In the back seat, Anthony clears his throat. “Is it alright to ask where we're going?”
“Right now, the number one priority is getting out of these hills.” Belaski glances up in the rear-view. “We need to get back on the road network.”
The young man nods.
“I have to check in with my boss—there’ll be a couple of safe houses or locales we can use. It's his call, not mine.”
They’ll wait till they’re alone, Belaski tells himself—wait before they try to speak; he won’t give them that chance.
“We’ll be okay,” he says, “just do what I tell you to do.” He flexes his grip on the wheel, eases his foot down on the gas.
The SUV breaks from the tree line—plowing into exposed space.
Snow shoots from beneath the fenders, they’re slowing—Belaski feels it, he pushes down harder on the throttle pedal.
He grips the wheel. The Nissan bucks and squirms, tires biting, slipping, biting again.
A little fast.
They’re almost through the clearing, pine trees closing back in.
Beneath the canopy, the logging road drops in a steep descent, he remembers struggling to get up it.
Their speed is high, the track cambered, canted sideways—the road distorted, as if the land beneath has slipped.
Too fast—they're headed down too fast.
He whips his foot off the gas, feels his stomach lurch, feels the wheels break loose in the snow.
Touching a foot on the brakes he feels the Nissan snap sideways. Belaski turns the wheel, the edge of the road rushes—trunks of pine accelerating from the gloom.
He stomps the gas, “Fuck...” tries to power out of the slide.
They hit the edge—for a split second the motor roars in mid-air.
Lauren screams, her arms come up.
Glass and pine explode inside the cab.
A low branch punches out a window, a sickening impact.
Before the white world switches black.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Park Ranger Ford Explorer chews its way along the fire road across the back of the hill. Maddie Cook thinks about the partial message on the radio—a call-to-assist, the sheriff's department requesting a unit to Elk Lake.
The message sounded like the tail-end of a multi-agency request.
She listens for any more coming in from dispatch.
Radio coverage is sketchy this side of the hill, a known drop-out spot, shielded from the mast on the plateau.
The fire cut is little more than a cleared path between trees. A forest crew grubbed it free of dog sapling, the back end of summer. It's flat. It runs practically on a contour line.
Beneath the old-growth trees, the pack snow is firm, the Ford’s winter tires gripping. She'll be alright.
A call-to-assist was likely somebody reported missing, somebody getting into difficulty. She gives a shake of the head.
People set out with no respect for conditions. A winter storm like this, you'd have to have a screw loose.
She thinks of her son—wonders if the school bus is running, if it’ll get him home. She's left pot-roast. All he has to do is put it in the oven.
She smiles, thinking of him. Can’t help it.
The radio stays silent. Static bursts, nothing more.
The woods are thinning, the fire road reaching a junction up ahead.
She knows she’s coming to Logging Road 57.
57 runs all the way up to the plateau, right up to the side of Elk Lake.
At the bottom it’s likely blocked, between the Rochford end and about half-way—she thinks of open pasture, the snow would be deep there, most likely that’s the reason for the call.
Up on the plateau she can check out what's going on. The radio signal will be strong—she can get a heads-up.
She reaches the end of the fire road, makes a left at the junction with 57, to head up the hill.
She shivers despite the warmth in the cab; the road here more open to the sky, the snow worse, wind able to sweep along it. Nice enough in summer. In winter, not so much.
Nobody's likely to be up here, Maddie thinks. In fifteen years on the job, she's learned who's going to be where, and when.
In the depths of winter there's places in the forest you can drive all day, hardly see another person. No loggers. The trail's are closed to riders, it's not hiking country, not if you’re sane, not in this.
She keeps the Ford working its way up hill, low gear, moving steady.
Rounding the bend is a traverse of 57—where the subsoil's gone.
She sees two men.
Plus an upturned vehicle—off the road.
The vehicle's on its side, smashed against the trunk of a Black Hills spruce—two wheels hanging in the air.
One of the men is on his hands and knees—the other standing in the road, doubled over.
She lets out a low whistle.
Lets the big Ford slow.
Belaski tries to keep from vomiting, hands gripped around his legs, above his knees.
Behind him, Anthony's dazed, sucking down air.
Belaski hears the engine note, lifts his head—stares downhill, down the track.
An SUV is at the bend in the forest trail—a Ford—a light bar fixed across its roof.
He glances uphill at the Pathfinder—Lauren’s slumped against the side-pillar, covered in shattered glass, pinned against her seat by a branch.
He turns back to the SUV—pain thrumming inside his head.
The vehicle’s stopped. It’s just waiting in the falling snow, wipers flicking back and forth.
He puts a hand inside his coat pocket, closes it around the butt of the SIG.
The driver’s door opens.
A woman steps out. “Are you folks alright?”
She’s wearing a brown uniform—bib jacket, lug boots.
“Is anybody hurt here?”
If she has a weapon, she's making no attempt to get it. Concern is in her expression—but no alarm.
Her chestnut hair blows loose around her face.
“My sister's trapped...” Anthony calls out
The woman shifts her weight. “You have somebody trapped?”
Belaski’s mind races, calculating; the way he learned in schoolyard fights.
The woman starts to walk up the track.
Squinting as she approaches, Belaski sees the embroidered badge on her coat; National Park Service.
He studies her face.
She pauses, looks at him.
He stands, breathing hard in the snow. She has no idea who they are.
“Let me take a look,” the woman says. She starts forward again—then stops, suddenly.
Her face turns uphill—she stares at something—up the logging road, her mouth part open.
Belaski twists around, ignoring the stab of pain in his neck.
Two riders are at the head of the track, men on horseback. He sees the outline of a rifle across the first man's back. Recognizes the red and black plaid coat of the other rider.
A sensation rips through him—he snatches out the gun from his pocket.
Pushes himself upright behind the woman.
Puts the gun against her head.
Coburn wheels his horse in the middle of the trail. “That's him,” he says, “that’s Anthony down there...”
Whicher takes in the two men and a woman stumbling down the hill to a Parks Service SUV. One of the men is young, blond—the other man holding something that looks like a gun.
Whicher takes out the Glock, racks it. “US Marshal,” he shouts. “Drop your weapon...”
The gunman shouts something at the woman—she gets into the vehicle, into the driver's side. The man raises his gun arm.
Whicher digs his heels into the flanks of the mare. The horse takes off.
Two shots snap out.
The marshal flattens to the mare's neck, holds the Glock clear of her head, fires—three shots, in quick succession.
The horse p
ulls sideways, bolts.
The shooter fires back, Whicher clings on—the horse is in a flat gallop, he yanks the reins, tries to pull her back.
Her head snaps sideways, feet skidding in the snow. He clamps both arms to her neck. A shot cracks; louder, flatter—Coburn, behind him.
The mare is skidding, her legs splayed. Whicher shifts his weight as she slides, tries to turn back up the hill.
Ripping the stirrups from his feet, he grabs the horn of the saddle, swings a leg across her back.
He jumps, hits the snow—rolls, winded.
The mare charges back up the hill.
Whicher scrambles behind the trunk of a tree. The rumble of a motor reaches him—the SUV.
He fights for breath, levels the Glock, edges out, stares down the iron-sight. He can just see the blond kid get in the front passenger seat, the gunman getting into the back.
He breaks off, turns to Coburn, on the hill. “Stay there,” he shouts, “don't come down.”
The ranch owner's horse is stamping, turning, Whicher's mare already gone.
The marshal breaks cover, the SUV is starting to back down the hill.
He braces his arm, draws a line—he can't shoot—the gunman’s in the rear, the woman and the young man up front.
In the corner of his eye he sees a vehicle—off the road, crashed.
The SUV is backing and backing.
Whicher starts to run down the hill, boots hammering the snow.
He stares at the crashed vehicle—a Nissan Pathfinder, over at forty-five degrees.
The SUV disappears around a bend.
Whicher checks for the tell-tale smell of gasoline. A low branch is piercing the Nissan, he sees the outline of a head.
Blonde hair.
He steps to the high-side of the vehicle, opens the door.
Lauren DeLuca.
He takes off his hat.
A tear is sliding down the side of her face.
She lifts her head, blue eyes wincing in pain.
“Alright,” he says, “it's alright...”
She’s trapped behind a thick branch.
Her mouth moves, but the words are too quiet.
He lowers the gun, leans in closer. “Don't try to talk.”
“No,” she mumbles. “No, no, no...”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Belaski covers the woman driving as she backs the Ford down the hill. Anthony's beside her—the pair of them covered with a six-inch sweep of gun.
He stares up the logging road, looking for the first sign of pursuit.
Two hundred yards.
Two hundred yards and nobody’s come.
“What's your name?”
The woman’s trying to steer, trying to back down the road, not look at him. “Maddie.”
“You need to get us off this hill.” He looks into her eyes, brandishes the gun. “What’re you doing here?”
She swallows, focuses on reversing, face coloring with the effort. “I heard a radio message.”
“What message?”
“The sheriff's department.”
He stares at her.
“A call-to-assist,” she says. “I thought it was some lost hiker...”
Belaski's eyes snap back onto the logging road.
Churned up wheel marks are in the snow at the side.
“Wait,” he barks, “what's that? Wait, stop.”
Her eyes cut to his. She comes off the gas.
Anthony cranes his head around to look into the back. His face is pinched, eyes glistening. Blue eyes, like hers, Belaski thinks.
A dark bloom passes over the young man’s brow. “Who are you?” he croaks.
“Who the fuck do you think?” Belaski looks at the woman. “Are cops coming up this hill?”
“I don't know.”
He shows her the muzzle. “Maddie? One thing; don't piss me off, don’t play dumb.” He angles his head at the windshield, at the side-shoot leading off into the forest. “What's that track?”
“A fire road,” she says.
“To where?”
“Through the woods.”
“Is that the way you came?”
She nods.
“You need to get us off this hill,” Belaski says. “You get us off, I won't have to shoot you.”
She lets out a held-breath.
Anthony looks into the side of her face.
Belaski raises the gun, moves it closer to the woman’s head.
“Alright,” she says. She slumps forward, reaches for the shifter—moves it from reverse into drive.
Still no riders.
Belaski stares at the empty stretch of road.
He leans in, up close to the woman’s ear. “We don't make it out of here,” he says. “The first bullet in this thing is for you.”
At the bottom of 57 on the Rochford Road, Janice Rimes sits in the Chevy sedan.
Mathis, from the county sheriff’s office waits in the four-wheel-drive Tahoe.
The FBI agent chews a fingernail, watches snow thicken on the hood. Every instinct tells her; take it wide. But nobody's come down the logging road—it doesn't look like anybody could.
The snow is feet thick, fresh fall still coming.
The tracks on 57 could be innocent; properties were up that road, there’d be animals to check on, to feed. She stares at the only thing marking out a road exists beneath the deep white powder; a post and rail fence. Wind scours the edge of the tree line. Lumps break and fall from the branches.
Nobody going up. Nobody coming down.
She thinks of the marshal—if he’s found Anthony with Coburn, they'd likely turn around, head straight back for the ranch.
She slips another cigarette from her pack, thinks of putting out a call for help.
Witness security demanded the fewest number of people in the loop.
She stares at the blowing snow.
Feels her stomach twisting.
Whicher hurries up the steep grade of the logging road, cold wind at his back.
At the side of the crashed Nissan, Galen Coburn works the branch that’s piercing the cab.
“There's a side trail,” the marshal calls out. “Through the forest, across the hill.”
“Are they gone?” Coburn calls back.
The marshal reaches the vehicle, glances in at Lauren—trapped inside, her face pale and still.
He wades into the deep snow at the edge of the road. “They’re gone.”
“Alright,” says Coburn. “Then put your weight on this.”
Whicher works his way along the side of the Pathfinder.
“I'll get inside,” Coburn says, “try to get the end of the branch off of her. We need to get her out.”
Through the tangle of low limbs, Whicher takes up position.
“She's going to freeze to death,” Coburn says, beneath his breath.
The ranch owner hauls himself up the bank, back onto the logging road. He holds open the door of the SUV, clambers in over the sill.
“Alright—push now,” he calls out. “Give it all you got.”
The marshal flexes his back, heaves his weight against the limb of the tree—it moves a few inches.
“Hold it there...” Coburn calls.
Whicher grits his teeth, locks out his legs. Muffled sound comes from inside the cab, he feels his pulse climbing.
“Keep pushing,” Coburn yells.
The marshal heaves harder, feels the muscles in his legs and arms and back start to burn.
“Alright, she's free...”
He hears movement.
“You can let go...”
The marshal eases back on the branch.
Coburn climbs from the cab, reaches in, arm extended, trying to pull Lauren out.
Whicher scrambles up the bank as she climbs free, gets herself over the sill.
She sits in the snow.
The marshal studies her, he can't see blood.
He turns to Coburn. “How do we get down this hill?”
; The ranch owner looks off along the descending track. “It’s miles that way,” he says. “You get down to the end it's just a mountain road, most likely snowed up.”
Whicher thinks of Janice Rimes.
Coburn turns his face toward the marshal. “Best thing we could do is head back up to the lake.”
“We need to call for help.”
“It's only a half a mile or so,” Coburn says. “We get up there, we’ll at least have shelter, there's the cabins, food, we got wood for the fire. Even if the storm gets worse we'll be okay.”
“We need help.” Whicher looks at Lauren.
“Maybe so,” Coburn says. “But there's no way we’re going to get it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Belaski sits in the back of the Parks Service Ford Explorer, lizard eyes unblinking. “That thing on?”
The woman half-turns.
“The radio?” he says.
She nods.
No messages, no calls, no traffic. Zip.
So far, there’s no sign anybody’s coming after them.
Belaski sucks in air over his teeth; the guy on the horse had been the marshal—the big bastard from the train. The Marshals Service must have figured Anthony to be at risk, they must’ve sent the son-of-a-bitch.
He eyes the deadfall at the side of the forest track.
The woman ranger, Maddie, is silent at the wheel.
“How much farther does this go?”
“A couple more miles,” she says.
Anthony, in the passenger seat, angles his head, stiff in his winter outdoor gear. He smells of something, Belaski thinks—some kind of animal. He holds the SIG between the pair of them, finger curled at the trigger. “How many?”
“Five or six.”
“Then what?”
“It connects with another logging road.”
Belaski stares at her eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Is it going to be blocked?”
She dips her head. “I don't know.”
“Where’s it go?”
“Down the hill. Back down to the main road.”
“You a cop, Maddie?” Belaski says, mind speeding. “National Park Service. That be law enforcement, or are you just a guide?”
Her eyes flick up in the mirror.
“Stop,” he says.
Her foot comes off the gas.
An American Bullet Page 13