Jack Frost

by Diane Capri

  It seemed that all of South Dakota had tucked in for the night. The only things alive and awake out there in the cold were wild creatures, a few of which were deadly. Unless she could get Judd out of the car, there was no way she could escape until daylight.

  When they’d driven ten miles past the cloverleaf, Judd said, “There’s an intersection coming up. A county road. Turn left.”

  She put her turn signal on out of habit. A glimmer of hope lifted her spirits, and she smiled to herself.

  They were heading south.

  Toward Mount Rushmore.

  The busiest tourist attraction in South Dakota.

  One of the most heavily watched places on earth.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Saturday, May 14

  South Dakota

  10:45 p.m.

  While they were still sitting in the diner’s parking lot, Kim opened her laptop and connected it to her secure satellite.

  “What are you doing?” Burke asked.

  “Downloading files while I have a strong signal,” she said as she retrieved the data Gaspar had placed there. One file was labeled simply “runways.”

  “Hello. We’re supposed to be partners here. You’re gonna need to start trusting me. What’ve you got?” Burke asked.

  “Sorry. I’ve been working solo too long,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t believe Keegan was planning to drive that Land Rover to Canada.”

  “Based on what? Coply intuition?” Burke said, mocking Mitchell without cracking a smile. Maybe Burke wasn’t totally humorless after all.

  “Logic, wiseass. The longer Keegan and Walsh stayed on the road, the more likely they were to get caught. Keegan would have understood the risk of a long drive like that using the same vehicle,” she explained, holding her patience. Burke was a new partner. She’d give him time to get used to her methods. “So it makes sense that they’d want to drive that Land Rover as little as possible.”

  Burke nodded, as he grasped her point and extended the analysis. “But they also needed to get out of the country as quickly possible. So you think they planned to fly?”

  “Makes sense to me,” Kim said. “Got a better theory?”

  He shook his head. “Let’s go with yours. Say Keegan’s plan was to fly into Canada. Smithers and the locals are stretched thin, but I’m sure he has the airports on alert. They’ll find him.”

  “They probably would if he tried to take a commercial flight. Keegan is smart enough to know that, too.” She opened Gaspar’s file and scanned it quickly. “So I’m guessing he made an alternative plan.”

  “A private jet? Every phone call Keegan ever had, incoming or outgoing, while he was inside Bolton prison would have been recorded and monitored. Every piece of mail, too. How would he have set up a private jet while he was inside?” Burke asked, and then answered his own question half a moment later. “Through his lawyer. Fern Olson.”

  Kim nodded. “Most likely.”

  “So what are you looking at in those files?” Burke asked as if she’d convinced him.

  She didn’t mention that Gaspar was the source of her intel. No point in getting Burke’s panties in a wad about that again.

  “We’ve located four runways within a four-hour drive from Bolton prison. All are at least a mile long.”

  “Why four hours?”

  Kim shrugged. “Just a guess. But closer to Bolton would mean a greater chance of getting caught. And farther from Bolton would have meant more drive time in the Land Rover. Four hours seemed like a reasonable distance.”

  “So a four-hour drive to a runway that’s a mile long. Means it could be used for takeoff by a private jet with enough flight range to reach deep into Canada,” Burke said, head cocked as if he was thinking things through. “Four runways, four hours. That’s a lot of ground for us to cover. We’ll need help.”

  “Not all four are viable options, though. Keegan is smart. He’d have figured out the best choice,” Kim said.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “One of the runways is the abandoned military facility destroyed seven years ago when Reacher was there. The runway shows on the maps, but the satellite images reveal only charred and buckled tarmac.”

  “Any idea what happened there?” Burke asked.

  “Not really. Lots of investigation, but ultimately? No real answers.” She paused and then added, “The usual result where Reacher is concerned.”

  Burke nodded again. “So that runway isn’t usable. What about the other three?”

  Kim replied, “The second one is an executive airport in Rapid City near the commercial aviation terminals.”

  “Too public. Keegan wouldn’t use it if he wants to remain undiscovered,” Burke guessed.

  Kim nodded. “And Smithers’s team would apprehend him if he tried.”

  “What about the third one?”

  “A private airport near Mount Rushmore,” Kim replied.

  “Sounds promising.”

  She shook her head. “It’s used by a civilian tour company to ferry tourists. Private jets land and depart several times a day during high traffic tourist seasons. Which means FAA and flight plans and communications with towers and all that.”

  “Is this the high tourist season?”

  “No. But it’s still too risky,” Kim replied. “The more people coming and going, the more likely someone will recognize Keegan and Olson. Their photos are all over the news now. And flights in and out of that airport will be monitored just like the others.”

  “You’ve narrowed it down to the fourth runway, then?”

  “It’s promising.” She turned her laptop screen toward Burke. “An abandoned hangar about ten miles south and east of Mount Rushmore. Built by a now defunct mining company. Hasn’t been used for years.”

  Gaspar had flagged it as the most likely option for Keegan’s escape plan, too. Which meant he agreed with her analysis.

  Looking at the terrain and the satellite images Gaspar had included, Kim thought getting into the runway on the old roads would be difficult, at best. Which Keegan would probably have seen as a virtue because it meant few people were likely to try.

  The land on the east side of Mount Rushmore, around Bolton and the prison, was flat. But closer to the monument, the Black Hills area provided greater challenges.

  Kim nodded, poking the screen with her index finger. This one, for sure, was the best option Keegan would have if he’d planned to escape on a private jet.

  “How does Keegan plan to stay undercover and out of sight at Mount Rushmore?” Burke asked. “That’s probably the one place in South Dakota that’s actually crowded every day. Someone is likely to recognize him there, too.”

  “It’s early in the season, but yes.” Kim nodded. “I think he’s counting on the small crowds for camouflage. He’ll blend in with the tourists. With a little bit of air traffic, he could get lucky. The FAA might not see his plane as too odd. Private pilots have been known not to file flight plans. With other jets coming and going, his might not trigger any alarm bells.”

  “Sounds risky to me,” Burke said, shaking his head.

  “It is risky. Lots of things could go wrong. And maybe Keegan’s pilot will file a flight plan and communicate with towers. It’s hard to say.”

  “But?” Burke arched his eyebrows to reinforce his question.

  “But Keegan is the guy who engineered the first large-scale federal prison break in U.S. history. And he’s one of two escapees still out there when the rest have already been caught,” Kim reminded Burke. “He’s smart. He’s clever. He’s got resources. And he’s cocky. This feels like the sort of thing he’d absolutely do.”

  Burke didn’t reply.

  “It’s not smart to underestimate any opponent, Burke. You know that as well as I do. If we give him too much credit and try to outwit him, we have a chance to win. If we assume he’s stupid…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She shouldn’t have to. If Burke didn’t understand the basics, he’d never last
in the job.

  “Okay,” Burke said slowly, studying the images and thinking things through. “So let’s get Smithers over there. He’s got to have a team closer than we are. Better equipped, too.”

  Kim talked through the facts as she saw them for Burke’s benefit. “Keegan would have built breathing room into his plans. He’d have assumed a few problems along the way. The runway looks like a treacherous location, in a canyon. There’s probably no runway lights.”

  “So you think Keegan’s plan is to leave tomorrow. In the morning, probably. What time does the park open?”

  “Eight o’clock, although a few hardy souls may arrive on the grounds earlier.”

  “Which means he might bed down somewhere for the night,” Burke said slowly. “Maybe inside that hangar at the runway site.”

  “If we’re lucky,” she nodded. “And even if we’re unlucky, we should get there before he flies out. If he doesn’t show up and we’re wrong, we haven’t really lost anything, and we don’t look like idiots. If he does show up, there’s two of us and one of him…”

  “I’m game if you are,” Burke said. “But call Smithers anyway. Let him know where we’re going and why. Keegan might have reinforcements on the way. We may need backup.”

  Kim already had the phone in her hand. After several rings, Smithers’s phone went to voicemail. She left a long message and hoped he’d get it before he turned in for the night.

  She didn’t bother calling the Boss. No need. He’d been listening anyway. He always did.

  “Let’s head toward the hangar. We’ll want to be there before daylight,” Kim said. “If Keegan tries to leave tomorrow, we don’t want to miss him.”

  Burke nodded. “You think he won’t try to fly out during the night because he loses the camouflage effect of the tourists and other flight traffic.”

  “That, and the terrain. There’re no runway lights out there. Getting a private jet in and out in the dark wouldn’t be simple. Why risk it?”

  He put the Navigator into gear and pulled out of the parking lot as Kim entered the coordinates for the old runway into the GPS to get him headed in the right direction.

  Then she downloaded the maps Gaspar had sent to her phone. Inevitably, the GPS would lose its signal at precisely the wrong time. When that happened, she’d be ready.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, May 15

  South Dakota

  12:45 a.m.

  Aside from Olson in the driver’s seat, Keegan had not seen another living soul along the dark country highway. They had been driving southbound for about a hundred miles.

  The GPS system was still functioning off and on. It had lost the signal several times. As they passed behind the monument at Mount Rushmore, signals would fail more often. Which was fine. In fact, he’d been counting on it.

  They were passing through the forest on a narrow winding road. Often, he could not see the sky. Which meant the satellites probably couldn’t see him, either. Perfect.

  The last bit of civilization they had passed was at the Sardis gas station.

  The peanut butter crackers he’d bought there were long gone. So was the water. Olson’s stomach growled repeatedly, which he didn’t care about. But Keegan was hungry, too. Not that it mattered. He had no food.

  The emergency provisions he’d stocked for this leg of the trip were still in the back of the damaged Land Rover unless a cop had found them already. Keegan hadn’t actually touched anything, so there was no chance he’d left DNA or other biometrics they could use to confirm he’d shot that cop.

  Not that it mattered now. They wouldn’t find him before he left the country, and he’d be in Canada tomorrow before noon.

  The thought made him smile in the dark. Things had gone wrong right from the start. But he’d adjusted on the fly and he was almost there.

  His stomach complained of hunger. Too bad.

  Fasting a while longer wouldn’t kill him.

  But dehydration was another issue altogether. He needed water.

  He’d chosen this route precisely to avoid other people. At the time, the decision had made sense. He had provisions in the Land Rover to get them through the journey. No point in thinking about that now.

  There would be food and water on the Gulfstream. All he had to do was get to it.

  Even without the GPS, Olson must have realized they were driving toward Mount Rushmore. The park had opened a few weeks ago and tourists had already started to show up, even in early spring when the weather was still cold.

  The forecast tonight called for snow. He hated snow. Always had. But he’d be okay inside the Chevy for the night.

  During the planning, Walsh had argued that Rushmore would be busier during the summer months, and thus a better rendezvous point. Not only because of better weather. It was also easier to get lost in a sea of people than a few dozen sightseers and outdoor nuts.

  But Keegan hadn’t wanted to wait. The cargo pilot was the critical piece of the prison break plan. Once they’d found him and confirmed that he could be bought, Keegan wouldn’t risk losing that advantage.

  He’d spent way too many nights in prison. He vowed he’d never find himself a guest of Uncle Sam, or any other government, ever again.

  The South Dakota wilderness had almost defeated him. He’d lost Walsh, which was a blow, to be sure.

  But Keegan had integrated redundancies into his plans every step of the way. He’d deployed another second in command who was already on his way. Former U.S. army major. He’d said his name was Leon Garber, which was an alias. The real Leon Garber had died years ago.

  Still, this Garber had training and skills. His résumé was perfect, right from the start. He understood the chain of command. He’d know his place.

  Garber was set to meet Keegan at the hangar and fly to Canada in the Gulfstream.

  Garber had been hired to back up Walsh when Keegan was creating his plans. Now, with Walsh dead, Garber would be handling security solo going forward. He’d come highly recommended.

  Although Walsh would always be his sentimental favorite, Keegan knew the new guy would probably do a better job. He was younger and better qualified, among other things.

  The Impala was west and north of the monument now. Terrain between here and the south side of the park was treacherous. If they had a flat tire or any other difficulty out here, their bodies might not be found for days.

  Which was fine.

  Keegan didn’t expect to die tonight. Cold and hunger for one night wouldn’t kill him. But he simply couldn’t live confined in prison. Never again.

  “Where are we going?” Olson asked in a whiney tone that grated on Keegan’s last nerve.

  The woman had become increasingly difficult as the journey had progressed. He itched to kill her and be done with it.

  He would have done it, too. But he needed her to drive the Chevy.

  For now.

  Once they reached the rendezvous point, he would happily dispense with her.

  In fact, he was looking forward to it.

  The GPS pinged again when the Chevy took a bend in the road to the east, no longer in the shadow of the monument. As Keegan recalled the map, they were less than twenty miles from the abandoned hangar and still covering ground.

  The final approach from the west side was across an old dirt trail. The mining company had used it to ferry passengers to and from the runway. But that was long ago. When the company abandoned the mine and the hangar, they also abandoned the roads.

  Keegan squinted into the darkness, peering out, seeking to find what had been no more than a faint line on the old map.

  He saw the turnoff after Olson drove past.

  “Stop,” he demanded, holding his free hand up in the air to emphasize the order.

  Olson was so terrified of him that she no longer objected or attempted to argue with his commands. She braked hard, and the Chevy slowed to a full stop in the center of the paved road.

  “Back up. Our turnoff is fift
y feet back,” Keegan said.

  Olson put the transmission into reverse and drove slowly backward until Keegan pointed out the abandoned dirt road.

  “Turn here,” he said.

  Again, she did as she was told without objection. But he could feel the fear radiating from her in waves across the cabin. He smirked in the darkness.

  She probably thought he planned to kill her here.

  He said nothing to disabuse her of the idea.

  The more frightened she stayed, the better.

  Less energy required to manage her that way.

  The trees had grown together overhead, making the gravel drive a tunnel of near-total darkness. The Chevy’s headlights illuminated the way ahead as the Impala crawled along.

  Twice, Olson had reduced speed to roll the tires slowly over a downed tree across the lane.

  When they’d traveled a couple of bumpy miles, the high beams illuminated a problem they couldn’t roll over.

  Olson stomped hard on the brakes mere feet before hitting the scrap lumber blocking the trail.

  “What the hell?” she said, almost involuntarily, breathing hard. “We can’t drive over that. Flat tires would be the least of the damage if we tried.”

  Keegan stared ahead where the high beams floodlighted the problem.

  A one-lane wooden bridge had once crossed the road here. Years ago, it had rotted away, and the gushing stream of icy snowmelt flowed at a rapid pace in the crevasse and over the sides of the trail.

  From inside the vehicle, Keegan couldn’t judge the depth of the water. But safe to assume it was too deep to drive through, even if they could move the lumber out of the way. Otherwise, the wooden bridge wouldn’t have been constructed at all.

  The first order of business was to assess the situation. And then to figure out another way to get across. Going back was not an option.

  “Wait here,” he said as he opened the door and stepped out into the darkness.

  The dirt under his feet was hard-packed and flat, but the last thing he needed was a sprained ankle. He made his way carefully to the old lumber blocking the road.