Return of Old Sits.
The approach to Sergei’s compound looked like most ranch roads. The turnoff marked by the typical beat-up mailbox with a number, the only indication of the road to turn on.
Calling the drive a road was being kind. No blacktop or even gravel to help hold the shape. The track was little more than a conventional cattle guard breaking an ever-present three-wire fence. A pair of tire tracks leading into the hills, sagebrush growing tall enough to scrape the undercarriage of the SUVs as they headed up the drive. Rutted and rough, the track would be impassable to anything short of a four-by with any kind of rain.
“Seems Sergei still likes his privacy and his games of playing hide and seek.” Trevor, unable to make out the house from the road, followed Svetlana slightly behin
