Bones of the Lost

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    First and foremost I offer profound thanks to every member of the United States military, past, present, and future. The steadfast dedication, courage, and strength of our troops inspired this book.
    Heartfelt thanks to the USO (United Service Organizations) and the ITW (International Thriller Writers) for making possible my trip to Kyrgyzstan and Afghanistan. The camaraderie and patience of my fellow travelers—Sandra Brown, Mark Bowden, Clive Cussler, Andrew Peterson, Jeremy Wilcox, and Mike Theiler—made the long flights, early mornings, and late nights infinitely easier than they might otherwise have been. A special shout-out to Andrew Peterson and Andy Harp for answering dozens of follow-up questions.
    Dr. William C. Rodriguez and Dr. Sue Black helped with details of forensic anthropology.
    I appreciate the continued support of Chancellor Philip L. Dubois of the University of North Carolina–Charlotte.
    Sincere thanks to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph-Walsh, and to my editors, Nan Graham and Susan Sandon. I am eternally indebted to Susan Moldow. I hope the dedication says it all.
    I also want to acknowledge all those who work so very hard on my behalf, including: Paul Whitlatch, Roz Lippel, Lauren Lavelle, Daniel Burgess, Tal Goretzky, Kara Watson, Greg Mortimer, Mia Crowley-Hald, Erich Hobbing, Simon Littlewood, Glenn O’Neill, Caitlin Moore, Tim Vanderpump, Jen Doyle, Emma Finnigan, Maggie Shapiro, Tracy Fisher, Michelle Feehan, Cathryn Summerhayes, and Raffaella De Angelis, and the whole rambunctious Canadian crew.
    I thank my family and friends for tolerating my moods and absences. Paul Reichs’s comments on the Marine Corps, JAG, and the Article 32 process, and on the manuscript in general, were tremendously useful.
    As always, thanks and hugs to my readers. I love that you read about Tempe, attend my signings and appearances, visit my website ( KathyReichs.com ), like me on Facebook, and follow me on Twitter ( @kathyreichs ). You guys are awesome!
    If I left anyone out, I apologize. If the book contains errors, they are my fault.

PROLOGUE
    HEART POUNDING, I crawled toward the brick angling down to form the edge of the recess. Craned out.
    More footfalls. Then heavy boots appeared at the top of the stairs, beside them a pair of small feet, one bare, the other in a platform pump.
    The feet started to descend, the small ones wobbly, their owner somehow impaired. The lower legs angled oddly, suggesting the knees bore little weight.
    Anger burned hot in my chest. The woman was drugged. The bastard was dragging her.
    Four treads lower, the man and woman crossed an arrow of moonlight. Not a woman, a girl. Her hair was long, her arms and legs refugee thin. I could see a triangle of white tee below the man’s chin. A pistol grip jutting from his waistband.
    The pair again passed into darkness. Their tightly pressed bodies formed a two-headed black silhouette.
    Stepping from the bottom tread, the man started muscling the girl toward the loading-dock door, pushing her, a hand clamping her neck. She stumbled. He yanked her up. Her head flopped like a Bobblehead doll’s.
    The girl took a few more staggering steps. Then her chin lifted and her body bucked. A cry broke the stillness, animal shrill.
    The man’s free arm shot out. The silhouette recongealed. I heard a scream of pain, then the girl pitched forward onto the concrete.
    The man dropped to one knee. His elbow pumped as he pummeled the inert little body.
    “Fight me, you little bitch?”
    The man punched and punched until his breath grew ragged.
    Rage flamed white-hot in my brain, overriding any instinct for personal safety.
    I scuttled over and grabbed the Beretta. Checked the safety, thankful for the practice I’d put in at the range.
    Satisfied with the gun, I reached for my phone. It wasn’t with the flashlight.
    I searched my other pocket. No phone.
    Had I dropped it? In my frenzied dash, had I left it at home?
    The panic was almost overwhelming. I was off the grid. What to do?
    A tiny voice advised caution. Remain hidden. Wait. Slidell knows where you are.
    “You are so dead.” The voice boomed, cruel and malicious.
    I whipped around.
    The man was wrenching the girl up by her hair.
    Holding the Beretta two-handed in front of me, I darted from the alcove. The man froze at the sound of movement. I stopped five yards from him. Using a pillar for cover, I spread my feet and leveled the barrel.
    “Let her go.” My shout reverberated