from under the stage area had been ripped away during the quake until only a few rungs were left clinging to the walls. All around them were piles of boxes, but most were smashed too badly to be of use helping them climb out.

Sage’s breathing was steadier now. She patted her pockets and produced a cell phone, groaning as she peered at the cracked screen. “No signal here. It’s completely useless. What about yours?”

“I don’t carry a cell phone.”

Her mouth fell open. “What kind of person doesn’t carry a cell phone in this day and age?”

He shrugged. “The kind that doesn’t want to be connected, I guess.” He sighed. “In a war everyone has to be accounted for every moment, for their safety. I just...” He shook his head, wondering why in the world he was telling her this. “I wanted to disconnect, to sort of vanish for a while and remember who I used to be. Does that make sense?”

Her eyes shimmered and she gave a tiny nod. He wanted to cup her cheek just then, to make her understand that war had changed both of them, but the bite of anger stilled his hands. Her trauma had been totally avoidable. “Cell phone probably wouldn’t help anyway, since we’re basically underground, and even if we could call, the networks are probably jammed. Texting might be about the only option.”

“I’ll text Antonia now.” She waited for a moment with no response.

“So this is going to be a do-it-yourself rescue,” Trey said. “I’m going to poke around and see if there’s an exit down here.”

She got to her feet. “Me, too.”

He was about to tell her she should remain seated, the memory of her earlier reaction haunting him, but something told him she did not want to be alone, even though it would kill her to say so. So be it. Her PTSD would be the unspoken elephant in the room. At least for now. He offered a hand and she took it, rising in a cloud of dust that made them both cough.

It was hard to access the perimeter of the room, blocked as it was by the ruins, but he found one section of brick that gave him a starting point. “We’ll work our way around as best we can, and if there are no exits, we’ll go to plan B.” He began feeling his way along the rough brick.

“What’s plan B?” Sage said, shuffling behind him.

“I don’t know. I haven’t come up with that yet.”

She sighed and pressed closer to his back. He tried to ignore the way her presence made his breath tick up a notch as they climbed over boards and scraps of what looked like ancient theater backdrops.

“What’s that?” Sage said, moving away from him. For a moment he lost track of her.

“Where are you?”

“Here,” she said, flicking on a light that illuminated her smile. “I found the flashlight and it still works.”

He couldn’t help but return that smile. “That’s one blessing working in our favor,” he said.

Her smile dimmed. “No blessing. Just a happy coincidence.”

He decided not to argue the point, but deep down he knew the truth. Both of us just survived a massive earthquake and God tossed in a flashlight to boot. Now it was up to Trey to get them both out of there.

“Let’s move.” He straightened his shoulders and pressed on.

* * *

Sage had to force her fingers to relax their death grip on the flashlight. Deep breaths. Anything to press away the fear she’d felt when she’d woken up buried, smothered and in darkness. She busied herself flicking the beam of light over the piles, assisting, being productive, not the helpless child she’d been a moment before. Not here. Not in front of him.

The thought shivered through her mind. They were both alive and intact, but Antonia might not have been so lucky. Sage had seen her enter the theater and head through the lobby, but where had she disappeared to? By the time Sage parked her car, Antonia was nowhere to be found and the woman had not responded to a single text or call. Maybe she’d departed again, decided against talking to Sage.

Sage was aggravated by the trembling in her knees. Part of her wished she was alone, without a witness to her struggles. The other part, a tiny part deep down in her soul, was grateful that Trey was with her to keep the darkness at bay. He did not deserve to be trapped in there with her, but she was glad not to be alone.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not notice that Trey had stopped until she plowed into him from behind, her cheekbone meeting his shoulder blade.

“What is it?” she asked, rubbing the feeling of him off her cheek.

“A door, I think, but it’s covered by these broken beams. We’re going to have to shift some things.” He started to hurl some of the smaller pieces aside. She tried to help without losing her grip on the flashlight.

“Ouch,” he said as she smacked him with the end of a beam.

“Sorry.”

“Just hold the flashlight for a minute.”

“And stay out of the way?” she snapped. “Don’t order me around.”

“I’m not ordering...” he began, an edge in his voice. “I’m asking you to please hold the flashlight while I work. If you want, we can take turns and you can haul wood and I’ll hold the flashlight after a while.”

She didn’t answer, but she determined that no matter how messed up she was inside, she would not let Trey see her as weak. Holding the flashlight like a sword, she bit back the sassy remarks that circled in her brain.

Trey cleared enough that they could see the outline of the door fully now. It was wooden, partially decayed and splintering in some places. He grabbed the handle and yanked. It ripped away from the door, sending him stumbling back.

She kept her smile under wraps. “Here. Maybe we can pry it open with this.” She passed him a thin metal rod, clammy with moisture.

He shoved it in the crack under the threshold and threw his weight against the iron bar. A section of wood crumbled. Tossing the bar aside, he grabbed the remaining door planks and exerted pressure. They pulled away easily.

Sage shone the flashlight into the corridor beyond.

“Where does this lead?” Trey said.

“I’m not sure. There are a series of tunnels that connect various storage rooms and such. Barbara said she’d send me the blueprint, but I never got anything.”

He stepped into the dark interior, disturbing a fine layer of dust from the floor. It was quiet. Not the tiniest sound to indicate there was anyone else close by. He wondered if whoever had sent the boxes down on them hadn’t survived the quake. Trey didn’t allow himself further speculation. “Well lookee here,” he called, disappearing into the tunnel and emerging a moment later carrying a ten-foot wooden ladder. “We may not have to chance the tunnel. This might be tall enough to reach up to the set of ladder rungs up there.” He pointed to the slats that still clung, against all odds, to the side of the chamber where they had fallen.

She grabbed the rear end of the ladder and helped him carry it to a spot where he could unfold it properly. He gingerly climbed up a rung, testing the integrity of the wood.

“Will it hold?” she said.

“I guess we’ll find out.” He started up.

“What happens if you’re ten feet up when it gives out?” she called to his back.

“Then you’re going to want to make sure you’re not standing underneath me,” he called.

Sage rolled her eyes. Typical. If he fell down and smashed himself up, how would that change their situation for the better? And if someone bad was ready and waiting for Trey to emerge from the hole? Her breath grew short as she watched him climb higher, the wood slats creaking under his feet. Reaching the top, he stretched out his arms and grabbed hold of the other set of rungs. One snapped under his hand, sending a chunk of wood hurtling down.

“Look out,” he shouted.

Sage dodged the falling piece. “It’s rotten. Don’t risk it.”

“You’re telling me not to take risks? That’s a good one.” He crept cautiously up the ladder.

Her stomach contracted. She was back in camp, an angry Trey Black arguing with his commanding officer’s orders.

Too risky. No place for a civilian, a woman civilian. This is a war, not a photo op. Don’t order me to do this.

But she’d used her connections and he’d been railroaded into taking her. Too risky? She’d fought hard to show him she was not afraid, and every bit as tough as he was.

What a joke.

And the cost of her bravado? Her foolish pride?

Luis’s life.

She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, unaware that he was speaking again.

“What?” she called up.

“I said did you hear that?”

She refocused and listened hard. “No. Is it Antonia?” She wished she could risk climbing the ladder behind him, but their combined weight would collapse it for sure.

He was silent for a moment.

“What?” she yelled again. “What did you hear?”

“Quiet, I’m listening,” he called down.

She would have socked him in the shoulder if he was closer. Instead she bit back her temper and remained silent, wondering if somewhere in the massive wreck he’d heard Antonia or Fred. If she was still the praying kind, she would ask God to make it so.

FIVE

The dust drifted past the gap in the ruined stage floor. He felt the urgent need to make a decision, but which one? Climb farther up, find the nearest exit and hope it was unblocked? Go back down, take the unknown tunnel and hope it led to an exit? Risk assessment didn’t work too well when both options were equally bad. A faraway crack sounded somewhere. A gunshot? Or his ears fooling him? Echoes from the past, Trey.

“Did you hear Antonia?” Sage yelled. “You’ve got to get to her.”

“I dunno what I heard,” he said, his mind momentarily bringing up the toppled boxes that had nearly flattened them earlier. He could not escape the feeling that Antonia was not the only one hiding in the shadows, though he could not for the life of him imagine why. As the ruins shifted and packed down, there was a cacophony of tiny noises and it was impossible to tell if any were caused by human activity. No more time to chew on it. Up or down?

Neither option held enough certainty until he got more intel. He ascended one more rung on the aged ladder to better see into the gap. His foot broke through the wood. Grabbing at the rickety structure started a domino effect as the wood pieces snapped one by one, and he began to slide.

He heard Sage cry out from below, but he could not stop his downward momentum. He busted through several more slats before one held and he clung there, feet dangling into the black space below.

“Hold on,” Sage yelled. “I’m moving the ladder.”

Perspiration rolled down his temples as he hung there with clawed fingers, listening to the ominous crackle and groan of the wood as it took the punishment of his bulk. He felt a bump on his foot as Sage shoved the ladder as close as she could manage. A few wild swings of his feet nearly knocked it over.

“Stop thrashing,” she commanded. “Straight down at your five o’clock. That’s as close as I can get it with all this junk in the way down here.”

He almost smiled at her commanding tone as he maneuvered into position and put both feet on the ladder. In a ridiculous, awkward fashion, he managed to transfer his weight and climb down as quickly as he could.

Wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, he pulled a sliver of wood from his palm. “Thanks.”

She stared up at the bits of tinder still clinging to the bricks. “Looks like we’re not climbing out that way.”

“Sorry,” he said. “On to plan B, but there is some good news.”

“I could use some right about now.”

He walked around her and reached into a dusty alcove formed by a partially crushed piece of plaster. “I found my pack,” he said, holding it up triumphantly. “I noticed it before the ladder let me down, so to speak.”

She licked her dry lips and it made his heart hitch up a notch. Sighing, she looked up into the darkness. “I wonder what’s going on up there, outside on the streets, I mean.”

“It’s not pretty, I’m sure.” He thought about his brother, who was due to return to San Francisco that morning. Dallas was tough and resourceful, but he had some physical damage to work around. Trey pushed away that thought and the guilt that went along with it. He led the way back to the door they’d forced open. Cool air bathed his skin as he peered in.

“Let’s go,” Sage said, trying to edge around him.

“Hold up. I’m trying to think.”

“What’s to think about? It’s our only way out, isn’t it?”

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure it is a way out. We could find ourselves at a dead end.”

“Or we could find an exit, or Antonia. I say we get moving.”

She had a point, though to his way of thinking, run in first and ask questions later was a great way to get killed. He endured a flare of anger at the realization that he found himself once again responsible for the safety and survival of Sage Harrington and her friend.

Not funny, God. I already failed that mission the first go-around. Isn’t it somebody else’s turn? Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be anyone else for him to hand over the task to.

“Take this,” he said, opening a foil package from his pack and snapping a light stick to life. The green glow revealed her surprise.

“I thought you only carried around a hammer and screwdriver in there.”

He took the flashlight from her and positioned himself in the front. “You’d be surprised what I squirrel away in this bag.” He followed it up with a water bottle. “Drink sparingly, I’ve only got two.”

Sage took the bottle and swigged some, her eyes closing in pleasure. He watched the fine muscles of her slender throat, pale and delicate, as she swallowed. “Thank you,” she said, handing it back to him. He took a quick gulp and recapped it before they went inside.

The walls of the tunnel were brick, relatively intact except where the mortar had begun to crumble. Here and there the floor was littered with chunks that had fallen away, and they had to move slower than he would have liked. He figured they were trekking south toward the rear of the theater, but as the tunnel turned and turned again, he could not keep his bearings.

Their combined light did not make substantial inroads into the darkness. He felt the familiar prickle, the tension about enemies lying in wait, and he was carried back to the day his team had done a routine sweep of a small village and walked right into a well-planned Taliban ambush. His memory reverberated with the rumble of tracer rounds, punishing machine-gun fire, the wail of a woman when she’d learned of her son’s courageous death, their platoon medic who’d shown valor well beyond his years. So much death, so much fear. How unfair that it had followed him home. And her, too.

Sage must have been in the grip of her own anxiety because he noticed she pressed close to him, her hand brushing the small of his back at first, and then clutching a handful of his shirt. Trey stopped and beamed his light down at the floor. At the juncture where the floor met the wall was a small rectangular grate, no bigger than a shoebox, covered by an iron grille. A strange noise emanated from the spot, a thin whine. He dropped to his knees and peered in.

Sage knelt next to him. “What’s in there?”

Trey flattened his body to the floor and pushed close until his face was practically touching the rusted metal. Now a mournful howl filled the tunnel and a tiny black nose pushed through the gap.

“It’s Wally,” Trey said. He curled his fingers around the grate and pulled.

Sage took the flashlight from Trey so he could use both hands. “How did he get there? I thought Fred was taking him.”

“Don’t think he got the chance. Wally’s not too obedient. There must be a parallel tunnel or something,” he grunted, yanking so hard on the metalwork that his teeth ground together. The bars did not give the tiniest bit. Wally continued to whine, louder. “I’ll get you out, boy. I promise.”

Trey returned to the outer room and retrieved the iron rod he’d used to pry his way through the tunnel doors. He sat down and began to heave at the bars.

Sage shook her head. “It won’t work. We have to go on, Trey.”

“I’m not leaving the dog,” he said, gasping with the effort.

“He can find his way out.”

He didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed the hammer from his pack and a small chisel and tried to work at the corner hinges. When that proved unproductive he determined to use the last resort tool, brute force.

“Trey, this is ridiculous.”

He ignored her and began to smash away at the edges of the grate with a hammer, sending bits of brick flying in all directions, hoping he didn’t give the poor dog a heart attack.

“You need to stop.” Sage gripped his shoulder midswing and he stood to face her.

“I’ll be through in a few minutes if you’d quit interrupting.”

Her mouth tightened. “We cannot waste time like this. Antonia is somewhere in there, and if there’s someone after us, you’re leading them right to our location.”

He kept his voice level over his rising anger. “I told you, this will only take a minute. I’m not leaving this dog here.”

“Trey,” she snapped. “Big picture. We’re trapped. Antonia may be hurt.” She stabbed a finger at the grate. “That’s a dog who can probably take better care of itself than we can.”

The tide of anger burst through his reserve. “Listen up, Sage. I know it’s a dog. And guess what? It’s still a life and a precious one and I spent enough time with dogs in Afghanistan who risked their own safety to get us guys out of the pits we dug for ourselves.”

“But...”

“And,” he finished, his voice dangerously tense, “dogs are more loyal and selfless that some people I’ve met.” He didn’t wait to see her reaction but threw himself on the floor and took up the hammer again, drowning out any response she might have made with the ringing of steel on rock.

* * *

Sage leaned her back against the rough brick behind her, feeling like a child who has been taken to task. More selfless than some people... He would never understand that her mission in Afghanistan wasn’t for her own personal comfort and enjoyment. And wasn’t she paying the price for her time there? Emotionally crippled, caged by fear. He had no right to go ballistic on her for putting Antonia’s life over the dog’s.

She would go on without him, find her own way through the corridors. Six steps into the blackness and her skin began to prickle, her nerves jumping uncontrollably. Come on, Sage. You’re not afraid of the dark. The truth rang mockingly in her head. She was, down to the depths of her soul, too scared to venture into the belly of the opera house on her own. Where was the intrepid woman she’d been? That woman had been slain right next to Luis in a split second of horror that now stretched out into a lifetime. She steeled herself against the tears that threatened.

Hating herself and the cowardice that shivered through her body, she returned just in time to see Trey slide the grate away from the wall and flatten himself in front of the hole.

“Wally,” he called softly into the void. “Sorry about the noise, buddy. Come on out. It’s okay now.”

At first there was no sign of movement and Sage wondered if his efforts had been futile. It would serve him right and prove she was smarter than he gave her credit for. But something in his optimistic tone and the gentleness with which he shoved his big hands into the darkness made her hope that she was wrong.

Long minutes ticked by. Trey got to his feet and brushed off the knees of his jeans. “I think I scared him.”

She wanted to put her arms around him, to forget the condemnation she’d heard in his tone a moment before and soothe the small grief that slumped his broad shoulders. “Dogs are clever,” she said brightly. “Didn’t you tell me that your brother wanted to be a kennel master in the marines?”

Trey nodded as he packed up his tools. “Yes, but that didn’t pan out.”

“Why?”

Trey’s expression changed suddenly. He looked at the ceiling. “He got hurt.” He cleared his throat. “Because of me. And that ended his chances to be a marine.”

When he finally met her gaze she saw a world there in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before, maybe hadn’t allowed herself to see. She reached a hand to him, to bridge the gap that seemed to have narrowed with his admission. “I...”

A scrabbling noise drew their attention. The rubble around the grate hole began to vibrate as if some determined gopher was tunneling in from the other side.

“Rats?” she said.

Trey grunted. “Oh, man, I hope not. I hate rats.”

The rubble suddenly erupted in a shower of grit and Wally’s tiny wedge of a head popped through the opening. He shook his head, ears flapping wildly as he looked around.

“Hey, Wal,” Trey shouted, crouching to snag the little animal. The rest of Wally emerged, all long legs and whip of a tail, his sides heaving rapidly.

Trey tried to wipe the grime off the dog, but Wally would settle for nothing short of a complete tongue bath of Trey’s cheeks. “All right, all right,” he laughed, waving away the eager canine. “You can thank me later.” He retrieved the water bottle and poured some into his cupped palm.

The dog lapped it up.

Sage knelt and peered into the hole while Trey examined the dog for wounds. “Wonder what’s on the other side of this wall.”

Trey didn’t answer.

She turned to find him tense, face grave as he bent over Wally. “Can you get the towel out of my pack?” he asked.

Fueled by the gravity of his tone, she hurried to snatch it up and hand it to him. He pressed it carefully to the dog’s side and then pulled it away.

“Is he hurt?” she whispered.

He held up the towel for her to examine with her glow stick. Her breath caught as she saw the dark stain. “Blood?”

He nodded and turned back to the dog, who kept wiggling out of his grasp. “Hang on.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a tiny cellophane package. “Can you hold one of these and see if he’ll lick it while I try to stop the bleeding?”

She took the bag of saltwater taffy from him, unable to resist a grin. “You’re still the candy man, aren’t you?” She couldn’t tell exactly, but she thought he might have blushed.

“Yeah, well I guess every man has his vice.”

Even in a war zone, Trey was the one person who could be counted upon to have a stash of sweets collected from anywhere he could acquire it—packages from his mother, trades with the other soldiers and even some sugarcoated almonds he’d managed to score from a local villager. It amused her and Luis that the big, bold captain had the insatiable sweet tooth of a toddler. Her cheeks warmed when she remembered how he’d shared some partially melted toffees with her. Even in their mushy state, she’d never enjoyed a piece of candy as much as that mangled treat. Nothing had tasted as sweet since and she doubted anything ever would.

Shaking away the thought, she unwrapped a piece of yellow taffy and held it up for Wally, who held still long enough to sniff at it.

“Good stuff, Wally,” she said. “Try a taste and see.”

Wally shot out a slender pink tongue and gave a tentative lick. Then he set about sniffing the thing with his tiny jelly bean of a nose. One more halfhearted lick and then he lost interest, wiggling out of Trey’s grasp and starting off to give the walls a thorough once-over.

“Sorry,” she said, tossing the candy aside. “He doesn’t have a sweet tooth.” She’d gone for a teasing tone, a way to smooth things over between them, but he didn’t answer her.

She came closer and saw he held the towel in his hands, staring at the stains. “Is he too hurt for you to help him?” She put a hand on his hard biceps, feeling the wash of shame at her earlier actions. “Maybe I can carry him while we look for a way out. If we wrap his wounds tight...”

“It’s not that,” Trey said. “Wally is perfectly fine, no wounds at all, anywhere.”

“Fine? Then...”

He held up the blood-stained towel. “This isn’t his blood.”

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