Peter Savage Novels Boxed Set

by Dave Edlund

  “Except we have the statement from Peter Savage. And Agent Shooks has a written statement from Barnes that he was, indeed, assaulted last night, with injuries serious enough to keep him from work.”

  “This just gets stranger all the time,” Nakano said.

  “You got that right. I’ll make sure the evidence techs get a copy of what we’ve got so far scanned and emailed up to Portland. In the meantime, we have local, state, and federal law enforcement searching for Peter Savage. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the ten-most-wanted list by morning.”

  Chapter 17

  Eastern Drainage of Broken Top

  April 21

  Paralleling the Pacific Ocean and forming the eastern boundary of the Willamette Valley are the Cascade Mountains. The volcanic mountain chain stretches from Northern California, through Oregon, Washington, and into British Columbia where it merges with the Rockies. With five peaks in Oregon higher than 10,000 feet, the Cascades provide an effective rain barrier resulting in the western third of the state being noteworthy for its precipitation, while the eastern portion is classified as high desert. The mountains are a sportsman’s paradise with ample opportunity for hiking, backpacking, fishing, hunting—and hiding.

  Diesel stretched, pushing his four legs against his master, waking him in the process. The morning air was cold, and frost covered the scattered bunch grass dispersed among the mix of pumice gravel and sand. Peter pushed up his brimmed hat exposing his eyes to a brilliant orange sunrise. He stretched, and Diesel groaned. “Me too,” he said.

  After leaving Bend, Peter drove the Hummer H3 pickup truck past Mount Bachelor to the turnoff for Todd Lake. Scattered patches of snow still frequented the forest floor—it would not be completely melted for another two months. But the road was open and Peter got about a mile off the highway before encountering the locked gate blocking the old gravel Forest Service road.

  He knew this area well—knew that beyond the gate he could travel north, away from people. He was at ease in the wilderness, and he had the essentials needed to survive—rather comfortably, he thought. Water from melting snow was plentiful. He had food, and if needed he was perfectly capable of taking large or small game. But with the freeze-dried meals, that wouldn’t be necessary unless he needed to stay in the high country for more than two or three weeks.

  Here, on the eastern slope of Broken Top peak, at the edge of the Three Sisters Wilderness, he would hide out and let them come for him. Here, the terrain was his ally. He would set up hides well up the slope. The trees were thin, and with many open meadows, Peter would see his adversaries coming long before they knew where he was.

  The backcountry was still considered closed to vehicles, and with only patchy snowfields, the cross-country skiers and snowshoers would be done for the season. It was unlikely any innocents would wander into the area.

  Peter drove around the Forest Service gate and continued north, eventually pulling off the road and parking on a spur. He strapped the .45 caliber handgun to his waist and placed some last-minute items from the truck inside the pack—first aid kit, rope, knife, lighter, and a blanket. With Diesel by his side, he shouldered the pack and long guns before heading west on foot. After an hour of walking and with the last gray light from a faded sunset, he’d set up shelter beneath a dense fir tree. There, with Diesel resting his head on Peter’s lap, he had fallen asleep.

  With the beginning of a new day, Peter had work to do. He figured he had at least the morning to prepare, perhaps longer. The red Hummer H3, parked next to the road, would be found quickly. From there, trackers would follow his trail.

  “Come on, Diesel.” Peter was eying a rocky outcropping that rose about 30 feet above the meadow. “That point of land is our new home.” It was angled to the northeast and had a reasonable covering of trees. From that vantage point, he could watch the entire length of the meadow, looking over their back trail.

  Peter’s knee felt better after popping several ibuprofens, but it was still sore and stiff. He estimated it was sprained and had wrapped an elastic bandage around it for added support. It helped, but only a little. His abdomen was also healing. The bruised muscles ached only when he took a deep breath.

  After crossing the long meadow, they climbed the steep scree slope to the point, the only access avenue unless one was willing to climb the rock cliff face. Peter estimated that it would take a determined adversary at least two minutes to rush up the scree from the base, more than enough time to escape off the back of the point and retreat farther up the gentle slope.

  The terrain was marked by a series of parallel drainages that funneled snow runoff to the east. At higher elevations from his current position, these gullies were separated by steep ridgelines. The drainages provided cover to disappear and relocate, while the ridges offered excellent hides to ambush any pursuers.

  East, toward the road, the terrain was more densely wooded while the creeks, flowing slower at the lower elevation, meandered through innumerable grassy meadows, separated by pockets of fir trees.

  Directly to the west was Broken Top, and extending north from the aptly-named extinct volcanic peak was a formidable natural barrier—the towering rock cliff known as Tam McArthur Rim. Peter had no intention of trying to drop over the Rim, but he could continue north and eventually work around the drop-off to access points deeper in the Three Sisters Wilderness. Within this vast tract of land, he could remain hidden for weeks, possibly months.

  Although Peter would have preferred to be outfitted with his camo hunting clothing, the waterproof parka he’d pulled off the rack at Pinnacle was heavily insulated with down filling, and it came with a pair of medium-weight gloves tethered to the zipper—a package deal. Plus, he had luckily grabbed one in a slate-gray color, affording a decent degree of camouflage.

  With the edge of his shoe, he scraped away loose rock and sticks from his vantage on the point. He planned to be here for a while—maybe all afternoon—so he might as well be comfortable. A rotting log lay between his scrape and the cliff, a perfect rest for the spotting scope. With the magnified aid of the scope, he would be able to identify faces at the far end of the meadow—more than a thousand yards away.

  Peter and Diesel had already shared breakfast, and he wouldn’t boil water and prepare food again until late afternoon—about an hour before sunset so the small cooking fire would be less likely to attract attention.

  Stretching out on the ground and using the pack as a rest for his Weatherby, Peter got comfortable with the rifle. Next, he spotted several distinctive landmarks in the meadow—a boulder, a lone scrub pine, a bend in the stream flowing back toward the primitive road—and ranged the distance to each using the built in laser range finder of the Leica binoculars. He committed to memory the distance to each unique mark.

  With his preparation completed, he took a drink of water from one of the plastic bottles and then poured some into one of the lightweight aluminum cooking pots. Diesel lapped until he had his fill.

  Peter reached out and rubbed the pit bull’s head. The dog sat and watched the meadow, just as Peter did. “Well Diesel, I guess all we can do now is wait.”

  s

  Derek Hood was driving his Ford F150 pickup slowly north along the Forest Service Road. In the back was his Polaris Outlander ATV. He’d been working Search and Rescue as a Deschutes County Deputy for close to five years. He loved working outdoors, although he didn’t care so much for the wintertime searches, especially during blizzard conditions.

  He understood the unusual request for his present activity came through the Bend Police. Rather than searching for a lost hiker, he was looking for a vehicle thought to be associated with a wanted and dangerous man. Supposedly, the suspect had assaulted and killed three persons at the Pinnacle store in the Old Mill District. It didn’t make any sense to him that a criminal would flee to these mountains—after all, they couldn’t stay here forever.

  The Ford managed the rough and rutted road with ease, and Derek knew he was on t
he fresh trail of a vehicle from the tire tracks traversing patches of snow covering the shaded sections of road. He rounded a bend and startled three does, the mule deer bounding off as the deputy’s truck approached.

  He was moving his head from side to side, plodding along, careful not to miss any sign of tire tracks heading away from the road. If he reached a snow patch without the tracks, he’d know he’d gone too far and would turn around and backtrack. Although technically vehicles were not allowed off the established road, he would use the Outlander if the trail led away into the wilderness.

  At least the weather was nice, he thought. Sunny and mild temperatures made it comfortable to drive with the window down. He was wearing a long-sleeve uniform shirt and considered rolling up the sleeves. Thankfully, he didn’t have his ballistic vest on—if he did he’d be roasting without the AC pumping out cold air.

  So far he hadn’t heard any engine sounds, other than his own truck. After rounding another bend and traversing up a shallow rise, he saw a glint of red. It was far ahead and could be just a trick of light on the earth. The lava that comprised these mountains exhibited a range of color, including rust and yellow. But he didn’t think the color he saw was natural—it was too vivid.

  The Ford slowed to a stop as Derek removed his foot from the accelerator. Leaving the truck in the road, he turned off the engine and exited the cab, leaving the door open so as not to make a sound. His pulse quickened. This was different than searching for a lost child or hiker; this time, the element of personal violence was very real.

  His right hand fell to the Smith & Wesson .40 caliber pistol on his belt. Just to be certain, he brushed his left hand over the pair of chrome handcuffs. Derek took two calming breaths and then walked—in absolute silence—toward the patch of red behind a copse of young fir trees. After ten meters, he stopped to listen. The only sound was a soft whoosh from the gentle breeze moving through the evergreens.

  Another dozen paces and he stopped again, this time along the edge of the road, using the vegetation to screen his approach. Still no sound.

  With slow, deliberate movements he silently crept forward. Thirty more meters and he knew for certain this was a red pickup. Nine meters further and Derek was able to read the license plate on the rear of the truck. It was a Hummer H3, and the plate matched the information he’d been given.

  His heartbeat ran up again, and he drew his sidearm. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he cleared the fir trees and approached the truck. Only then did he recognize the passenger door was open. A head popped up—must have been rummaging through the glove box or searching the cab.

  “Step out of the truck. Hands in the air,” he ordered. Slowly, the man complied. His back was toward Derek, but his hands were up, fingers spread wide.

  “Turn around and walk to me. I wanna see those hands!”

  The man turned slowly, avoiding any sudden or provocative movements. Derek was sizing him up; well under six feet, slim and muscular, wavy raven hair and eyes like coal. His skin coloration was dark, but not African—Middle Eastern maybe, or Mediterranean. No, this person didn’t match the description of Peter Savage.

  “That’s right. Come around the truck. Keep those hands up.” Derek was moving backwards while the man advanced, taking a new position where nothing impeded his view of the suspect and he still had about seven meters of separation.

  “Is that your truck?” Derek asked. He already knew the answer.

  “No. It belongs to a friend. He took off that way.” The man motioned with his head toward trees beyond the parked vehicle.

  “And he just left you here? That’s not very friendly.”

  The suspect stared back in silence.

  “Does your friend have a name?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Yeah. Peter Savage.”

  That was about the last answer that Derek Hood expected. He’d been a patrol Deputy for six years before moving into Search and Rescue, and during that time he’d caught all kinds of petty criminals in lies. And the lies were always lame, obviously untruthful, and often not even remotely believable. He’d expected exactly that now, from this man.

  “You don’t say. Well, he’s just the man I’m looking for.” Derek cocked his head to the side and smiled. Maybe this was going to be his lucky day.

  “He’s a popular man, this Peter Savage fellow.” The voice came from behind and startled Derek. Still, he had the presence of mind not to turn around. He held firm with his Smith & Wesson aimed at the suspect in front of him.

  Derek heard the sound of boots on gravel as several pair of feet approached. Next he heard the distinctive sound of a shotgun action being pumped. Then the footsteps stopped.

  “About time, where’ve you been?” asked the man in front of Derek. He still held his hands in the air and stood motionless.

  “Relax Ben, we’re here aren’t we?”

  Derek was sweating despite the cool temperature. “Ben is it?”

  The suspect nodded.

  “Well Ben, why don’t you tell your friends to drop their guns and we’ll have ourselves a nice, peaceful conversation.”

  Ben shook his head. “I have a better idea… Deputy Hood.” Even from over twenty feet away Ben could read the nametag above the breast pocket on his uniform shirt. “If you want to live, put down your pistol.”

  Derek didn’t answer. He knew that to surrender his weapon would leave him completely at the mercy of these people. And yet he still didn’t know how many there were. Judging from the sound when they first approached, he was certain there was more than one gunman behind him. But where? How far away? He moved his eyes to the side trying desperately to see where they were, but he couldn’t. And he wasn’t about to let Ben out if his sights.

  Ben motioned to the side with his head, still keeping his hand up. Again Derek heard the familiar sound of boots on the gravel road, and then two men appeared to his right and left. They were spread far apart, making it impossible for him to shoot both before one of them returned fire.

  One man was brandishing a shotgun, the other a semiauto handgun. Like Ben, both had black wavy hair, dark brown eyes, and a tanned complexion.

  Now that his colleagues were in view, Ben spoke again. “Last chance, Deputy. We can all walk away. It’s up to you.”

  Derek held firm. He figured he could pivot to his right and take out the shotgun first. Then spin and blast away at the other guy. Ben wasn’t armed, at least not that Derek could see. Now he regretted not wearing his ballistic vest. Against either the shotgun or handgun it would have given him the advantage, the ability to take a hit—multiple hits—and not be incapacitated.

  “Well Ben, the way I figure it… the first bullet goes through your heart. I’ll get one shot into your buddies before either knows it, and that gives me a better-than-even chance of coming out of this okay. But you won’t. You’ll bleed out before the gunfire is over.”

  Ben just smiled.

  Click.

  Derek heard the hammer cocking first, and then felt the cold barrel press against the back of his head. Before the thought fully registered in his mind, his life was ended.

  Ben dropped his hands and strode forward. “Thank you, Nadya.”

  Nadya Wheeler holstered her pistol.

  The Mossad team comprised five operators. All were fluent in English and had deeply established aliases, including expertly forged birth certificates used to acquire government-issued social security numbers, drivers’ licenses, and U.S. passports. They had all lived in the United States since graduating from college and being recruited into the elite Israeli intelligence organization.

  Nadya Wheeler—the team leader—and Joshua Nolan were based in Los Angeles; Ben Jarmin, Seattle; and Marcus Black and Marie Vallejo were located in the San Francisco Bay Area. None of them had met or worked together prior to this assignment.

  Mossad had many agents in the U.S.—the exact number was highly classified. The government of Prime Minister David Feldman believed it prudent to
keep intelligence operatives in key positions in industry and foreign governments, always present to feed information back to his administration. Nothing was out of question when it came to preserving, and expanding, the Jewish homeland.

  “What shall we do with the deputy?” Marcus Black asked, the shotgun slung over his shoulder.

  Nadya sighed. “His vehicle can’t be too far away. Go back down the road and find it, then drive it here.”

  Marcus left at a jog. Nadya was ten years older than her colleagues and excelled at problem solving, especially under stressful situations. This certainly qualified as such.

  “Joshua, Marie. Get our gear from the SUV. And try to push that red truck further off the road. Get a tarp and cover it—that color sticks out like a neon sign. Throw a tarp over the SUV, too. Make certain both vehicles are concealed well. Cut fresh boughs and maybe some small evergreen trees for camouflage. In a few hours, we have to assume there will be many law enforcement vehicles on this road searching for Deputy Hood.

  “When Marcus returns, Ben, you and I will help him get the body into the passenger seat.” She turned at the sound of the approaching Ford. It was white with green and brown stripes. When Marcus pulled to a stop and got out, Nadya recognized the Sheriff Department emblem on the door.

  “He must have seen the red paint through the trees and stopped to investigate,” Marcus said. “We should have hidden the truck right away.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nadya replied. “This plan is better. We’ll give the authorities a diversion and send them looking in the wrong place. They’ll waste days searching miles from our true location.”

  The three Mossad operators struggled but managed to get the body of Derek Hood into the passenger seat. Nadya buckled the seat belt across his torso to hold him in place when the truck crossed over rough sections of gravel road.

  “Ben, dig a hole in the road bed and bury that blood,” she said, pointing to the spot where Derek’s head had fallen.

  Nadya removed a topographic map of the area from a cargo pocket and opened it on the hood of the Ford. She got her bearings and then pointed to a spot several miles farther north of their current location. “Here,” she said to Marcus. “Drive to this general location and find a spot to ditch the truck. Get it off the road, but not hard for the sheriffs to find.”