For The Thrill of it. A Michael Stone adventure.

Previously

…Michael stood. His ribs sent another message. He filed it with the rest. They moved deeper into the tree line, away from the clearing, away from the track, away from the warehouse buried in the hill. The red triangles on the trees pointed northwest. They went south. Behind them, the smoker lit another cigarette. The steel doors reflected nothing. The hill swallowed the cargo and kept it. Somewhere ahead, through five kilometers of forest, there was a settlement with a phone. Or there wasn't. Michael had four rounds, a torn ledger page, and a woman who'd held onto it through a river and a barge and a night that should have ended her. He'd worked harder cases. Not many.