by Jess Walker
“Oh my God,” Sam muttered. It was the same logo he had seen on the files in the memory card.
He felt a familiar lump form in the back of his throat when he saw Lawrence’s name at the bottom of the page. It was a letter confirming the dates and times of the wilderness training retreat at Porcupine Mountain that Lawrence had scheduled to lead for the executives.
Sam started to connect the dots, the picture becoming clearer in his mind’s eye. Lawrence needed his help, and the only logical thing to do was to find him. A visit to his last known location, Porcupine Mountain, was in order.
Sam walked toward the shed. He felt butterflies in his stomach as his body filled with nervous energy. The magnitude and danger of the situation was becoming abundantly clear; he was in a world of trouble, and the probability was high that Lawrence was in the same predicament. Pulling off the tarp from the bike, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was in one piece. It was go time!
He knelt down beside Silver and fitted a dog collar around his neck with a round metal capsule attached to it. Inside the capsule was a folded note addressed to the Barbers. It read, “CALL THE POLICE! A man attacked me. The house has been ransacked, Sam.” The Barbers knew Silver. If he showed up without Sam or Lawrence, they would know something was wrong. This was Sam’s insurance policy if he failed to make it to them.
Sam showed Silver Mr. Barber’s hat, the same hat the old-timer had forgotten a couple of days ago after his neighborly visit. He allowed the wolf time to smell it so he had a scent to work with, and then hollered, “Go find him boy!”
Upon hearing the command, the wolf took off and disappeared into the woods. Sam grabbed his helmet off the shelf and put it on, tightening the chinstrap. He mounted the bike and sat down as he gripped both handlebars. Reaching inside his shirt, he felt for the pendant necklace. It was there, secured around his neck. With a slight jump, he kick-started the engine; it responded immediately, sputtering to life with a deep-throaty growl. He pulled the kickstand back with the heel of his foot and opened up the throttle. The bike lurched forward, kicking up a spray of mud.
CHAPTER 4
The high-pitched whine of the motorbike buzzed through the air. Sam finessed the bike along the meandering country road, shifting his weight through the unrelenting turns and dips. He was driving on the edge, maintaining just enough control to stay on the bike. The road was mud covered and riddled with potholes, each brimming with water seeping from the edges, a result of the heavy downpour the night prior.
With the skilled precision of a surgeon, Sam maneuvered his bike along the winding contour of the road. The bike’s tires fought to gain traction, slipping and sliding while spraying mud everywhere. The damp coldness was intensified by the fast-moving air rushing past him. His hands felt like ice cubes, a consequence of wearing no gloves, a forgetful oversight on his part. With frozen hands, he struggled to maintain a secure grip around the handlebar as all feeling was lost. He clutched the throttle and handbrake, ignoring the tingling sensation creeping up his arms.
Sam’s eyes remained glued to the road as the trees rushed past him in a blur of green. As he rounded a ridge, he saw dark-gray smoke billowing into the sky a fair distance ahead. When he neared, the smoke grew thicker, encompassing his entire line of sight until he was in it, his vision reduced to only a couple of feet in front of him. The bike skidded to a stop. He peeled his frozen hands off the handlebars, dismounted, and took a couple steps before stopping. His jaw dropped. It was the white delivery van. The mangled wreckage lay in an array of debris and pieces, scattered from the point of impact with a big maple tree. The main body of the van sat in a crumpled heap in front of the tree like a compressed pop can. Giant flames engulfed it as dark grey smoke spewed out, choking the air around him.
His first thought was of the intruder. Was he in the van or had he gotten away? He walked around the perimeter of the burning van, careful not to get too close as the heat from the flames was intense. The noxious smell of fumes, a mix of burning rubber, fuel, and chemicals, assaulted his senses, stinging his eyes and burning his lungs with each breath. Covering his mouth with his shirt to filter out the acrid stench in the air, he walked past clumps of fire around the perimeter of the wreckage, each, scorching the earth with black soot.
He couldn’t be certain, but he assumed the van’s gas tank had already ignited, but he didn’t want to take a chance in case it hadn’t. He didn’t want to be around if the van was on the verge of exploding, so he knew he had to be quick: get in and get out. He needed to know if the intruder was dead or alive, and if he had an accomplice with him.
Beyond the blown-out windshield, he couldn’t see a body amid the smouldering flames. The man had probably been ejected from the van. Following his hunch, Sam directed his gaze along the imaginary path the man would have followed. It didn’t take him long to find a figure near a pocket of poplar trees. He lay in an unnatural position, his limbs limp and lifeless, dangling at awkward angles from his body. Sam walked toward him, taking slow, tentative steps. He withdrew his sidearm and aimed it squarely at the lifeless body. A nervous tension erupted in the pit of his stomach as he neared the man. Sam feared the man might still be alive, that he was waiting to ambush him once he got close enough.
When he reached the man, he stood directly over top of him, perched on the balls of his feet, ready to jump back if need be. With his gun drawn and pointed, Sam nudged the man with the toe of his boot. There was no response. He repeated it, this time giving the man a more forceful kick. Still no response. He took his pulse. There was none. Relief swept over him. The intruder was dead. Not that Sam wished death upon anyone, but this man, had done a number on him and if given a second chance, Sam was certain he would have tried to kill him.
“It’s better to kill, than be killed,” Sam conceded in a low whisper.
He frisked the man’s body and didn’t find anything except a blood smeared cell phone. He pried the mobile out of his hands and scanned the call history. Noting a call made less than an hour ago, Sam pushed the repeat dial function and held the phone to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up.
After the third ring, a baritone voice in a thick Russian accent answered, “We are on our way, hold tight. Are you okay? Boris, Boris! Are you there?” Silence filled the line before Sam disconnected it.
“We are on our way,” Sam whispered.
They are coming here, he realized. Despite the cold, Sam started to sweat as fear and anxiety surged through his body. He sprang into action, sprinting back to his motorbike. Sam knew that he had to make distance and make it fast before the dead man’s friends arrived.
When he was three strides away from the bike, his momentum was halted by a loud boom. The concussive force of the sound tore through his eardrums as the ground shook. He dove for cover, sheltering himself from the hot burning debris landing on him. The two front tires of the van had blown, disintegrating into a million tiny pieces of rubber that temporarily shrouded the sky in a sea of black. When the debris stopped falling, Sam jumped to his feet and ripped off his jacket. His back felt like it was on fire. Pieces of rubber burned into the fabric of his jacket, singeing through it like a hot poker, burning his skin. He shook his jacket free of the burning rubber before he put it back on. The jacket was in a shredded state of disrepair.
With unsteady legs and ringing ears, he walked the remaining distance to his bike, jumped on it and kicked it into first gear. The wheels spun in the mud before lurching forward and gaining momentum and traction, allowing him to speed around a corner in the road.
Five minutes later, as Sam crested the ridge of a steep hill, he saw a dark blue van in the middle of the road heading toward him. With seconds to react, he cranked the handlebar to the left and swerved away. As the van rushed by, Sam caught sight of the driver. His eyes were as black as coal and burned right through him with a fiery intensity. The bike was inches away from hitting the bigger vehicle. H
e could feel the rush of air explode past him as he whizzed past.
Tight roping the edge of the road, Sam brought the bike back onto the road. With the throttle wide open, he hit the crest of the hill and catapulted into the air, landing twenty feet below. Both tires touched down with a loud thud, absorbing the impact. Sam continued down the hill until he reached the bottom where he rounded up a gulley and traversed back up another steep hill. Near the top, he locked the wheels and slid to a stop. Looking behind him, he spotted the van in the distance. The red glow of the brake lights went on and the van stopped and did a three-point turn.
Sam opened the throttle and shot the bike like a sling shot down the road. The chase was on. With white knuckles, he maneuvered his bike along the winding road, speeding by the woods in a blur of green. He passed the Barber’s and wondered if Silver had delivered his message, but there was no time to stop. He had to reach the police station and find Sheriff Joe.
The winding road turned into a straight stretch that carried on through an open field dotted with grazing cows and sheep. A mile up the road, he entered a heavily forested area in which the road reconvened its zig-zag formation.
Sam slowed for a hairpin turn. As he rounded the tight corner, the bike’s front tire hit a rut in the road which stopped him dead in his tracks, forcing the bike to come to an abrupt halt. Sam shot up and over the handlebars, landing in a ditch of water thirty feet away. The impact of the fall had little effect on him as he was up on his feet in a hurry to retrieve his bike. The front wheel of the bike was bent beyond recognition.
Sam stopped to catch his breath and listen. The growly roar of the van in the distance grew louder. He had to think. He pulled the bike off the road and dragged it down the embankment of the ditch, where he covered it with dead pine needles and branches. A large pine tree with thick, drooping branches sat fifty yards away, offering an excellent place to hide. He ran over to the tree and scrambled up until he was near the top, heavily concealed amongst the branches with a bird’s eye view of the road below.
The van sped around the corner, hit the same rut, and fished-tailed to a stop. The men exited the van, scoured the area, and ambled down the embankment. They were on to him
Sam pressed himself deep inside the needled confines of the tree and closed his eyes, willing himself to slow his breathing. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. The men were close to his hiding place and were speaking in another language. He opened his eyes and stole a peek through the branches. They were walking through the leaf-covered ground below, their boots crunching with each step. As they neared the bike, one of them tripped right over it.
So much for concealing the damned bike, Sam thought.
One of them shouted, “We are not here to hurt you—we just want the eagle pendant necklace. If you come out now, we can put this behind us and be on our way. What do you think? Don’t make this any harder than it should be.”
Sam heard every word as he watched the two men from the tree. He wasn’t born yesterday. Once they had what they were looking for, he was going to be in a heap of hurt, likely dead at the side of the ditch. No, he wasn’t about to surrender any time soon. He was too smart for that.
“So, you’re the shy type!”
“Come out while you still can. If you choose not to, we’ll have to do it the hard way. You don’t want to see the hard way!”
Sam heard all he wanted to hear. His resolution was firm. He wasn’t going to give in without a fight.
“Have it your way. We’re going to find you, you little runt!”
Sam saw their outlines, partly obstructed through the entanglement of branches. He gingerly slid his hand inside his coat pocket and grasped his damaged mobile. Careful not to make a sound, he slid it out and looked for a target. When their attention was diverted away from his hide out, he hurled the mobile at a rock twenty-five yards away. The phone sailed through the air and hit its target, smashing into several pieces. The impact created a muffled banging sound. Immediately, the two men moved toward the origin of the sound at a light jog. When they were far enough away, Sam scrambled down the tree, jumped the last ten feet to the ground, and bolted toward the road where he could hear the faint sound of the van idling.
Any attempt at stealth was discarded in favor of speed, as time was a critical commodity—one that was eroding by the second. He sprinted past rows of pine trees, shielding his face against the thick entanglement of branches that brushed past him in a frenzied blur, scraping against his exposed hands and face. He exited the woods into a clearing that lay ten feet ahead of the steep embankment.
He looked back and saw the two men in the distance with their guns drawn.
He scrambled up the side of the embankment on all fours, digging his hands and his boots into the mud-covered ground to gain enough traction. His legs pumped hard as he fought to climb the steep embankment. Shouts from the men, followed by gunshots, serenaded him like a bad thunderstorm. Seconds later, darts chewed up the ground behind him as he reached the top of the embankment where he dove out of the arc of fire.
Sam lay on his back. His lungs burned, and his throat was dry. The van was twenty feet away. He jumped to his feet and sprinted the remaining distance. When he got to the van, he swung the door open and jumped in, slamming the door shut before sliding behind the wheel. He glanced out the driver’s side mirror and saw the men breach the top of the embankment. He pulled the shift lever to drive and floored the gas pedal. The van shot forward, its tires spraying up mud as it fish-tailed down the length of the road.
Once he was clear, he relaxed a little and took his foot off the gas to drive with a little more caution. The last thing he wanted was to put the van into the ditch.
Up ahead, on the side of the road, he saw movement. As he drew closer, he could see the distinct outline of Silver. He stopped the van and opened the door.
The wolf jumped in. When Sam saw the collar, confusion set in. The capsule with his message remained attached and unopened. The Barbers never got the message! What happened? This meant no police were on their way!
The van motored ahead and made the town limits without further incident.
CHAPTER 5
November 6, 2016, Late Afternoon—Whitebush Michigan…
Sherriff Joe sat at his desk with his feet plopped up and his chair fully reclined, reading a magazine. It was Sunday. The town was its quiet usual self, given that most Whitebushonians were at church. The jail cells remained empty. He was the only one at the station.
The door to the police station swung open, and a stranger shuffled inside. Joe remained reclined in his chair and looked up at him from his magazine.
“What can I do for you?”
The man was burly-looking, built like an ox with arms bigger than both of Joe’s legs. His hair was jet black and spiked. His ocean blue eyes were set far apart, centering a face that was unshaven and mean. The stranger stared at him, almost right through him, before he spoke.
“It’s not what you are going to do for me. It’s what I’m going to do to you.”
Joe laughed.
“What? Did Roger put you up to this?” Tell him he got me good this time.”
The stranger didn’t say anything, and the room turned quiet. At that very moment, sitting defenseless in his chair, Joe realized this was no joke. The man standing before him was not there to play around, he meant business. Joe leapt out of his chair and went for the gun holstered on his right hip. The man lunged at him, jumping through the air with his arm coiled back. He landed a solid punch, which connected against the side of Joe’s face, knocking him to the floor. Joe tried to get up, but a second punch to the back of his head knocked him out cold.
“Stay down old-timer.” He withdrew his gun and placed it on the desk, grabbed Joe underneath his arms, and dragged him to an empty cell where he plopped him on the cold concrete. After stripping the older man of his
clothes, he put on the old man’s uniform. Even though it was three sizes too small, he managed to squeeze himself into it. He walked out of the cell and slammed the door behind him, locking it shut.
Joe came to a half-hour later and dragged himself off the floor, onto his feet. He tried to open the cell door, but it was locked.
“You think I would be that stupid, old-timer?”
Joe grabbed the cold metal bars with both hands and studied the intruder.
“Just who in blazes are you?”
“None of your damned business. Just do as you’re told, and you won’t get hurt.”
Joe’s mind was churning. His police instincts were kicking in. He had to find out what the man wanted, see if he could talk his way out of it.
As though the man could read his mind, he spoke again. “Oh, and by the way, save the small talk. It won’t get very far with me. Just shut your trap. Got it!”
Joe sat back on the cot and eyed the man up and down. Based on what he had pulled off so easily, without even breaking a sweat, he had to be a professional, perhaps ex-military. He had an accent. It sounded Russian. He saw a tattoo of a dragon on the side of his neck.
A mobile rang, and the stranger picked it up after the first ring. Without waiting, he said, “The Sherriff has been looked after, and I’m waiting for the package to arrive.”
The volume on the cell was turned up enough that Joe could just make out the tinny voice on the other end. “Whatever you do, don’t screw this up. If you do well, you’ll be up for a promotion. You understand?”
“Crystal clear.”
“Good.”
The phone went dead. The man took a deep breath and glanced outside.
