Justine cracked open her door, and a rush of wind and snow flooded into the Fusion’s interior. She paused, allowing the feeling of tiny little pinpricks to assault her face. The change of temperature sent a series of welcomed shivers down her entire body. In fact, the only part of her not exhilarated by the cold was her cracked ribs.

  By the time she heaved herself out of the rental car, Saunders had almost a twenty-foot head start. Instantly, her competitive streak calculated the distance to the entrance at 100 yards. Under sunny conditions and unbruised ribs, she could catch him with no problem. But scattered piles of snow and ice still covered most of the institute’s massive parking lot.

  “I thought you were in a big hurry, Rushing?” Saunders looked back over his shoulder to see Justine still ten feet away. Though, to his surprise, she was gaining fast. “This weather must be murder on those broken bones of yours.”

  Only half listening to his taunts, Justine’s gaze rose above the facility, toward the ski slopes nestled into mountains behind the Institute. Her face practically beamed at the thought of hiking to the top. There, she would find the nastiest trail, strap on her snowboard, and spend the afternoon risking life and limb. Sure, the trek up would be dull, but the trip down would be nothing short of death-defyingly spectacular.

  “Now that I see the destination, maybe we should get a room.” She finally caught up to Saunders, matching him stride for stride.

  “Maybe back in the ’80s. These days, this place caters to a very different type of clientele.” He pointed toward the myriad of security cameras covering the snow-covered parking lot. “Not a lot of skiing around here anymore.”

  Justine zipped her jacket up all the way. The frigid wind off the mountain was starting to aggravate her ribs even more. “Why does this place look like a chalet?” She asked sarcastically. “It reminds me of a place north of Breckinridge where my family spent Christmas.”

  “Breckenridge,” Saunders smiled. “I didn’t know you were a rich kid.”

  “Not really, it was a special occasion.” Justine changed the subject very quickly. “So, why does it look like a ski lodge?”

  “Because up until 84’, it was.” Saunders sounded slightly annoyed at having to explain. “Didn’t you read the briefing packet on the way up here?”

  “Read?” Justine smiled dismissively while the tip of her nose began to turn a soft pink from the weather. “Skimmed would be a more accurate depiction of events. Fill me in.”

  “How do you even survive?” Saunders shook his head and stuffed his hands further down his jacket pockets. “This place was originally called the Casmire. It was built back in the late 1900s. By some French land developer who immigrated over here before the outbreak of World War I.”

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  Justine surveyed the structure from one end to the other. The sheer size of the place caught her a bit off guard. “French, huh, I guess that would explain why it looks like an overdone chalet.”

  “Exactly,” Saunders pointed to a series of large oaken logs that served as parking barriers along the sidewalk. “He planned to bring the opulence of Europe to the peasants of America. At least, that’s how he sold it to his investors. And, for a long time, it worked. The Casmire became one of the most popular skiing communities this side of the Mississippi. Every rich asshole with the means and desire for the French Alps vibe flocked here.”

  “What happened?”

  “What always happens? The money moved away,” Saunders answered. “Just like the steel towns in Pittsburg did at the end of the war.”

  “Now it’s a nut house?” Justine rubbed her hands together for warmth as thoughts of the Shining danced in her furtive imagination. She couldn’t help but picture hundreds of axes smashing through every door in the building. How many Johnny’s could this place hold?

  “Mental rehabilitation institute, Agent Rushing,” Saunders sternly corrected her. Though, the upturned corners of his mouth betrayed his true feelings on the matter. “At least that’s how we’ll refer to it in front of the administrator, Dr. Armstrong.”

  “At least the patients have some beautiful views.” Justine caught one more glimpse of the mountain before it vanished completely behind a series of elongated spires. Near the institute’s entrance, she once again attempted to focus. But her mind seemed more preoccupied with the location of her snowboarding gear than her job. “They must find it peaceful.”

  “That was the idea,” Saunders shrugged his shoulders. “That… and the remoteness of this location is perfect for discouraging any possible breakouts.”

  Together, they trudged to the top of the stone steps to where a pair of giant doors stood. Fashioned from a single piece of ancient redwood, no ax in the world could break through it — not even one held by Jack Nicholson.

  “You said this place was built over a century ago.” Justine took notice of some damaged stonework around the base of the hotel’s structure. The shutters, once pristinely coated with layers of brown varnish, were now worn dull by the weather and time. “This place doesn’t seem very ‘state of the art’ to me.”

  “The Wilson Foundation spent millions of dollars to retrofit this place. Structural repairs, complete electrical rewire, there’s even an all-new complex behind the hotel to hold the more extreme cases.” He reached out and pressed a small button positioned just to the left of the doors. Below the button, the word “Service” was etched ominously onto a small metallic plate. “This place gives me the creeps. I don’t want to be here any longer than we need to.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Johnny.” Justine chorused. Above their heads, she eyed a very unusual and sophisticated surveillance camera. The high-end digital CCTV unit swiveled around to survey their position like a vulture stalking its prey. “I hope this guy is worth us wasting a perfectly good Saturday night.”

  They hadn’t talked much about the individual they were assigned to escort back to Washington. Saunders was privy to some of the details. Words like “important” and “routine” were bandied about by his superiors but much of what he knew only made the assignment seem frivolous. An Ex NSA employee was wanted for an interview back in DC. Such menial tasks were hardly an effective use of FBI resources.

  But as they waited for someone to buzz them into the outer lobby, another idea bolstered his spirits. This trip was the kind of meaningless errand he’d always wanted. That’s why he had worked so hard to get this posting. Jeffrey Saunders wanted to be very far away from the dangers of fieldwork.

  “Worth it?” Saunders pressed the button once again, and with a smile, fought his instinct to be honest with his partner. “I’m sure he will be.”