The Missing Colton

by Loreth Anne White

  Jagger felt a thrill down his spine. Hal Sanders was Mia’s father?

  He knew the incident well, had even written about it. Sanders had been a lion of an adventurer. He used to maintain one of the most popular climbing blogs out there. He had huge following, had written several books. And Mia was right, his taking five climbers to their deaths with him had rocked the climbing community.

  Jagger had never thought deeply about the wife and children that Hal Sanders had left behind. He’d been consumed instead with the man himself. Sanders had stood six-foot three-inches tall with a violent shock of white hair and a handlebar mustache, his skin weathered by sun and wind, hands like hams and the thighs of a lumberjack. Jagger had been interested in what drove men like Hal Sanders to take extreme risks. He’d been interested in those echoes in himself.

  Jagger knew also that Sanders had been a keen fly fisher. He’d pioneered as stretch of river in Russia’s Kamchatka after Soviet disintegration.

  Suddenly Jagger craved to drop the facade, to talk openly with Mia about her father and family. He wanted to tell her how Hal Sanders had inspired the romantic in him, too. But he couldn’t. He was “Cole” with no memory, suddenly trapped in a cage by his own deception.

  He went quiet.

  Hills rolled by. A handful of vehicles came from opposite direction. Only one overtook them, going the same way, disappearing into the horizon. Jagger glanced into the passenger-side mirror again. That truck was still behind them, a steady hundred yards back.

  “So Brad, your ex, was like your father, then, an adrenaline seeker?” He said, watching the truck. Something about it felt off.

  “Smoke jumper,” she said.

  A chill rushed down Jagger’s spine. The echoes between Mia’s life and his were eerie. He had an uncanny sense that he’d been brought into this woman’s path for some reason.

  Jagger had wanted to be a smoke jumper, too, after seeing a poster when he was ten years old—a group of four firefighters staring up at an unconquerable and towering wall of flames, their faces blackened with soot. What had gripped the young Jagger at the time was the look on those men’s faces as they stood back, ceding triumph to the stories-high wall of fire devouring a stand of ancient Douglas firs. It was a look not of fear, not of exhaustion. But awe.

  And the awe Jagger had seen in those men’s faces had changed his life. At the time, he was struggling to adapt to being with his biological family in California. He was skipping school, causing trouble, hitting out at anyone who tried to help him. But when he saw that poster, it had made him hungry to see, to feel, what those smokejumpers were feeling.

  Jagger had bought the poster and pinned it above his bed. He’d begun to focus because he had direction. He was going to be a hotshot and fight fires all around the world.

  He never did became a smoke jumper, but his first story had been on a wildfire and the hotshots that battled it.

  That magazine piece had set him on the road to adventure journalism, which in turn had led to foreign correspondence in war zones, getting stories where others feared to tread. And now he was here, sitting next to Mia.

  After some story on a missing boy.

  “Do you believe in destiny, Mia?” he said quietly. “Something bigger than us?”

  She shot him a hard look, held it. “Why?”

  “I wonder if that’s what men like your father find in the mountains, in that space between life and death, a way to touch something bigger, to be a part of it.”

  “Bull. It’s a chemical reward system, a drug for men like him. When he was away from risk for too long he’d start jonesing for his endorphins and dopamine.”

  “That’s clinical.”

  She snorted.

  “You blame your father for abandoning you, by dying, don’t you? Like Brad abandoned you at the altar. You’re so busy hating them for breaking your heart that you’re lumping all adrenaline-seeking males in with them.”

  Her eyes flared to his and she almost crossed the center line. She swung the wheel back and muttered a soft curse. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  But I’d like to explain myself. I’d like to tell you how men can change, how sometimes people might benefit from second chances.

  Jagger’s head hurt and his chest felt tight. He’d resolve that when he got to a computer. He was going to drop Melinda a line, just to ask how she was doing, and to say sorry.

  Because he was. Deeply. He didn’t want things to be like this anymore. It was why he’d come here for this story—to find a way back into living. He hadn’t expected it might be a woman named Mia who was going to help him, in quite another way.

  They passed a sign warning of steep gradients and a mountain pass ahead. Mia glanced up into the rearview mirror and gave a soft gasp. “Holy crap, that guy’s coming up fast!”

  Jagger spun around. The dark-gray, two-door Ford pickup was now racing up behind them at incredible speed. His pulse quickened. Hopefully it was going to pass.

  But the truck came right up behind them, tailgating the Escalade tightly round a curve. Jagger could see the driver—black jacket, dark shades and a dark toque pulled low and tight over his head.

  His gut tightened and adrenaline pumped like fire into his blood. He swung forward in his seat to squarely face the road ahead. In front of them another sharp bend loomed—they were about to enter a treacherous mountain pass. The ground sheered off into a cliff on their left, and in the valley far below a silver river snaked.

  “Slow down, Mia! Let’s see if he’ll pass.” Jagger hoped his gut was wrong.

  Mia pulled onto the dirt shoulder, tires kicking up stones, but the truck came up and smashed them from behind. Mia gasped as the Escalade swerved and they were both flung forward against seat belts.

  White-faced, Mia pulled farther onto the dirt shoulder, but she was going too fast. The Escalade’s tires skidded, dust billowing in a brown-yellow cloud behind them. Again, the truck smashed into them, this time catching the left rear of the vehicle which nearly sent them into a roll.

  Jagger swore and reached across Mia, wrenching the wheel back and aiming for the paved road. “Hit the gas. Mia!”

  Tires squealed as they hit asphalt and the vehicle kicked forward.

  “Get us up and over the bridge ahead!”

  Mia swerved back into the middle of the highway, tires squealing, and aimed for the narrow bridge over a gorge ahead, perspiration gleaming on her brow, her knuckles white.

  The Ford gained on them again, coming in for another crash. Jagger spun round and saw the Ford’s driver’s-side window coming down. A gloved hand came out.

  “Cole!” Mia yelled. “He’s got a gun! Oh, God—he’s going to kill us!”

  “Keep driving—just focus on the road!”

  The driver fired out his window. A bullet sparked off the tar behind them.

  He was shooting for their tires, aiming for a blow-out.

  If they went over the cliff, by the time they hit the bottom they’d be a mangled wreck, they’d probably go up in a ball of flames. It would look as if they’d had an accident.

  “Cole,” Mia said, gripping the wheel and leaning to the side as she rounded another curve. “In my purse, on the back seat—I’ve got a gun...get it!” She lowered his window as she spoke. Cold wind beat inside and whipped their hair. Jagger found her pistol.

  “Shoot his tires! Stop him!”

  Leaning out his window, he aimed carefully for the Ford’s front left tire, and fired. And again. He missed both times but the truck pulled back, slowing momentarily. Mia squealed the Escalade around another bend.

  Their attacker was out of sight for a moment.

  “There, Mia!” Jagger pointed. “See that dirt track going in behind those rocks—slow down, pull off in
to that dirt track!”

  She hit the brakes and swung the wheel. They bounded wildly onto the battered track.

  “Quick, drive up a little higher then pull in behind that outcrop.”

  She did.

  Below them on the highway they heard the truck squealing around the sharp bend.

  “He didn’t see us,” she said hoarsely. “We lost him.” Mia’s hands were shaking. Her face was sheet white.

  “Let me take the wheel. I’m going to drive us farther up this dirt road.” She scooted over as Jagger clambered over her into the driver’s seat. He handed her the pistol.

  Jagger put the truck into gear and gunned farther up the rutted track, rounding a higher outcrop of red rocks. “Any idea where this track leads?” he asked Mia.

  Her eyes were wild, bright. She swallowed hard. “I...I think it’s the old highway that was decommissioned years ago. I think it eventually leads down into the Laramie valley.”

  Jagger veered round a dirt bend, skidding close to a precipitous drop.

  “We lost him, Cole, why are we going so fast?”

  “He’s going to see within minutes that we’re gone. He’ll backtrack. He’ll see our tracks and our dirt cloud.” Behind them fine dry sand was blowing high, like spindrift into the wind. “We need to keep moving.”

  The road grew narrower, steeper, more twisty. “You sure this eventually leads down into Laramie, Mia?”

  “No, dammit, I’m not sure.” She turned in the passenger seat.

  “Oh, God,” she said softly. “I can see his dust rising in the distance. He’s coming.”

  Jagger’s mouth tightened as he floored the accelerator, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror.

  “How far back is he?”

  “Maybe...a half a mile or more. I can’t tell.”

  There was no escape—he was going to keep coming.”

  “Who would try and kill us, Cole? Why?”

  Jagger was silent, concentrating on keeping them on the track.

  She stared at him. “He wants you, doesn’t he? He wants to finish the job he started in that field.”

  “Mia, I’m so sorry—you shouldn’t be a part of this.”

  “But I am! That bastard back there doesn’t give a damn who you’re with! I’m just the collateral damage.”

  “Do you know who drives a truck like that, Mia? Who it might be behind that wheel?”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “Oh, God—” she whispered. “Dylan. He owns a gray Ford pickup.” She paused. “But trucks like his are a dime a dozen out here,” she countered quickly. “And he loans his out.”

  “Does Trip ever borrow his truck?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put anything past Trip.”

  “What about Hansen?”

  “I think he has his own truck.”

  Jagger saw what he was looking for, a narrow trail that led off their track. It looked as if it was primarily used by four-wheelers and from what he could see, it switchbacked all the way down to the river into the gorge.

  “Okay, we go down here,” he said to Mia as he slowed down for the turn. “You got spare ammunition for that pistol?”

  “No, I don’t carry extra. The gun’s for self-protection, not a battle.”

  He swerved again as they barreled and jounced down the steep, twisting trail, dry grass clacking against the undercarriage, dust still billowing out behind them.

  As they neared the bottom of the gorge they saw that the old bridge over the river was unnavigable—slats were missing, water flowing fast underneath.

  “It’s a dead end,” Mia said, her voice hoarse. “We’re going to be sitting ducks.”

  Jagger turned to look at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and gleamed with adrenaline. Mia was afraid, this was beyond her scope. Meanwhile his heart pounded with the thrill, and fire burned through his blood. He was born to this stuff.

  And as he looked at her Jagger was struck with a thought clear as glass—he was under stress, under “attack,” and he hadn’t buckled mentally—no flashbacks. At least, not yet.

  And in his heart, he knew it was because of her. She’d helped him get his first good night’s sleep in months. She was showing him that he wanted things out of a future. Mia Sanders was giving him a route out of his own hell. But in the process he’d drawn her down into danger—now he had to get her out. Or die trying.

  Because he was not going to be responsible for another death.

  Up above the ridge Jagger caught sight of blowing dust. Their attacker was coming.

  Chapter 8

  “We can’t outrun him,” Jagger said, watching the approaching dust trail. “So we need to outfox him.”

  “How?”

  Jagger checked the remaining rounds in Mia’s pistol. She watched him. “Ambush,” he said. “We use the rounds we’ve got left.” Jagger glanced up, scanning the interior of the Escalade, testosterone thumping through his blood. “We need something else we can use as a weapon or distraction.”

  “Bangers,” Mia said suddenly

  He shot her a fast look. “What?”

  “I’ve got bear bangers—explosive cartridges to scare away bears—and emergency flares in my fishing gear.” She spun round in the passenger seat and reached for her fishing vest on the backseat. Scrambling through the pockets, she handed him first a small box containing six explosive cartridges, then a box with two emergency flares plus two pen-style launchers.

  “You carry this stuff with you?”

  “It’s always in my backcountry kit. I’m a nurse, Cole. I volunteered for Search and Rescue—I know what can go wrong.”

  God, he could love this woman. Mind racing, Jagger studied the surrounding terrain. The river had at some time raged much higher than it was flowing now. The water had receded, leaving enough room along the alder-fringed banks to squeeze a car in and drive it along the bank behind the screen of trees.

  On the left of their trail was a rocky outcrop covered with dry scrub. Higher, to their right, was another outcrop of basalt.

  Quickly, Jagger put the Escalade in gear and drove right down to the river, making sure he left clear tracks in the dirt. He then turned the SUV in behind a fringe of alders and drove tightly along the bank behind the trees, then he gunned the Escalade back up a hillock of dry grass until he reached the rock outcrop he’d seen higher up. He pulled in behind it. The vehicle was now hidden from the approaching trail, yet facing it for a quick getaway.

  “Okay, Mia, here’s the plan.” He spoke quickly, screwing an explosive bear banger cartridge onto one of the pen-style launchers she’d given him and a flare cartridge onto the other. “I’m counting on him following our tracks all the way down to the river. At first, he’s going to assume that we might have found a way across. He’ll slow down and stop until he sees our tracks going along the bank. That’s where we get him—when he stops. I want you to climb up this outcrop until you have a clear line of sight to the river, but use the rocks for cover. I’m going to cross over the trail and head down to that outcrop over there.” He pointed. “As soon as our guy reaches the bottom of those tracks by the water, that’s where we get him.”

  “You...want to kill him?”

  He handed her the loaded bear banger along with the spare cartridges. He kept the flares and the pistol.

  “I want to stop him,” he said simply. “When he reaches the bottom, watch for my hand signal. When I raise my hand up high, fire that banger. Aim at his windshield. To him it’ll sound like a shot from a 12-gauge shotgun.” He spoke faster as the line of dust came slowly closer.

  “He’ll be distracted by the explosion. If he tries to leave the vehicle, launch another, right at him. Meanwhile I’ll try put a hole in his tires and gas tank. On my sign—get back down the
rocks and into the vehicle, fast. Start the engine running, open the driver’s door for me.” He hesitated, watching the trail of dust nearing. “Mia, if things go to hell, just get out, okay? Drive back to the highway without me. Then call the cops.”

  “Cole—”

  “Now! Move— He’s almost here. Keep the other cartridges in your jacket pocket. Soon as you’ve fired one, load another and have it ready. Got it?”

  She sucked air in, visibly calming herself, and she nodded, her mouth tight.

  Jagger sprinted across the trail and down the hill. He scrambled up the rock outcrop on the opposite side of the track. As he reached position, he caught sight of the gray truck. Then he heard the vehicle’s motor, tries crunching over sand as the truck slowed, the driver searching for them. A sharp jab of panic pierced through him, but Jagger focused on steadying his breathing. This was not Afghanistan. This was a different ambush—he was going to stay clearheaded. This time he was in command.

  He was going to get Mia out.

  No one was going to die on his watch—not this time.

  The truck came round the bend. It was coated in a layer of fine yellow dust, the license plate obscured. Jagger’s chest tightened as he waited for the vehicle to come even closer. He could see the driver inside now—the man’s features obscured by the sunglasses and tight toque. The man drove the truck under Jagger’s rock, crawling down to water. Jagger raised his arm into the air.

  Mia fired.

  The cartridge detonated against the truck windshield with a violent blast. Stunned, the driver slammed on the breaks and swerved his truck into soft sand. Immediately he threw it into Reverse and stepped on the gas. The truck wheels spun, whined, digging in deeper.

  The guy was stuck—Jagger couldn’t have planned that if he tried. He aimed Mia’s weapon carefully at the back left tire, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit with a soft thwock. Air began to whoosh out of the tire.

  The driver’s door was flung open and the man ducked behind it, returning gunfire in Jagger’s direction. But Mia launched another banger. It hissed through the air exploding right into the cab of the truck. The man threw himself to the ground and leopard-crawled for the cover of some rocks nearby.