by Jeff Carson
He pressed the brake, watching death approach in the form of a wall of old-growth trees.
And then the car hit something hard—a dip or a rock—and he smashed into the door, his head banging against the window.
The car twisted back to the left, pointing him diagonally down the slope.
He plowed through a drainage ditch with a force that fell just short of breaking his spine in two, missed the rear of the truck by inches, and then he was driving—the wrong way and in the opposite lane.
He steered the car to the right, fighting the pull.
“Okay, I’m back.” Patterson’s voice came from the floor.
“The road gets pretty curvy from now on. Be careful.”
“Yeah,” he said with a high-pitched voice. “Will do.”
He pressed the gas, and the car accelerated.
The steering wheel pulled hard left, but he tamed it easily enough with one hand as he plucked the phone from between his feet.
“Okay, they took a left on a side road.”
“Which one?”
“I have to zoom in … hold on …”
The car’s engine moaned and his seat vibrated.
“Shit,” Patterson said. “Shit.”
“What?”
“The dot disappeared.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I’m checking now. Wi-Fi signal’s still good. I might have to reboot this. Damn it.”
He sat in silence, listening to Patterson curse under her breath.
“No. It’s not the software. I’m not even getting a signal. They must be out of cell range.”
The floor dropped out of Wolf’s stomach. “Do you have the road they turned onto?”
“Yes. In about twenty miles you’ll come up on a town called Skykomish. You’ll take a left on Beckler Road heading north.”
“Beckler Road.” Wolf branded the name on his brain. “And then?”
“That’s it. That’s where your own cell coverage will probably cut out—you’ll be on your own.”
He took a gentle right turn, using too much of his arm strength for comfort.
“What’s Lauren doing?”
“She left a few minutes ago.”
He said nothing.
“Luke must have known all these guys were after her. That’s why she came to Colorado,” Patterson said.
Wolf blinked out of his thoughts and eyed the mirrors. “This Chinese gang, Chung Do. Look them up, will you?”
“Okay, yeah, here they are. Says here they’re a world-wide syndicate of organized crime.” She mumbled while she read. “The FBI made a bust in New York City two years ago, where they were keeping … my God … they had thirty kids cooped up in cages. They’re human traffickers first and foremost, and looks like heavy into narcotics as well. Says here they originated in Hong Kong.”
“They were following us last night. No, they were following them—Earnshaw, Nackley, and Staten. Swain has been missing for days, according to them. According to that witness, he shot the gangster on the beach.”
Patterson said nothing.
“Can you look up the histories of these guys? The feds. Is that possible?” he asked.
A crackling sound came through the cell speaker, and then three beeps.
He looked down and saw an X had replaced the phone reception bars.
“Damn it.” He dropped the phone in the center console and gripped the wheel with two hands.
A sign for Skykomish slid by, showing him he had five more miles.
Chapter 38
Skykomish. Elevation 935 feet.
Wolf slowed and pulled into an antique-looking gas station next to a fork in the road.
He stepped out of the rental car into still, cool air. Clouds clung to wooded mountains in every direction, and he heard a low rush of flowing water behind the gas station. The right fork ran to a metal-truss bridge spanning a turquoise river. The other fork continued east along the river and bent out of sight behind tall fir trees.
Across the street, a liquor store-deli sign glowed yellow, promising cold cuts and cold beer, and Wolf smelled bread mixed with the gas fumes and pine forest.
“Howdy,” a man said, getting back into his truck and firing up his engine.
“Excuse me,” Wolf said.
The window rolled down. “Yep?”
“Do you know where Beckler Road is?”
An unlit cigarette poked out of his mustache. “Nope. I’m not from here. Just had to take a leak.”
Wolf nodded and walked into the gas station.
An electronic chime signaled his arrival. The attendant stared at him from behind the counter.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Could you please tell me where Beckler Road is.”
The man raised a finger and pointed vaguely.
“Thanks. So continue on Highway 2 or take the road across the river?”
The guy rolled his eyes, pulled a map from a display, and slapped it on the counter. “We’re here,” he said, flipping it open and poking a finger. “And Beckler is there.”
He poked a road no more than a quarter-mile down the road.
“Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” Wolf pulled the map closer.
Beckler Road shot straight north for a while, then curved and dead-ended. Multiple national-forest routes branched off.
“Lots of roads up there, huh?” Wolf asked.
“Yep.”
Wolf counted four different routes. “Are these all passable?”
“Depends on what you’re driving.”
“A sedan.”
The man frowned. “I thought you just drove up in one of them crossovers.”
“Sure, a crossover.”
The man shrugged.
Wolf’s head ached. He walked to the cooler, chose the largest bottle of water he could find and put it on the counter. “I’ll take the map, too.”
“That’ll be thirteen.”
“Dollars?” Wolf asked.
The guy put both hands on the counter and lowered his eyelids to no-bullshit height.
“Right.” He pulled out his wallet. He was fresh out of cash and slapped a credit card on the counter. “Here you go.”
The man pushed the card back with a finger. “We don’t take credit cards for any charges under twenty dollars.”
“Fine. I’ll take as many of those beef sticks as it takes.”
The guy put five on the counter. “That’ll be twenty-seven, thirty-five.”
Wolf blinked.
The attendant man didn’t as he swiped the card and gave Wolf the receipt.
“Listen, have you seen a dark sedan coming through here?”
The man sat down on a stool behind the cash register. “What kind of sedan?”
“An unmarked police vehicle type. You know, antennas.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Is that the sedan you were talking about earlier?”
“Have you seen it?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks for the help.” Wolf tapped the counter with the end of a beef stick and went out the door.
He took a healthy guzzle of water as he walked back to the car. He reached the door and pulled out his keys. The bottle top fell from his hands and he bent to pick it up.
Three SUVs, Japanese models, screamed into the parking lot, tires squealing.
Wolf remained in his crouched position and watched. One parked feet away from him on the left, another to the right. The third pulled up next to a gas pump.
He stood and looked toward the SUV on the far side. His own reflection stared back at him in the jet-black tinted glass.
The door behind him popped and Wolf moved out of the way as a hard-looking Asian man with a leather jacket stepped out.
Low-volume techno music and the scent of heavy cologne and cigarette smoke washed over Wolf. He pointed at his blocked door with a sheepish smile.
The man grunted and slammed his shut. Wolf noticed a tatto
o on the man’s inner wrist—a circle with a dagger running through it.
“Thanks.”
Wolf cracked his door and slid inside.
The man swung his door open again, knocking it into the side of the rental.
Wolf pretended not to notice and fired up the engine. He shifted into reverse, ignoring the Asian man stepping with him and rubbing the side of his car with a smile.
Aware of the .22 muzzle poking up from the passenger-seat floor, Wolf reversed fast out of the vehicle sandwich, then shifted into drive.
The man stood in Wolf’s now vacant spot, sucking his cigarette and watching him like a play-thing that had gotten away.
Wolf flicked his eyes to the other SUV. It sat unmoved, and he felt an ominous presence looking out from behind the black windows.
He averted his gaze and drove off, back onto Highway 2 for a few yards, then into the parking lot of the liquor store-cum-deli.
He took his time parking, made a show of checking his wallet—still empty—and his phone—still no reception. He got out, walked to the corner, and gazed out onto the river flowing underneath the metal bridge.
It had swelled from the forty-seven days of rain. Or was it forty-eight now?
The engines across the street revved, and in his peripheral vision Wolf saw the SUVs back out.
He walked to the entrance of the liquor store and stepped inside.
“Hey there!” a hairy attendant with smiling eyes called out from behind the register.
Wolf nodded, catching the sound of squealing tires over “Free Bird” rattling out of the ceiling speakers. He dared not look out the window, still feeling the eyes behind that tinted glass.
“Can I help you?”
“No, thanks.” He looked at the clerk for an awkward amount of time, and saw the three SUVs speed away in his periphery.
He checked that the lot was clear and rushed back out the door.
“Bye now!”
Wolf ran to his car and hopped in. The engine sputtered, then turned over and hummed to life.
He backed out and punched the gas.
Chapter 39
Wolf slowed at Beckler Road and took the turn. As he coasted onto cracked asphalt and pressed the gas, a pang of doubt made him ease up. Maybe they’d continued east. He’d not caught up with the fleet of Chung Do vehicles—hadn’t actually seen them take the turn.
He pulled up to a wide puddle straddling the center line. It still rippled and splash marks foamed on the wet road either side.
According to Patterson, Earnshaw’s car had turned onto Beckler, and now the Chung Do were gassing up a quarter-mile from the turnoff. This was no coincidence.
He followed the road along a wooded creek. With each turn, he held his breath, wondering if the SUVs—their occupants most likely armed to the teeth—were waiting around the next bend.
But he was met with yet more open road lined with dense forest, so he continued on.
A couple of minutes later, there was a gouge in the trees and a national-forest dirt road came into view.
He slowed and rolled down his window. A cool mist sprayed his face as he looked down at the muddy transition from paved to unpaved. There was no sign of recent vehicle activity. One set of tire tracks was new, but the others indistinct, eroded by the day’s rain.
He stared at the tracks, let off the brake and drove toward a tunnel of overhanging trees.
After more back and forth through the forest, doubt set in again. He picked up the map from the passenger seat and shook it open. Then he spotted another road cutting into the woods on the right.
He drove, parked up and got out of the running car.
A rhythmic squeal came out from under the hood, like the car was on its last legs.
His boots crunched on the dirt as he walked up to a pothole the width of two cars, brimming with water. Clouds of fresh mud still swirled in the puddle and there were slosh marks on either side.
He ran back, jumped in the car and pressed the gas. The rental revved high and coasted backward.
“Shit.” He slapped the wheel, then eased his foot down on the gas. The car crept forward, then lurched, then accelerated normally.
Letting out a breath of relief, he bounced in his seat as he passed over smooth, packed mud. Then the road turned hard left and climbed, and his wheels spun on exposed rock. He listened to the engine whine until he crested the hill.
The road leveled out for a distance, but every bend added another layer of sweat to his palms.
The underside of the car rattled, as if something had come loose. Ahead, a long straight road climbed a steep hill before disappearing out of sight.
He accelerated to sixty miles per hour, picturing the distance between him and Luke shortening.
Then he jammed the brakes.
At the base of the hill was a puddle, and the choppy terrain surrounding the water suggested it was deep with hidden dangers.
He drove at a crawl into the rippling water. His left front tire dropped and a pop reverberated through the car. There was a clunk as the left side of the frame hit the ground.
He revved the engine but remained stationary.
Water seeped into the bottom of the door.
“Shit.” He tried reversing but the car was stuck.
He shut off the engine, rolled down the window, and climbed out onto the roof.
The tire sat in the puddle a foot from the wheel well—completely off its axle.
He grunted as he climbed onto the windshield, over the hood and onto dry ground.
Or relatively dry. The skies had opened up again.
He put his head down and ran as fast as he could up the road. His legs were powerful and propelled him quickly for a time. Then they fatigued and he panted, thanking the air for being thick with oxygen.
Stars sparkled in his vision as he reached the top of a hill. He’d returned Earnshaw’s FBI rain jacket earlier, and rain seeped through his Carhartt hoodie, but he welcomed the dampness on his skin.
The road forked again, and this time upturned rocks told him to head left along an unmaintained road that bent around the mountain.
He sucked in a breath, let it out through his teeth, and continued on.
Chapter 40
A wind had picked up, blowing rain into his face from straight ahead.
The trees howled and thunder rumbled, adding to the rhythm of his crunching steps and heavy breath.
He flicked his gaze through the trees to a straight section of road, then slowed to a walk round a sharp bend. He inched around a wall of trees and found himself looking at a long, straight stretch up toward the clouds.
He put his hood up and continued jogging. His calves and thighs cramped and his breath hitched as he made long work of the climb.
You’ve taken too long. She’s dead.
He ignored the thought and continued, pushing himself to the limit.
With each upward slope conquered, another rose into view and mocked him.
He reached the apex of the fourth rise, and estimated he’d jogged two miles on uphill road without stopping. It had been years since he’d deliberately run for more than a few hundred feet, and his lungs felt like they’d cracked.
He pushed on. The voice in his head mocked the weapon dangling in his hand, its twenty-five-round banana clip filled with .22 caliber rounds.
Every shot had better count.
The road flattened at a sharp bend and despite the pain he pushed harder, rounding the corner with long strides.
Then he skidded to a stop.
Three black SUVs were parked in the middle of the road. Four men took shelter behind their vehicles.
The wind howled, and without it Wolf would have surely been heard.
He stepped lightly and sprinted back the way he’d come until he rounded the bend.
He pulled the rifle stock into the pit of his shoulder and inched his way back, cross-stepping until the four men slid into view.
They were preoccupied with som
ething else in front of them. Two of the SUVs were parked nose to nose, blocking the road. The third stood in the rear along the shoulder.
Wolf saw now that the vehicles had stopped on a hill crest, and the four men stood with M4 carbines aimed downward into gray clouds.
The trees seemed to end. Was it a steep drop-off? A landslide area?
To his right the terrain sloped up to a rounded apex of the mountain he’d just run up. The left side ran steeply down.
He dug his toes into the soft soil and climbed up into thick woods covered in green moss. After a dozen steps his right foot broke through the ground with a muffled pop and plunged him up to the knee in decayed log.
His left thigh was too weak to do the one-legged squat so he rolled to his back and pulled himself free.
Head lowered, he moved up the slope, mindful of the hidden danger beneath his feet. As he moved further right the SUVs disappeared from view. But the Chung Do were chasing the same people so he edged his way back until they appeared again.
He pressed himself against a tree, feeling the gentle rocking of the wood against his sopping-wet sweatshirt, and looked ahead. Still, he wasn’t high enough to see what held their attention. He had to get to the top.
The cold was beginning to overtake the heat of exertion.
A man’s voice called out somewhere close, and he froze.
His eyes swept back and forth, skipping off branches and underbrush thrashing in the wind.
Someone replied in Chinese.
He looked left, keeping his head still, and saw the back of a man standing up against a tree no more than twenty yards away. His black leather was concealed by the wet forest.
Wolf spotted three more men spread in a line at the top of the rise. They looked downward, their automatic rifles at the ready.
Silently, he swiveled behind the tree, then scanned ahead for more men.
There. He spotted another, further down the end of the line. It seemed he was the last one.
Shit.
He moved gingerly back down and round the hill to below the Chung Do’s line of fire.
The lashing wind masked his descent, and the men seemed unconcerned about their rear.
