49
SCARS THAT SPEAK
Just north of the Willmont Homestead
Jana charged up the hillside and slung the sniper rifle diagonally over her head and shoulder as her legs pounded up the rocky terrain.
Her mind flashed back to all those times at Quantico when her instructors yelled for her to charge up a daunting hill that FBI trainees had nicknamed the widow-maker. Then another memory ricocheted forward—her shooting instructor’s steely voice. Double tap, center mass, then one to the head.
She crested the hilltop and looked into the shimmering reflection of lake water below. On the far side of the lake, Jana saw the float plane. Her eyes continued to trace the shoreline until she found the mouth of Tower Creek. Before she broke into a sprint toward the creek, she couldn’t help but notice Range
