by Mark Romang
“I think so. And it sounds like it’s just over the ridgeline and headed this way.”
“Well, then we better get a move on, I’ll race you to the bottom,” C.J. said and took off on his snowboard. Tanner followed his brother, pointing his snowboard straight down the glacier to gather speed.
A few seconds later the drone flew over the Mt. Deception’s summit and headed right for them.
Chapter 39
Tanner realized with growing certainty that today might indeed be the last day he had to live. If he didn’t ride fast enough, and if he wiped out, he might get caught and hauled off to a detention center, processed and eventually executed if he didn’t accept the chip.
So he shredded the mountain, snowboarding like tomorrow might not come at all.
But he had company. An unwanted chaperone.
The tracking drone flew low, about fifty feet above them, relaying video feeds and coordinates back to the mobile unit. Somewhere, UWC officers sat in their SUV and undoubtedly watched their every move on laptops.
And the UWC officers were probably charging up a road heading this way.
We have to shake this drone, Tanner thought. But he already cruised as fast as he dared. His snowboard chattered on the glacier ice, protesting the abuse heaped upon it.
C.J. tore up the mountain several yards in front of him. Neither one did much carving. Instead they rode straight down the slope at sick speeds. Tanner pushed himself hard but couldn’t keep up with C.J. His brother excelled at riding fast. C.J.’s specialty event—snowboard cross—is a madcap race down a mountain against five other riders. The course is filled with banked-turns, jumps, berms and drop-offs. Rarely do all six riders cross the finish line. Someone always wipes out, and usually in spectacular fashion.
Tanner occasionally competed in snowboard cross, but he preferred the slopestyle event. He lived for catching big air, and it came easy to him. He could do backside double rodeos and double cork 1080s in his sleep. It was hard to explain, but when he went off a jump and flew through the air spinning and flipping, the ground far below him, he felt a profound degree of contentment, almost like the jump was spiritual in a way.
He just wished he would’ve given his life to Christ sooner. The thousands of practice jumps and all the competition jumps could’ve been acts of worship to the King.
The glacier petered out. Tanner’s chattering snowboard became silent as he cut through powdery snow. The powder billowed up like wakes on either side of him.
This wasn’t the first time that he and C.J. had snowboarded in the backcountry. They used to do it quite a bit, and had filmed their excursions with GoPro cameras. There were several videos of their extreme snowboarding adventures posted on YouTube.
So if this drone could be shaken, they had as good a chance as any.
The gradient became more vertical, so steep that Tanner found his upper body leaning backwards to compensate. Despite his desire for speed, he started carving. The steep terrain dictated he do so. Not wearing goggles, he squinted at the lay of the mountain and tried to spot hidden dangers in the terrain.
C.J. suddenly went airborne and disappeared from his view. Extreme snowboarding in the mountains requires one to make calculations on the fly. The calculation Tanner made the most was when he neared drop-offs. Can I survive the landing? If he answered no, he found a different route or didn’t go off the drop-off. And the calculation had to be made in mere seconds and sometimes in only a split-second. His life always depended upon his decision.
Mountains can be unforgiving.
Second chances are rare.
Make the wrong decision and you most likely enter the afterlife.
Tanner sped toward the drop-off, his speed most likely topping forty-five miles per hour. His decision loomed. But in this case he deviated from normal protocol. He and C.J had been through so much together. They couldn’t be separated. If C.J. dies we both die.
As he neared the drop-off blanketed by a cornice of snow, Tanner spotted C.J. far below and still on his board, racing pell-mell down the slope. Tanner grinned. The words ‘big air’ entered his head.
Tanner straightened his board as he approached the drop-off. And when his front foot crossed the cornice he popped his board to generate maximum lift.
He smiled as the familiar feeling of weightlessness washed over him. He felt more confident in the sky than anywhere else, and something told him to throw caution to the wind and go for it. So he did.
This quad flip is for you, God. I know you’re watching. You and your angels.
Fully committed, Tanner embraced the air. There could be no turning back now, otherwise he’d land on his head. As soon as he soared into the air, Tanner lifted his knees to his chest and began the first of four backflips.
Between the first and second flip he briefly caught sight of the drone. It flew so close now that he could see red signal lights flashing on its belly. Tanner also noticed the drone’s low hum had become strident like a siren.
I own the sky right now, Tanner thought defiantly. Not you.
He completed his third backflip and began his fourth and final flip. His focus tightened. He looked at the snowy ground, watched the slope rush up at him. He was a bit over-rotated, but all he could do now was try to ride it out and stomp the landing as best he could.
Tanner wanted to spread the landing force equally among his feet, but being over-rotated he landed more on his back foot. The jarring landing forced his butt into the snow. For a split second he feared he would wipe out, but he simply stood up and regained his stance.
He lost considerable speed on the shaky landing but recovered quickly, and soon rocketed down the slope again. The drone flew past him and headed for C.J. up ahead. And that’s when Tanner noticed the drone carried armament.
A chain-gun hung from both wings—nasty guns capable of turning human flesh into a bloody mist. Looking at the guns should’ve chilled his spine. But instead the guns galvanized him. Perhaps landing a quad flip and the subsequent adrenaline rush made him feel brave. All he really knew was that in one moment’s time he felt boldness enter his blood like never before.
I’m not going to play it safe anymore. I’m tired of being a milquetoast. I want to be a rebel for Jesus.
Despite his newfound courage, Tanner felt trepidation for C.J. The drone no longer appeared to be just an unmanned spy aircraft. It suddenly acted hostile. And he prayed the drone wouldn’t open up on his brother with the chain-guns.
But the next few seconds changed everything. Tanner could hardly believe his eyes. The drone inexplicably made a hard left turn and flew straight into the mountain. A fireball erupted and the drone fell in flaming pieces to the ground.
Tanner carved his edge into the snow to slow down. He still found the last minute or so hard to believe. Not only did he land a quad flip, something few snowboarders had ever done, he also watched a drone become a kamikaze plane and crash into the mountain. Incredible stuff.
The sound of C.J. laughing hysterically entered his ears. Tanner jerked his head away from the drone carnage and rode up to his brother, who pumped his fists repeatedly in the air as he watched the drone burn.
“What happened, Tanner? This thing was hot on my heels. And then all of a sudden I hear an explosion. I look back and see the drone lying in a thousand pieces.”
Tanner shrugged. “I don’t know why it flew into the mountain. It must’ve just malfunctioned. Or the pilot flying it fell asleep.”
“It was unmanned, Tanner.”
“I know that. But somewhere someone was flying it.”
“You know, it’s too bad we don’t have the ingredients on us to make s’mores. This is the perfect fire for roasting marshmallows,” C.J. said as he watched flames lap at the drone’s mangled fuselage.
“Only you could think of your stomach after what just happened,” Tanner said.
“Skymolt and his UWC goons are trying to scare us into submission. They want to break us. So I choose to stay unbro
ken.” C.J. turned his head slightly and gave Tanner a sideways look. “That was a sick jump we went off. Did you catch some big air?”
Tanner smiled. “I sure did. You probably won’t believe me when I say this. But I just landed a quad flip.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
C.J. grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re the crunchiest guy I know, Tanner,” C.J. said, using snowboarder lingo for a cool person.
“I don’t feel crunchy.”
“Well, you are. No one but you would throw down a quad flip with a drone chasing after them. That took some serious guts, Tanner. You’re becoming more of a rebel every day. One day you’ll surpass me at this rate.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
C.J. bent down and picked up a piece of the drone that wasn’t burning. He examined the part closely for a several seconds. “This looks like a hard drive to me. It’s intact, and there is a tiny placard on it. It has something engraved on it. It says, ‘Programmed by Nathan Banks.’”
Tanner shook his head. “Whoever Banks is, he must be a cold, heartless person to program these drones. They’ve caused heartache and death all over the world.”
C.J. scowled as he continued looking at the hard drive. “If I should ever run into this Nathan Banks fellow…I swear…I won’t be able to stop myself from strangling him.”
“Odds are good we’ll never meet up with Banks. So put that thing down and let’s get to the bunker. There’s probably a GPS tracking beacon somewhere in all this debris. UWC officers will be showing up soon,” Tanner said.
C.J. tossed the hard drive into the flames. It landed next to a chain-gun glowing orange from the fire’s heat. He looked around. “We’ll have to ride in a different direction away from the bunker, otherwise our tracks in the snow will lead the UWC officers straight to it.”
Tanner sighed. “Yep, and that will push back our arrival time.”
“What’s another hour or two? We’ll still reach the bunker today.”
“So I guess we ride east for a while and head down to the timberline. And then hike our way back west.”
C.J. nodded and pulled his stocking hat down lower over his ears. “That sounds logical to me. Let’s get after it, bro.”
Chapter 40
Olympic Peninsula
Special Agent Nick Loomis drifted back and forth between stage 1 and stage 2 sleep—not awake but not fully asleep either.
To combat the cold temperature, Loomis lay as motionless as a corpse inside his sleeping bag. Despite his mummy sleeping bag having a rating below zero, cold mountain air slithered inside the bag like semi-frozen snakes and coiled around his bones. Every time he moved, no matter how tiny the movement, the cold air increased its icy grip.
Finally, the cold air poked and prodded his shoulders enough that his eyes fluttered open. He rolled his eyes side to side and up and down. Dim light met his bloodshot gaze. And with a start, he realized dawn had finally arrived.
Loomis brought a hand out of the mummy bag and looked at his watch.
9:40 am!
He sat up, alarm pushing through his grogginess. He looked down and noticed he still gripped his duty gun firmly in his hand.
Only one question needed answering. Where is Tucker Stiggs?
Loomis slipped the safety off his .45 caliber side arm.
He had tried to wait out Tucker Stiggs, hoping to ambush the killer in his sleep, but finally gave up at four in the morning, crawling inside his sleeping bag with his duty gun still securely in hand. He remembered waking up at a quarter till seven, when dawn should’ve been ushering in its gray light. But the sky had still been spade-black, and he must’ve drifted back off into a fitful sleep.
Loomis unzipped his sleeping bag enough to crawl out. He still wore his clothes from the day before. He set his gun down close by and grabbed his hiking boots. He slipped them on. His fingers fumbled with the laces. As he tied the boots he strained his ears, listening for sounds that would tell him if Stiggs was up and about.
But he heard no sounds outside his tent other than birds chirping their morning songs.
His shoes tied, Loomis threw on his coat, picked his gun back up and crawled over to the tent’s door. He unzipped the door and poked his head out. He saw no sign of Tucker Stiggs, but his field of vision was limited to 180 degrees.
Loomis crawled out the tent door and stood up. He held the .45 with two hands, cupping the pistol grip with his right hand and covering his shooting hand with his left hand. He walked around the small campsite and behind his tent. He didn’t see Stiggs. But he discovered a note stuck to a tree with a pocket knife.
Loomis felt his skin crawl as he read the cryptic note.
Nick,
I thought about waking you, but just couldn’t do it. You were sleeping so soundly, just like a baby. It’s just as well. I prefer to work alone. It’s better this way. Don’t try to find me. I might get angry.
Tucker
Loomis suddenly felt like an amateur. He’d been played. And the thought of Tucker Stiggs looming over him and watching him sleep made him feel violated. He could’ve killed me so easily. So why didn’t he?
It was possible that Stiggs really did think Loomis was out here solely to find Nathan Banks. It was also a possibility that Stiggs thought his secret life as a serial killer remained a secret. Of course, it would be awfully naïve for him to think that. But maybe Stiggs wasn’t a criminal mastermind. Maybe he avoided capture so far by nothing more than dumb luck.
Loomis scanned the coniferous forest surrounding him, the stately trees standing straight and tall in the morning mist. Stiggs could be close by watching him, or he could be long gone with a four-hour head start. Neither scenario appealed much to Loomis. He didn’t want to lose Stiggs. But he also didn’t want the killer stalking him. Loomis preferred to be the hunter, not the prey.
Loomis spun in a slow circle, searching the tree trunks near and far for a glimpse of a half-hidden arm or a leg, or a black Stetson. But he saw no anomalies and shifted his gaze to the ground and the fallen log where Stiggs had sat by the campfire last night. Tracks led away from the log and into the forest.
He must’ve hung out here all night by the fire waiting for me to fall asleep, Loomis thought bitterly. Stiggs had beat him at his own game. And the fact that Stiggs won the waiting game rankled Loomis.
But if Stiggs doesn’t want me to come after him, why did he leave all these tracks for me to follow? An answer came quickly to his mind. Perhaps he wants me to follow him. Maybe he’s already circled around and will attack me from behind.
But then again maybe Stiggs was in such a hurry to depart in the darkness that he didn’t take time to obscure his tracks.
Loomis was still sorting through the what-if scenarios when the rifle shot shattered the mountain serenity. A moment later a bullet blasted into his chest. Loomis staggered backward and tripped over his tent lines. He collapsed onto the ground, landing hard on his butt. His head followed, striking the ground. Luckily for his brain, a bed of fallen fir needles softened the ground.
Another shot ripped through the air. This time the bullet struck him in the abdomen.
His chest and stomach on fire, and woozy from striking his head, Loomis tumbled head over heels down the fern-covered knoll.
Another shot rang out as he somersaulted. He felt something ricochet off his shoe sole and strike a tree trunk.
Loomis tumbled for another few seconds before slamming to a stop against a hemlock sapling growing near the ravine bottom. He lay against the sapling, too stunned to move, wheezing for breath, but still gripping his .45.
You can’t stay here, he told himself after several seconds elapsed. A hunter will always check on his downed prey.
Loomis rolled over onto all fours. He still couldn’t breathe. The bullet slamming against his abdomen stole his breath away.
He crawled for a few yards before regaining his feet. And then he lurched toward the thickes
t brush he could find. He waded into a thicket of tall plants that looked strangely like rhododendrons, only the plants were several feet high. Loomis thought the shrub-like plants were thick enough and tall enough to provide temporary cover. At this elevation snow rarely fell. And even though winter had started, green leaves still remained on the shrubs.
In the middle of the thicket Loomis stopped to check his wounds. Resting on his knees, his lungs beginning to work again, he unzipped his jacket and examined the Kevlar vest underneath. Inserted inside the vest were ceramic plates. A Kevlar vest will only stop handgun rounds. Rifle rounds will go right through unless a wearer utilizes plate inserts. Loomis fortunately did.
Both rounds had struck him on the right side. The ceramic plate on this side had shattered. But the plate did its job at dispersing the bullet’s energy.
Loomis had worn the Kevlar vest while in his sleeping bag last night. He shuddered at the thought of not having it on. The vest for sure saved his life just minutes ago.
His chest and stomach were sore and tender. No doubt contusions tattooed his torso. He didn’t mind, and accepted his tender flesh with thanksgiving. Bruises were discomforts he could happily live with. They proved he still walked among the living. But the vest was compromised now. It wouldn’t stop another rifle round, at least not on the vest’s right side.
I can’t allow Tucker Stiggs to shoot me again.
One thing Loomis had going for him was that he wasn’t leaving behind any blood droplets. Without a blood trail to follow, Stiggs will have to slow down and search methodically.
But he’ll still come. He’ll try to finish me off. And when he does I’ll put a bullet in his ugly head.
Loomis wormed his way through the thicket for nearly a minute. He tried his best to move quietly through the foliage, to not draw attention to himself, and to not spook the wildlife. Even a bird, a common sparrow flying off might give away his position.
