Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  Using a mug of coffee as a hand warmer, the fuzzy collar of his issued jacket flipped up to keep the chill off his neck, Sheffield addressed the assembled men and women. The dogs would pick up the scent trail again and, if thrown off, circle in ever-widening arcs until they picked it up once more.

  “McGregor. I want you and Vashal on the ATVs. Start here,” he pointed to a location on the large topographical map and traced an arc with his finger. “That will put you far out in front of the dogs. Maybe you can pick up a trail or something. Work your way west from the road, a couple miles. Some of the terrain will be difficult—even with the ATVs—but do what you can.”

  The two Sheriff Deputies nodded understanding.

  “Any questions?” the Captain asked.

  “Yeah,” came a voice from the back of the group. “When we find him, what then?”

  Sheffield understood what was on everyone’s mind. Peter Savage had murdered—executed—a fellow lawman.

  “You will apprehend him and bring him to justice. Until he is proven guilty—”

  A groan of protest rippled through the crowd.

  “I’ll repeat. The suspect is innocent until proven guilty.” The captain looked across the faces. They were devoid of emotion.

  “Does everyone understand me?”

  A reluctant chorus of yes slowly rose above them.

  “Good. Thank you for that question. I’m glad we cleared the air. Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” It was the same office who had asked the previous question. “What if he resists arrest? You know, doesn’t want to cooperate.”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed as he looked across the faces, making eye contact with as many as possible. “In that case, you have a weapon. The DA won’t have any problem if you act in self-defense.”

  A smile spread across the face of the man who posed the question.

  “Alright, anything else?”

  No one spoke up, and the captain ended the briefing. The dog handlers were still the priority. If they could stay on the scent, they would have Peter Savage in hours, tomorrow at the latest. The dogs were excellent trackers and would keep going well into the night. The hard part would be for their human handlers to keep up. If necessary, they would use the ATVs to keep pace.

  McGregor and Vashal fired up their machines and let the engines warm for two minutes while they gathered helmets, lunch bags, and filled insulated bottles with black coffee.

  “Ready?” McGregor said.

  “After you,” came the reply from Vashal.

  They departed base camp, single file, following the gravel road south, back toward Todd Lake. They rode for about 10 minutes and then turned west, into a meadow that promised to stretch farther upslope into the wilderness. Once off the gravel road, they had to greatly reduce their speed due to the numerous bumps and rocks littering the meadow.

  McGregor held the lead, and Vashal tried as much as possible to follow his tracks. They reached the end of the meadow, a couple hundred yards off the road. The terrain became steeper, and they knew from the maps that the next meadow was just beyond a row of trees. At this point, the two deputies split. Vashal would explore farther to the north, but still making his way to higher elevation. McGregor would keep pushing west. His plan was to go as far as Tam McArthur Rim before turning back. Once he rejoined the road, he would radio Vashal, compare notes, and agree on the next area to scout.

  McGregor advanced the throttle. The engine revved a little and the ATV rolled up the slope. As he entered the copse of trees, he had to steer around patches of snow, fallen logs, and tree trunks. Progress was slow, and he kept the ATV in lowest gear. But eventually he emerged on the other side of the trees, facing another long meadow. Gunning the engine, the deputy picked his way along the side of the creek that meandered through the grassy expanse.

  He made better time, and soon was facing another rise and patch of thick forest. McGregor picked his way through the evergreens and around deadfalls. When he emerged from the dark timber, he had another slope to cross, and then the meadow was mostly flat and level. From the seat of the ATV he could see the blown out side of Broken Top. The layers of rock were shades of red and yellow and gray. And with the sunlight just falling on the highest portions of the ancient peak, the color was stunning.

  Running the engine at higher speed, the small olive-green machine bounced along on knobby tires that vaguely resembled balloons. It was still at least two miles to the Tam McArthur Rim, but with most of the forested sections behind him, McGregor figured he would make good time.

  He drove around a rocky point that looked back over the valley, missing the body that Nadya had pulled back into the trees. As he left the meadow the slope grew steeper, and the Deputy found it necessary to stand on the footpegs and lean forward to maintain balance. If he didn’t shift the center of gravity forward, the vehicle could flip over backwards, potentially causing grave injuries.

  The machine topped the rise with a spray of gravel from the tires, and McGregor brought the ATV to a stop. He was on a small plateau. Before him were another half dozen short ridgelines and an ever-increasing rise to the Rim.

  To his left, the gravelly land fell off into yet another drainage. He would stay to the right, skirting around the scattered groves of evergreens that dotted the high mountains.

  “Hear that?” Nyden said to the Guardian nearest him.

  “Yeah, and it’s coming our way.”

  “Stay here.” Nyden split off and ran toward the sound of the machine. He didn’t worry much about making noise since the rider would never hear him anyway.

  He ran through the trees, using the deep, dark shadows to conceal his advance, homing in on the engine noise.

  It was getting louder, and Nyden picked up the pace. Inside the forest, the soil was firmer, not sandy and loose. He jumped over a log, and ducked low-hanging branches, his ribs protesting as he drew in volumes of air.

  He was racing forward. The engine was revving up and down, and it was close. Then, Nyden saw movement ahead, through the trees. He stopped so as not to attract attention, and moved his head from side to side, trying to get a better view of the machine and who was riding it.

  From his vantage within the timber, he saw the ATV and rider crossing the relatively smooth gravel along the top of a finger ridge. He was approaching quickly.

  Nyden dropped to a knee so he could see more clearly under the needle-covered branches. He squinted, and recognized the green polyester jacket with the shield emblem on the shoulder. Sheriff Deputy.

  The rider continued his approach, completely oblivious to the assassin just yards ahead in the trees. Nyden set his rifle down, and removed a silenced Glock from his side. He aimed, tracking the approaching rider.

  But too many branches were in the way, so Nyden crept to the edge of the timber, and waited. The deputy was concentrating on the path of his ATV, mindful of rocks as well as holes left by industrious ground squirrels.

  As the driver reached his closest point to Nyden, the assassin opened up. He fired four shots; three struck the deputy. His body armor may have saved his life if all the shots had hit his chest. But the one round that entered his temple did the job.

  Nyden chased after the ATV, which, without a pilot, veered off and stopped against a small tree. He turned off the engine, and then returned to the deputy, firing an insurance shot into the man’s forehead.

  With his pistol holstered, he returned to the seclusion of the timber and scrambled to rejoin his team.

  Chapter 32

  Eastern Drainage of Broken Top

  April 22

  With a trail leading upslope from the crescent rock formation, it was clear what direction Peter Savage had taken. “Okay, listen up,” Nyden announced over the squad communication net. “That engine sound was a Sheriff Deputy on an ATV. We’re running out of time.”

  “They should be searching miles north of here.” Nadya made no attempt to disguise her surprise. “Marcus disposed of the truck and body ju
st off the road, near the rim before it drops down to Three Creeks Lake.”

  “Tell that to the dead deputy,” Nyden replied. He looked to Ashcroft, who returned his gaze with a slight nod.

  “Time to speed things up. Ashcroft, take the dogs and follow the trail. With the rising sun behind your back, it’ll be impossible for Savage to get a bead on you. But move fast—once the sun rises he’ll have a clear view through his rifle scope.”

  “What about the rest of the team?” Ashcroft asked.

  “We need the dogs to find him. If we’re all running around, Savage is likely to locate us first. Once you engage him, we’ll move in and complete the mission.”

  Ashcroft made a clicking sound, and the Black Russian Terriers stood alert at his side. In the twilight of dawn, the dogs looked like black holes, blacker than anything else. Even the charred stumps from long-ago fires were not as black as the thick, shaggy canine coats.

  All of the field signals between Ashcroft and his dogs were made with a series of clicks and soft whistles. Ashcroft touched his nose and then the ground where footsteps had disturbed the earth, presumably Peter Savage. The black hounds lowered their heads in excitement and eagerly drew in the scents. After a half minute of scenting, he issued a low whistle followed by a click. His purpose-bred military dogs took off in a run following the trail. They would only venture 50 to 100 meters ahead of their handler, allowing him time to stay within communication range.

  Everyone watched the black beasts charge up the slope, followed by Ashcroft. Nyden was using his binoculars to follow their progress. He had no idea how long it would take to track down Savage, but sooner was preferred. With at least one deputy out in the area, more law enforcement may be nearby.

  He was confident his team could dispatch any officers that stumbled upon them, but his mission parameters were simple and clear. Avoid contact with the police and bring back Peter Savage, alive if possible. Otherwise, proof of death would suffice.

  Unlike hounds running down a feral pig or cougar, Ashcroft had trained his animals to remain silent. When they struck, it was always from close distance and without warning.

  The black terriers reached the crest of the slope, Ashcroft laboring to keep up. Nyden watched as the canines hesitated while their handler closed the gap. Then the group disappeared from sight.

  The seconds ticked by into minutes. Nyden was not watching the time, instead staying focused along the ridgeline, glassing with his binoculars. He knew that beyond the ridge was the Tam McArthur Rim, a formidable natural barrier. Unless Savage had serious rock climbing gear—harness, rope, pitons, carabineers—he couldn’t depart in that direction.

  He was moving the binoculars slowly, systematically taking in every detail, when he saw it. A glint of light, a mere flash of sun, from beside a large boulder not too far up the slope. He ordered his team to stop while he glassed the area with his binoculars. There it was again. A brief flash of light, although nowhere near as bright this time.

  “There you are,” Nyden muttered to himself. He continued to study his adversary through the high-power optics. He saw enough of Peter’s face to recognize him as the man he’d met at Kate Simpson’s home—the same man who had split his skull and knocked him out. He felt his face flush with anger and his temperature rise.

  Peter never heard the footsteps, never saw them coming. With the sun’s rays low on the eastern horizon, his scope was useless looking in that direction. So he focused his attention farther to the north, carefully searching for approaching enemy.

  He was balanced on one knee to hold his rifle steady, Diesel by his side as usual. He was doing his best to ignore the rumbling of his stomach, not to mention his growing thirst. They had departed the crescent formation too quickly to eat or fill their bottles with water. Now he regretted not getting water during the cover of darkness. They could do without food, but water was a different matter.

  Fortunately, the air temperature was still very cool. Peter considered working his way to lower elevation and finding one of the dozen or more springs and small streams filled with the remnants of the winter’s snowmelt. Just the thought of the cold, fresh water a half-mile or so away seemed to amplify his thirst.

  He was still scanning the distance through his riflescope when Diesel emitted a low, guttural growl.

  An alarm.

  A warning.

  He reached down and laid a comforting hand on his companion, but to no avail. With lips drawn back causing the flesh on Diesel’s nose to wrinkle like a prune, four ivory fangs were prominently displayed. The claws on all four feet were clenched into the earth—leg muscles tensed like giant, powerful springs.

  In the blink of an eye, Diesel launched at some unseen threat behind Peter. He spun around, trying to bring the rifle to bear, but it was too late. A massive black creature was in the air flying at him like a missile.

  Knowing he couldn’t avoid the impact, Peter extended the rifle and the black terrier clamped its jaws down on the barrel and stock. He heard the sound of splintering fiberglass, the synthetic stock yielding to the bite pressure exerted by the powerful jaws.

  For the moment, it was a standoff. The dog held fiercely to the rifle, as did Peter. At the same time, he heard the terrifying sounds of a pitched battle, deep growls mixed with high-pitched yelps and cries.

  Peter hazarded a glance to the side and saw Diesel locked in mortal combat with another black beast. The red pit bull was half the size of his adversary, and Peter feared for his dog. But a glance was all he could steal. His attention brought back to his own struggle. The black creature tried to twist its head and dislodge the rifle from Peter’s grip. But he maintained the advantage of leverage as he shifted his hands to the opposite ends of the weapon.

  The pit bull and Russian Terrier were fighting viciously. Red and black tumbling, separating, and pouncing. White teeth flashing like daggers. Blood-tinted saliva streaming from open jaws. The rapid attacks and parries became a blur as the animals clashed, driven by the most basic of natural instincts: kill… or be killed.

  Black and red fur rolled, becoming one and then separating, only to repeat as the melee continued. Each advance an attempt to clamp down on the other’s throat or soft belly. Once a firm bite was achieved, the animal would wrench its head violently, ripping and tearing muscle and skin in the process.

  Peter saw Diesel flip the Russian Terrier and slip between its legs, then bite down, only to be thrown away with a powerful kick. In a flash, the larger hound pounced on Diesel. The black jaws bit deeply into the red neck as a huge paw and leg pushed down on Diesel’s shoulders. The terrier was aiming to pin the pit bull to the ground and crush his spine or rip open his throat. Either way it would claim victory.

  Diesel yelped over and over. In a madness bred of pain and desperation, he twisted and slipped the jaws, but the creature was still over him, viciously snapping blood-covered teeth, seeking any hold it could get.

  The blocky red head turned and mashed down on a black front leg. Like a steel trap, the jaws squeezed and locked into place. Then the head shook brutally, separating muscle and bone. Punctures opened to gashes, spilling blood.

  With lighting speed, the black head came down, jaws open, teeth bared. It grabbed the first thing it contacted and ripped off half of Diesel’s ear.

  Diesel released and yowled in agony, the high-pitched cry penetrating the din of noise. The black terrier, perhaps confused that it’s bite had so easily given way, pulled its head back and spat out the piece of fleshy cartilage. In that opening, the pit bull lashed out and closed on the exposed throat of its larger opponent, crushing the windpipe in a fraction of a second. Then Diesel planted his hind legs against the belly of the black dog and pushed, flipping it onto its side. He was still locked down on its throat, slowly depriving it of air.

  But the fight was far from over. Both dogs were pumped full of adrenaline, obscuring pain and driving them berserk with the single-minded purpose of killing the other.

  The hound a
ttempted to twist free, but with one mauled front leg and the pit bull on its throat, it had no leverage. Diesel pressed his advantage, and rocked his head. At first the motion was limited, but as blood crossed his tongue, the thrashing escalated. It became more and more violent as the Russian Terrier slowly succumbed.

  Finally, Diesel released his prey.

  Peter did not witness the outcome of the battle. He was pitched in a deadly fight of his own.

  With teeth clinched down on the rifle, Peter twisted the gun to the side. The beast went with it, coming to rest on its back.

  Without a pause, Peter dropped his body, aiming his knee at the dog’s chest. Upon impact, the canine released and exhaled a grunt, then kicked with all four legs.

  Peter felt the claws rake against his arms and legs, renting his jacket and pants. Blood soon filled the coarse gashes, now aflame in burning pain. Still over the dog, he slammed the rifled down. But the black terrier grabbed the barrel and stock again and shook its mighty head. It was all Peter could do to maintain his grip. Then the dog kicked again. This time one of the muscular hind legs connected with Peter’s groin. It felt like he’d been hit with a tree limb.

  The air left his lungs and his grip weakened. The creature wrenched again and yanked the rifle from his hands. Peter leaned to the side, trying to avoid another powerful kick.

  Dropping the lifeless rifle, the beast lunged for him, aiming for the throat. It launched, mouth agape and fangs glinting in the sunlight. Peter raised his left arm, intending to sacrifice it to the jaws.

  A flash of red slammed into the side of the black beast. The pit bull’s legs where open, encircling the larger canine as it bit down on the back of the ebony neck. Insane with fury, Diesel stayed on the beast as they slammed into the ground. The terrier attempted to roll free, its four legs thrashing wildly. Driven by crazed fear, the pit bull refused to release, instead squeezing its jaws tighter.

  Peter was scrambling to regain his composure. He saw a bloodied Diesel struggling with the black monster, and reached for the .45 pistol holstered at his side. His hand found the grip when the black creature stopped moving. Diesel had crushed its neck.