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.”
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 the 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 20 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. A
gain 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 10 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.”
He nodded agreement and leaned closer, examining the details of the terrain as shown on the map so he could identify the spot when driving.
“That looks to be eight miles in a straight line. Navigating back, it will be at least 10 to 12 miles. No problem.” He was thinking he’d cover that distance in less than five hours. If he wasn’t hunting Peter Savage, he was confident he could do it in three to four hours.
“Good. You’ll rendezvous with us here.” She stabbed her index finger at a location on the map about halfway between the road and Tam McArthur Rim. The many contour lines indicated the elevation gain he’d have to contend with, but his path would avoid steep slopes by following the meadows and drainages as much as possible. “We’ll make camp there tonight.”
“What if you encounter the target first?” Marcus asked.
“Then we kill him and radio you to meet here. With a little luck, we’ll be out of here by tonight.”
“And the police?”
Nadya smiled. “You worry too much, my friend. The police will be searching for Deputy Hood, being unable to reach him by radio. I suspect they’ll know he was in this area, but not his exact location. Eventually, they’ll find him and focus an intensive manhunt in that area. But it will take them time, and with nightfall only hours away, they won’t be mobilized until midday tomorrow at the earliest.”
“They’ll have dogs,” Marcus protested. “What’s to prevent them from tracking me back to the rendezvous point?”
Nadya reached into her pocket, producing a plastic squeeze bottle. The top was sealed in shrink wrap. The liquid inside was yellowish.
“When you leave the pickup truck, head north for a quarter mile. Then squirt a small amount of this liquid on your shoes. It doesn’t take much—10 drops or so. Every mile reapply five drops to each shoe.”
She handed the bottle to Marcus. He held it up, shaking it slightly. “What is it?”
Nadya laughed. “Cougar piss.”
Chapter 18
Eastern Drainage of Broken Top
April 21
The gunshot was faint, but unmistakable. The sound roused Peter from a light sleep and he immediately grew alert. Diesel echoed his master’s apprehension, his ears raised up and pointed in the direction the sound had come from. The problem was the ridge ahead and to the right. It towered 100 feet above the meadow and reflected sound that was originating from the direction of the road.
“That shot was a ways off, Diesel. It’ll be easy enough for them to follow our trail across the meadows and snow patches.” Peter had deliberately walked across the grasses as much as possible, knowing the flattened grass would leave an easy-to-follow trail for several days. He glanced at his watch. “I give them an hour.”
The only problem was Peter didn’t know who they were. Or how many, or what support they had. Suddenly, the confidence he had conveyed to Jim yesterday seemed hard to find. But it was too late to turn back.
Making use of the available time, he emptied and re-stowed everything in the pack. Then he checked all of his weapons again, making sure they were fully loaded. He expected he and Diesel would have to make a hasty retreat once first contact was made. The riot gun—only useful at close range—was strapped to the outside of the pack.
Pressure on his elbows and side was making it uncomfortable to lie still, so Peter stood and walked a short distance around the point, leaving Diesel on guard. He drew comfort from his knowledge of the terrain, and he knew exactly where they would go when they
were pushed off the point.
In his mind it was only a question of how long they could hold back the enemy from this vantage. He knew it was indefensible given the ridgeline to the right towering above the point. Plus, there were multiple approaches, and if the enemy force was several men, they would surround him. He would retreat before that was allowed to happen.
After a final check that the spare ammunition was in outer pockets of the pack, separated by caliber, and that he had two loaded spare magazines for the Colt .45 in his cargo pockets, Peter settled in again. He looked at Diesel, studying the dog’s face. The lines and folds of flesh seemed to echo the concern that was mounting within Peter.
Over and over he had considered his plan—anticipating every move they would make. He imagined them approaching up the meadow. Slowly, cautiously advancing. He expected a team of a half dozen men—a strike team like Jim led when SGIT was on a mission. And he knew that most of the force would be secluded within the tree line, keeping abreast of the trackers. Ready to lay down a heavy volume of fire once contact was made.
Peter looked through the spotting scope to the far end of the meadow, searching the shadows amongst the patch of old fir trees that separated this meadow from the next.
He was ready.
Nadya had Marie take point. She would follow the evidence of footfalls left across the meadow. The trail headed west, to higher elevation. The Mossad team had exchanged civilian camouflage clothing for their street clothes.
Still, there was no concealment for Marie in the middle of the meadow.
Nadya, Ben, and Joshua stayed within the tree line, at least 10 meters from the edge of the meadow. Through the breaks they could communicate using hand signals, and Marie kept the pace slow, frequently looking down, to the left and right, then forward again. She knew the grass had been flattened the previous day, since dewdrops uniformly covered the grass.
Hunting Savage Page 12