by Mark Romang
As he moved he tried to picture Tucker Stiggs’ location. The rifle shot hadn’t sounded far away at all. If Stiggs hustled he could very well be right behind him.
The thicket thinned out and ended at a small clearing. Loomis stopped his advance and cocked his head. He heard nothing but his beating heart and a squirrel chattering in a nearby tree. He looked up at the squirrel. I’d give anything to be you right now.
The squirrel peered back at him with black, unblinking eyes, shook its tail and scampered up the tree to an insane height. Loomis turned his attention back to the forest. He scanned the trees. Decisions begged to be made. He needed to decide his course, where to go, where to hide, and when to attack.
Just keep on the move, he told himself. You can figure it out as you go. Loomis sprinted across the clearing. Just as he entered the trees another shot rang out. A small limb fell off a tree and dropped in his path.
Loomis veered to his left and ran. He ran wildly in a zigzag motion, crashing through bushes and devil’s club, the spiny stalks shredding his clothes and opening his skin. Right now he didn’t care about leaving tracks or signs or blood droplets. He only cared about leaving Stiggs’ line of fire.
He kept expecting to hear another shot, but didn’t, and assumed Stiggs might be reloading. Loomis stole a glance over his shoulder as he ran from spruce tree to spruce tree. He caught sight of Tucker Stiggs far back, aiming his rifle, his black Stetson still riding low on his head. Stiggs looked like a Wild West outlaw or a cowboy who lost his mind.
The ground fell away at Loomis’ feet and into a gulley. A stream gurgled at the bottom near the gulley’s center. Loomis leaped off a small ridge and down into the gulley just as another round whistled over his head.
Loomis had to slow or risk injury tumbling down the gulley. For now Stiggs couldn’t see him. Loomis realized he carried a formidable weapon in his hand in the .45, and he hadn’t even fired it yet. He’d almost forgotten about it. That needed to change. But the .45 was a close-quarters weapon. He needed to lure Stiggs in closer to ensure accuracy.
Loomis hustled his way down the tree-covered slope. He reached the bottom of the gulley and hid behind a massive spruce tree, its trunk spanning six feet across. Loomis leaned against the tree, adrenaline, fear and exertion making him pant like an overheated dog.
This is it. I make my stand here, he told himself. For a reason he couldn’t explain, Loomis looked up. And when he did he saw a makeshift ladder on the tree’s trunk. Small logs perhaps eighteen inches long were nailed into the trunk. The rungs disappeared when they reached the tree’s first branches. The first rung was about a foot above his head.
He frowned as he studied the rungs. He couldn’t figure out their purpose. He didn’t see a treehouse or elevated hunting blind. But then he saw a taut cable leaving the tree. A zip-line.
Maybe I should just ride the zip-line out of here. Call Trestman and wait for backup agents to come and help me with Stiggs. But then he shook his head.
This is what I’ve been wanting to do since I was a little kid—arrest bad guys. Tucker Stiggs is definitely a bad guy.
An idea entered his head. Whether it was a good idea or a bad one, he didn’t have time to internally debate its merit. He just simply acted upon it.
Loomis jumped up and grabbed the first rung fastened to the spruce tree’s trunk. He hauled his body up with his arms, and the strain on his tender chest and stomach nearly made him scream out. It occurred to him he had broken ribs.
Nothing he could do about the ribs. They would heal on their own given time.
Sweat beaded his forehead as he walked his legs up the tree. He grabbed the second rung and inched his knees up until he could place a foot on the first rung. And then, hidden from Tucker Stiggs’ view, he started climbing like a monkey.
He clambered up onto a small platform twenty feet or so from the ground. He crouched low and monitored the hillside he just came down, waiting for Stiggs to show. His heart pounded crazily when he spotted Tucker Stiggs walking down the slope, his rifle held out in front of him at chest level, ready to fire.
Loomis studied Stiggs’ rifle. It looked like a .30-30 Winchester, a throwback to the Wild West. The weapon choice fitted Stiggs perfectly. And in the hands of a talented marksman, the repeating rifle could be fired swiftly and accurately for up to two hundred yards. Beyond this distance the rifle’s accuracy suffered.
Loomis crouched down even lower. Don’t look up, Tucker. Please don’t look up, Loomis whispered to himself. He moved his index finger into the .45’s trigger guard and poised it over the trigger. At the same time he kept his eyes trained on the black Stetson bobbing up and down with each step Stiggs took down the slope.
Stiggs slowed his stalk, and moved with remarkable agility for a man his great size. He also moved stealthily, as if he were walking on eggs. But he didn’t look up. A master tracker, Stiggs kept his eyes on the ground and the tracks Loomis left behind.
Stiggs neared the spruce tree Loomis hid in. But he stopped when he rounded the tree. He knelt down and studied the ground around the tree’s base.
Loomis aimed his .45 at Stiggs’ back. His finger brushed against the trigger, but he didn’t pull it. He knew he could instantly end Tucker Stiggs’ reign of terror if he simply pulled the trigger. But he couldn’t make himself break the trigger slack.
I can’t shoot a man in the back.
Stiggs got to his feet. He looked to his right. And then he looked to his left. Finally, he lifted his head upward.
Loomis leaped from the platform.
Chapter 41
Twenty feet is a long way down. Nick Loomis plunged with the force of a dropped anvil onto Stiggs’ back. The killer folded like an accordion and dropped to the ground, but took Loomis with him. On the ground they rolled apart.
Both suffered wooziness from the collision, and both struggled to their feet. Loomis arose first, but just barely. He swayed on his feet as if inebriated and pointed the .45 at Stiggs. “Drop your rifle, Tucker! Drop it or I will fire on you!”
Stiggs’ eyed him angrily and didn’t comply. A bonfire of hatred and malice burned in his grayish, nearly translucent eyes.
“Drop the rifle, Tucker. I won’t ask you again,” Loomis said in a calmer voice.
Stiggs allowed the Winchester to slide to the ground.
“Now, hold your hands up high and walk away from the rifle. Go to your left. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Stiggs hobbled away from his discarded rifle. He favored his right leg, almost dragging it.
Maybe Stiggs broke his leg, or maybe he twisted his ankle when I dropped on him. Or maybe he’s just faking it, Loomis thought, his mind clicking through every scenario. “Okay that’s far enough. Stand right there. Keep your hands up high by your head.”
Stiggs stopped and glared at Loomis. His ugly eyes narrowed under the brim of his Stetson. “You’re full of surprises, Nick. I didn’t think you had this much fight in you.”
“I know what you are, Tucker. I know about your secret life. I know what you did in Texas. That all ends today.”
“I’ll never be charged, Nick. My case won’t go to trial.”
“You’re wrong, Tucker. We have plenty of evidence. You left your DNA everywhere.”
“I work for Henrik Skymolt. When he finds out I’m behind bars he’ll demand my release. You’ll see.”
“I can’t let you walk, Tucker. You slaughtered that family in Texas—a husband and his wife and two little girls. You painted a pentagram on the wall of the bedroom the girls shared. You painted the pentagram with their blood. What kind of sick person kills children for sport?”
Stiggs smiled. The leer revealed broken and missing teeth. “You’ve seen the darkest part of me, Nick. But I’m not mentally ill. I don’t hear voices telling me to do bad things. I’m just evil, plain and simple.”
“I won’t argue with you on that point,” Loomis said. “Now I want you to lay down on your stomach and clasp your hands together
behind your head.”
Stiggs ignored the command. He limped toward Loomis, still favoring his right leg. “I don’t think you have it in you to shoot me, Nick. You would have shot me already, like when you were up in the tree.”
“Don’t come any closer, Tucker.”
But Stiggs didn’t listen. He was too mean and stubborn to comply. He dragged his injured leg behind him and tottered forward like Quasimodo bumbling his way up the steps of the bell tower. Loomis aimed at Stiggs’ good leg and fired. The .45 roared, destroying the killer’s left knee. Stiggs went down in a heap. Loomis felt like emptying his magazine into Stiggs but restrained himself.
Stiggs groaned and raised himself up to his knees.
“On your knees like that, you’re in the perfect position to beg for mercy, Tucker.”
“I’ll never beg for mercy from you, Nick. I’d rather bleed out,” Stiggs panted.
“I didn’t mean beg for mercy from me. I meant beg for forgiveness from God.”
A maniacal belly laugh exploded out Stiggs’ mouth. “It’s too late for that. I’ve taken the chip. Besides, I worship Satan. He’s my Lord and master. His dark spirit lives inside me.”
“You’re a fool, Tucker. You worship a mere angel, a fallen angel, when instead you could worship the one and only God who created him.”
A look of puzzlement came over Stiggs’ rawboned face. “I knew there was something different about you, Nick. You’re not chipped, are you? How do you manage to pull that off working for the government?”
“That’s not important to you.” Loomis noticed Stiggs only kept his left hand up. His right hand rested on his hip near a pocket on his cargo pants. “Raise your right hand up, Tucker. Keep it up high.”
“I don’t feel so good, Nick. I’m diabetic. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I need my insulin shot. A syringe is in my pocket,” Stiggs said, his voice beginning to tremble.
Loomis studied Tucker Stiggs’ face. The killer had turned pasty white, but Loomis thought his poor coloring came only from loss of blood and the beginning of shock. “It would help me if you pass out. So raise your hands, both of them.”
Stiggs grimaced and looked up at him, a position of weakness he wasn’t used to. “Since you’re not implanted with a chip, you must be a Christian. But I don’t think you’re any more of a Christ follower than I am. A true Christian loves their enemy. A true Christian would show me mercy. A true Christian wouldn’t allow me to lapse into a diabetic coma.”
“You didn’t show those little girls any mercy. I bet you enjoyed making them suffer,” Loomis said, his voice rising. He raised his .45 up level with Stiggs’ face.
“Put your faith into action, Nick. Show me some love. Allow me to get my…syringe out,” Stiggs gasped. “You know it’s what Jesus would do.”
Loomis focused his eyes on Stiggs’ right hand. The killer’s fingertips had entered the pocket on his hip. There was a bulge inside the pocket, but Loomis couldn’t tell if it was a syringe or a hidden firearm. “Last chance, Tucker. Raise your hand up where I can see it.”
Stiggs launched into a coughing fit. At the same time he plunged his hand into his pocket.
Loomis pulled the trigger. The .45 bucked in his hand. From such close range his aim couldn’t have been more perfect. The top half of the killer’s head exploded, disappearing in a fleshy-red mist. Stiggs pitched forward onto what remained of his face. His black Stetson came off and tumbled down the bank and into the stream. The hat drifted away, floating off in lazy circles until it came to the main current, where it disappeared into the froth.
Loomis moved warily toward Stiggs. He kept his gun aimed as he knelt down and felt Stiggs’ neck.
No pulse.
Loomis then reached into the hip pocket Stiggs had been so enamored with. He felt something hard. But it definitely wasn’t a plastic syringe. Loomis pulled out a snub-nosed .38 pistol from Stiggs’ pocket.
Relief flooded over Loomis. He hadn’t killed an unarmed man after all.
Loomis unloaded the .38 pistol and tossed it over by the Winchester rifle. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and looked down at Stiggs. Blood oozed from underneath Stiggs’ face and trickled down the bank.
“Your heart might be black but your blood runs red just like the rest of us, Tucker,” Loomis mumbled.
Loomis pulled out his phone, discovered he had a signal, and called his boss. Three rings later William Trestman answered. “Nick, tell me you’re okay and you have Nathan Banks in custody.”
I’m fine, Bill. But I’m still trying to find Nathan Banks. I did catch up with Tucker Stiggs, though. We had a small altercation. He shot at me. So I shot back. Stiggs is dead.”
“Are you wounded? You don’t sound so good, Nick.”
“I’m okay. I was wearing a bullet-proof vest when Stiggs shot me. The vest stopped the bullets, but my chest and ribs are sore.”
“You should come in and get checked out, Nick. I can send some other agents out there to look for Banks.”
“I’m fine, Bill. Don’t send anyone else. Give me a little more time and I might find Nathan Banks. I think I’m close to him. And I have enough food to last a day or two more if I eat light.”
“Okay, I’ll give you another thirty-six hours to find Banks on your own. After that I’m sending in some men to set up a search perimeter. Maybe we can box Nathan Banks in.”
“Fair enough, Bill. Let me give you my GPS location. This is where you will find Tucker Stiggs, provided the bears and vultures don’t get to him first.”
“I already have it, Nick. I’ll call the Seattle field office as soon as we hang up. Maybe they can fly up in a helicopter and retrieve Stiggs’ body.”
“I’m sure they can.”
“Are you sure you don’t need some help, Nick?”
“I’m good. Nathan Banks should be a piece of cake compared to Tucker Stiggs.”
“I hope so. Our promotions are riding on your success, Nick.”
Loomis watched the stream gurgle over rocks. His location was both remote and beautiful, and would be perfect, even relaxing if not for the killer lying dead at his feet. “I could really care less about a promotion, Bill.”
“You may not but I do.”
“I’ll call you back soon if something happens and I locate Banks. Goodbye, Bill.”
“Take care, Nick.”
Loomis ended the call. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. What do I do, God? I don’t want to apprehend Nathan Banks. He’s not a criminal like Tucker Stiggs. But I’ve been given orders to track him down.
Perhaps he was just feeling guilt for ending Tucker Stiggs’ life. But he honestly didn’t know if he wanted to continue his career in law enforcement. He was tired of looking over his shoulder, tired of hiding his Christianity from coworkers, tired of hunting down so-called rebels whose only crime was not taking Henrik Skymolt’s tracking chip.
Maybe I should just disappear into a mountain range somewhere like Nathan Banks, Loomis thought. Maybe the Cascades or the Rockies.
One thing was certain. He had some soul searching to do.
Loomis left the corpse that was once Tucker Stiggs and headed back up the slope and toward the campsite. He needed to take down his tent and reclaim his backpack. He wouldn’t last long out here in the wild without gear and supplies. Not very long at all.
Chapter 42
Olympic Peninsula—two miles away
“You’re going to have to take it easy on me, Brooke. That’s three games of Gin Rummy in a row you’ve won. I won’t keep playing cards with you if you keep thumping me,” Nathan Banks said, grinning as he shuffled the discard pile.
Brooke returned his smile. “You’re bound to get better some day and give me a challenge.”
“Hey, I’m not that bad. Maybe you’re just a card shark.”
Brooke nodded. “I probably am. I could rarely get anyone in my family to play me.”
“I can see why.” Banks shuffled the cards for another minute,
and then began to deal. After they arrived and settled in, he’d erased their footprints outside the bunker. They’d been inside ever since, except for a short excursion before dawn to find suitable places to cache supplies and gear. At some point in the future they might be discovered and need to flee. If they stored things in satellite locations they wouldn’t lose everything.
Banks stole a glance at Brooke. The candlelight danced on her creamy skin. Despite his ongoing grief for losing Jenny in the Rapture, Banks felt himself drawn to Brooke. He once thought he’d never again feel desire and affection for another woman. But Brooke was so kind and pleasant and naturally beautiful he couldn’t help it.
He liked her company. And he felt like she enjoyed his. Despite the awkwardness of their first encounter, they’d somehow connected. Weird how life throws you surprises, Banks thought.
Banks finished dealing their cards. He picked up his cards and started to arrange his hand, but then stopped when he heard the distinctive noise a key makes when inserted into a lock. He looked over at the door to the bunker, and then he looked at Brooke. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Brooke eyed the door suspiciously. The lock in the knob rattled. “Just my brothers. But who knows when, or if they’ll ever get here.”
Banks grabbed up a Glock that was resting beside him on the picnic table. He stood up and racked a round. “You might want to get under the table or go hide in the big room. I’ll take care of this,” he said quietly.
“I’ll be okay. I want to see if it’s C.J. and Tanner.”
“Are you sure? I’d hate for something to happen to you.”
She looked at him and nodded. “I appreciate your concern, Nathan. But I’m good with this.”
Banks leveled the Glock at the door. The door made a clicking sound as the lock disengaged. The knob turned and the door swung inward. Two long-haired, wooly-bearded men entered. They were young. Banks pegged them at less than twenty-three. They wore backpacks and each carried a snowboard under an arm. Surprise registered on their faces as they eyed Banks and his gun. He turned to Brooke. “Are these your long lost brothers?”
