Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  He had to get them out of here. Fast.

  Isaiah Hood’s eyes met his.

  No other options existed.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Instinct compelled Paige to flee for the goat ledges of the high country.

  She could smell the grizzly coming for her. She had become accustomed to its horrible odor. In her ten-year-old heart, she reasoned it to be the stench of death.

  My death.

  Again, she heard it huffing; its jaw clicked, gaining on her. In what had become a slow, dark ballet, she climbed as swiftly as her depleted, aching body would permit; the huge carnivore lumbering steadily after her.

  Paige sobbed, scrambling for her life, stopping for a brief moment, certain she heard a helicopter nearby. Then a distant thud. Then nothing.

  Keep moving. Keep moving.

  Kobee had learned now not to bark.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Paige’s tormentor was an eight-foot one-thousand-pound mother sow. Pale cream, measuring nearly four feet at its humped shoulders, she ruled much of the Devil’s Grasp, having fiercely killed deer, goats, wolves. She was the manifestation of forces as ancient as the mountains. As the victim of circumstance, Paige continually trespassed in the most intimate regions of her territory, became enemy prey to be hunted, killed, buried in a shallow grave, then eaten by her cubs.

  Reaching a higher elevation, Paige quickly scoured the area, finding a small shelter enclosed in rock that was naturally barricaded by two large, fallen trees. Paige squeezed her way inside with Kobee. The trunks were huge, but the bear was of nightmare proportions.

  Hugging Kobee, Paige waited, realizing she was losing against a beast determined to kill her.

  She began weeping softly. Closing her eyes. Waiting.

  Waiting to die.

  Paige peeked through the bright cracks between the trees, seeing only daylight and the snowy summits of the Rocky Mountains. She began praying.

  Please, God. Don’t let it hurt. Just don’t let it hurt. God, please.

  Paige searched her cold dark shelter for something--anything--with which she could write her parents a final note. A stick or stone to carve something in the mud, or scratch on a rock.

  I’m so sorry I got lost. I love you, P.

  She found nothing, and continued weeping until her world went dark.

  The grizzly arrived in silence, blocking the sun, fouling the air, weaving and bobbing, deciding how it would open the container to its food source.

  Paige squeezed Kobee.

  The grizzly reached in with one of its huge paws.

  Feeling it brush her, Paige screamed.

  The bear groaned, thrusting its paw deeper, just under an inch from Paige’s face.

  It climbed up on the trees, making them creak from its weight.

  “Oh, please, no! Oh, please, please, no!”

  The bear growled at the sky, enraged, clawing, pounding at the trunks, carving into them with its terrifying claws. Paige screamed; Kobee yelped.

  Suddenly, one of the trees shifted as the bear rolled it away, reaching inside, touching Paige.

  The grizzly slammed at the second trunk, nudging, pushing, shoving it aside. Paige screamed, clutching Kobee, sobbing, pushing back, deeper into the hole with nothing to defend herself.

  No escape.

  Paige saw its huge yellow fangs barred, white foam collecting around its mouth; she smelled its horrid breath and braced for its attack.

  Suddenly, the bear vanished. Daylight filled the shelter.

  Paige remained frozen, her heart beating wildly, holding her breath.

  The grizzly was gone.

  I can get out? Run?

  She was trembling.

  Without sound or warning, everything went black. Faster than Paige could scream, the monster reached into the cave, its claws locking into her. It dragged her out, standing victorious over her.

  God, please, oh, please don’t let it hurt.

  She hugged Kobee.

  The grizzly grunted and dragged her out farther. She was totally at its mercy. Paige did not move as it growled, lifting its head to the sky, its saliva glistening. It shook its head savagely, nearly standing on its hindquarters, driving its opening jaws toward Paige.

  Mommy, Daddy, please…please don’t let it hurt….

  Paige looked to the blue sky…. Suddenly, a glint-flash of metal blurred into the grizzly’s skull, forcing the beast to suspend itself as the object was instantly removed then pounded again swiftly into its head. A second, third, fourth and final time by someone, something, forcing the animal to drop its huge head and neck, landing on Paige’s lower abdomen, its snout nearly touching her face. An ax was embedded between its ears some four inches deep into its brain; warm blood erupted from the wound onto her stomach, its stinking death gasp blowing up her nostrils.

  Paige was too stunned to scream.

  Someone, a man, lifted the head from her. Paige rolled clear. The man stood in the sun, a silhouette in a blue jumpsuit.

  Her savior.

  “You’re safe now,” Isaiah Hood said.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The debate at the crash site between photographer Levi Kayle and Hilda Sim from Idaho SAR ended when Rawley Nash took charge.

  “No one is going anywhere right now. Not until we make sure these injured people are safely on their way to hospital.”

  “I agree,” Tom Reed said, along with Molly Wilson and Sim, who were comforting the victims.

  Nash said two choppers would be arriving shortly to transport patients to the command center, where ground ambulances would take them to Kalispell. “I need your guys to help us load. After that, form a posse, do your thing.”

  The first helicopter, dispatched from the command post, approached.

  “If anyone asks, you press people were already here when Sim and I spotted the wreck, got it?” Nash said.

  He directed the aircraft to a makeshift landing zone, then supervised the quick loading of the pilot and the small guard, who looked to be in the worst shape. Both were now conscious and moaning.

  The second helicopter took Nurse McCarry. No one asked questions. Attention was focused on airlifting the victims. Nash was last to depart. He had Wordell. Lifting off, he flashed a thumb’s up to the others, seeing Lux enthusiastically tugging Sim north into the forest, commencing pursuit.

  Glancing over his shoulder at Wordell laid out across his rear seats, he noticed her diamond engagement ring.

  Don’t worry, baby. Nash will get you to the church on time.

  He could not shake off the images of the scene.

  Handcuffs and shackles.

  He had pushed them to the back of his mind but they leaped forward as he tried to comprehend what the Mercy Force crew had endured. Who was the con? What happened in the air? Christ, it looked bad.

  Nash had ditched a number of times. Struck by lightning flying traffic reports over Atlanta. Not fun. In New York, some fuselage gave way flying a TV news crew over Manhattan. Nearly died from fear at the controls when he veered into the World Trade Center, averting disaster at the last second. Those two were dicey. Nash gazed down at the mountains. But handcuffs and shackles. He could not imagine what kind of hell the Mercy Force people survived. Who was their passenger?

  On the subject of passengers, Nash considered the quick two grand he just made. He apologized for his actions, but he had bills to pay. Should he call that San Francisco TV guy at the park’s press camp, offering him a deal on a ride in for the return trip? Depended on his next assignment.

  Putting down at the command center, everything went like clockwork. Enough paramedics were standing by to transport the victims.

  Nash’s instructions were radioed to his call numbers.

  “Kill your rotor. Stay in your chair and on the air. Next assignment’s coming up. Stand by. An FBI call. Four bodies to the command post.”

  “Roger. Standing by.”

  Sitting back in his seat to catch his breath, N
ash removed one ear cup from his radio headset and began fiddling with his emergency radio for any updates. Mostly marshaling from the ranger’s command post. Next channel. Paramedic hospital talk--vital signs and stuff. Next channel. Weather conditions. Next Channel. Static. Next. Wait! Nash snapped back to the weak static. It was breaking up badly.

  “…Ser--hiss--Garner hiss pop pop--CMP--have pop pop in pop sight-- hiss hiss visual--see--girl--pop alive pop--kilometer from me pop pop hiss hiss--coordinates--pop--hiss she is walking--dog--”

  “What was that?”

  Nash sat upright. Adjusted his headset.

  “What was that?” Fiddling with the radio. Was he the only one who heard that? “Come back! Come back!” He slammed his radio. “Please, baby.”

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Doug Baker watched the command center fill with rangers, FBI agents, Montana officials and SAR people.

  “We are going to get out of here,” he whispered to Emily.

  Eyes vacant, she nodded.

  Some of the agencies were changing shifts, reassigning bodies, redirecting resources.

  “Listen up, people.” An unseen voice was issuing instructions. “Search and rescue efforts are to be concentrated in the following sectors….”

  The teams who headed the camera probe of the crevasse had returned. Exhausted, they headed for the table with food and coffee. Removing their caps and utility belts, they listened to updates.

  “…because of the danger, each team will have one armed park law enforcement officer, or FBI agent, or patrol officer, or sheriff’s deputy. The region is high elevation, one the most remote and treacherous--”

  Doug squeezed Emily’s hand. They seemed to have been forgotten.

  “Ground teams have already been dispatched or directed from the command post and are in the region. We are moving fast….”

  Doug overheard FBI officials demanding two helicopters be readied for sniper teams. Another conversation spilled over, something about investigating the crash site and U.S. Marshals, then someone moving dog teams.

  Doug’s thoughts raced. Now. It was their only chance. Now.

  “Emily,” he whispered. “Come with me.”

  The Bakers shouldered their way through the forest of bodies, brushing against them toward the food table near the door; no one in the cramped room paid attention to them. Doug listened to every snippet of conversation.

  A deep, tired voice: “I’m going to sleep for a spell in my truck.”

  Inching closer to the food table.

  “Do you believe they flew Hood to the hospital on execution day?”

  The heap of caps, sunglasses, utility belts.

  “…a Mountie spotted her footprint….”

  “I gotta take a leak….”

  “Listen up, the following are to stand by, Hinkle, Prue, Framington, Barrow…”

  Most backs were turned from the food table to the speaker issuing instructions. Doug casually picked up two caps and two belts, reached down for two small packs under it, smoothly pulling Emily toward the exit door. They quickly slipped on sunglasses and adjusted the caps, which read FBI.

  Nodding to the officers milling outside, carrying the packs and radio belts, they walked toward the landing zone where one helicopter was lifting off. Another was approaching, and two were idle.

  “Just keep walking, Emily. Don’t look back.”

  Doug sized the two parked helicopters. A Bell and an old Huey. The Huey pilot was alone in the cockpit, listening to his radio. Ready. He noticed Doug, who pointed a finger in the air, swiveling it as a signal to go up now, as he and Emily approached.

  The pilot nodded. Relief washed over Doug, hearing the ignition start and blades commencing rotation.

  “I’m supposed to take four. Where are the other two?” Rawley Nash shouted.

  “Change of plan because of the circumstances.” Buckling up in the seat beside Nash, Doug expertly slipped on the headset, adjusted his mouthpiece. “We’ve got to move now.”

  “Roger that,” Nash said. “All right back there?”

  “All set.” Emily knew her way inside a chopper. She was buckled and connected. Her eyes drawn to the bloodstained seats. “You’ve got blood all over back here,” she shouted.

  The rotors gathering momentum. Nash activated the intercom. “Transported one of the nurses from the Mercy Force crash. Didn’t have time to clean up. Sorry.”

  “You were at the site?” Doug said. “How bad was it?”

  “Everyone will make it, but it was chilling inside. You probably heard that the con had cuffed them before he escaped. Hey, I just heard on the radio it was the death row guy? That true?”

  Doug swallowed, nodding behind his dark glasses and cap.

  “Christ,” said Nash, radioing his call letters, hesitating. “You’ve got the coordinates? It was all broken up on my radio.”

  “Which coordinates?” Doug said.

  “Where the Mountie sighted the girl?”

  “You mean the footprint?”

  “I mean the girl. The lost Baker girl. Just a few minutes ago, it came across all broken up. The Mountie spotted her alive. That’s where we’re headed, right?”

  Doug and Emily were speechless.

  “Right.” Doug thought quickly. “You are supposed to take us to the general area. We’ll get the coordinates on the way.”

  “OK. If you say so. I think it’s near the crash site. Where Hood is running around. I know they got people after him.” Nash called in his flight path and increased the throttle. “Here we go.”

  The Huey rattled; the ground began dropping beneath them.

  Emily’s knuckles whitened as she clasped her hands tightly, tears rushing down her cheeks from under her dark glasses.

  Mommy and Daddy are coming, sweetheart.

  Doug reached back, his hand finding Emily’s, squeezing it as they gained speed.

  Strange, Nash thought. Never saw FBI agents holding hands on duty.

  “Hey, you guys like CCR?”

  EIGHTY

  It was her.

  Paige Baker. Yes. And her dog. A beagle. A glimpse through his binoculars. One, maybe two kilometers off before they vanished into a thick spruce forest. He had to locate her again.

  RCMP Sergeant Greg Garner continued radioing reports but knew his signal was weak from the valley. No response. If there was, he did not receive it.

  “Let’s go, pal.”

  Garner and Sultan were now about half a mile south of the Montana-Alberta border. He put an eighteen-foot-long line on the German shepherd, which had locked onto the girl’s scent. Garner knew it was a good, strong track. Sultan was panting, excited, pulling hard, moving so fast he had to slow it down after slipping in a few places.

  “Hold on there, big guy. I’m no good to you with a twisted ankle.”

  Garner’s exhaustion melted. Having spotted the Baker girl energized him.

  Against all odds, she was alive. He saw her.

  If he could just get to her, or get a chopper to her.

  So close but so far.

  Good. They were climbing now. Good.

  It was clear to Garner the girl went this way, but ascending the rocky slope made things difficult. At the top of the next significant rise, he would stop to use his powerful field scope. The radio should transmit better, too. They attacked the climb, practically clawing up at double time.

  “Oh boy.” Garner huffed at the top several minutes later, perching himself near a rock upon which he could steady his telescope. He drank some water to help his breathing normalize so he could look calmly through the eyepiece.

  Sultan yelped impatiently.

  “I know. Me too.

  A moment passed. Garner squinted through his scope, sweeping the slopes across the vast alpine valley to the area where he expected the girl to be.

  Sultan sat, ears pricked, panting.

  “Relax, relax. We’ll find her,” Garner sounded like a surgeon probing slowly, confidently. A minute passed. Noth
ing but forest, rock, forest, rock. A deer. Forest, rock, forest, rock--what, a flash of color!

  “Hold it!”

  Blue? Large. A man?

  “What the--”

  A blue jumpsuit. A man. Cap. Sunglasses. Looked like a SAR guy. A ranger maybe. Then a small dog, the beagle. Come on. There! She was with him, walking slowly. It was her! Walking. Alive. Thank God. But who was that with her? No chopper nearby. Nothing. SAR ground people must have her. We’re done then. Relieved.

  “Looks like she’s safe, buddy.”

  But wait. Better confirm. They should get a chopper out here. Actually, he’d like to hear the status. Garner pulled out his map, detailing his coordinates, then reached for his radio.

  “Garner to base.”

  “That’s better Greg,” his radio said. “Must be on high ground now because you are loud and clear. What do you have for us?”

  “I’m going to tell you exactly where Paige Baker is.”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Saved.

  Paige watched the man in blue. Her savior.

  She was not dreaming. The bear was real. Its blood still warm on her shirt. The stench lingering.

  It was real. But she was alive. Saved.

  Paige wept with joy, fear, exhaustion.

  “Drink this.” The man passed her a canteen. They were under the shade of lodgepole pine, resting on an oasis of soft grass. He had given her water, some pieces of vegetables and fruit. Paige had never known such thirst or hunger. She shared some with Kobee and sobbed quietly while chewing. She could not stop shivering from the cold. The man searched his pack, pulling out a large clean T-shirt, fixing it on her, tying its waist. It warmed her. The blood bled through, but she didn’t care. She was saved.

  His radio was bleating. As Hood expected, it didn’t take long.