Out of Reach: A Novel by Patricia Lewin

right of the freezer. “There’s a fire exit.”
    Erin sprang toward it, her path relatively clear compared with that of the men following Beckwith. Slamming through the emergency door, she set off a wailing alarm. She ignored it and raced toward the rear of the building.
    As she rounded the corner, Beckwith leapt from the loading dock, with no sign of Donovan or the cop behind him. He was headed for the woods, across a parking lot and litter-strewn field. Once there, they’d lose him.
    She increased her speed, her feet barely touching the pavement, wishing she had a weapon.
    He saw her coming, seconds before she slammed into him, bringing him to the ground. He landed with a grunt, and she tucked and rolled, back on her feet before he’d gathered enough wits to scramble. Then he jumped up with the energy of youth and fear, but she didn’t give him time to regain his balance. Swinging a leg around, she swept his from beneath him. And he was on the ground again, cursing.
    Suddenly, Donovan and the uniform were on them.
    Erin backed off, letting the cop snag Beckwith’s arm and roll him onto his stomach.
    “I didn’t do anything,” Beckwith hollered.
    “Then why the hell did you run?” asked the cop as he slapped cuffs on the man’s wrists.
    Donovan grabbed Erin’s arm and pulled her away from the other two men. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    “Catching your man for you.” She yanked her arm from his grasp, irritation rekindling the adrenaline just as it had started to ebb. “Or would you rather have had to track him through those woods?”
    “It was a damn stupid stunt,” he said, features tight. “You could have been hurt.”
    “Do I look hurt?”
    He started to answer, then stopped, as if suddenly realizing something about her. And he looked her over, possibly for signs of blood. “Where did you learn to drop a man like that?”
    “Does it matter?”
    Again, he looked ready to argue but stopped himself. Giving her a look that said their conversation was far from over, he turned his attention back to the young cop, who was hauling Beckwith to his feet.
    “Read him his rights,” Donovan snapped. “Then I have a few questions.”
    “It’s not him,” Erin said, disappointment tinging her voice.
    Donovan swung back to her. “What?”
    “He’s not the man I saw in the park.” Beckwith didn’t move right. He was young and agile, but lacking the grace and control of the other man. And he’d gone down too easily.
    “Damn.” Donovan dragged a hand through his hair. “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.” Again, she was expecting him to accept her at her word and knew it was asking a lot.
    “Agent Donovan.”
    His frustration showing, he turned toward the second police officer, jogging toward them from the direction of the cars. “What is it?”
    “They found her.” The officer stopped in front of them, looking at her first before settling on Donovan. “They found Chelsea Madden.”

VIII
    F ROM HIS WINDOW , Ryan watched the headlights approach the mansion. It was after midnight, well past time for deliveries or household staff returning for the night. That left only one possibility. Trader.
    Ryan shivered.
    The General had arrived earlier in the day with his usual flourish: a black stretch limousine and four-car diplomatic escort. A short while later, another visitor had arrived. One of the many who often showed up during the General’s short stays. A small man, nervous, his eyes darting this way and that as one of the General’s men escorted him inside.
    Trader, on the other hand, always came at night. Always alone. No one ever greeted him. And his visits were never a good thing.
    Although Ryan had been expecting him. The boy, Cody, had already been here longer than most. Three days. It had to be some kind of record. It was past time for Trader to come for him.
    Suppressing a stab of guilt, Ryan crawled back into bed and waited for the stomp of feet in the outside hallway, the click