The man trekking through the forest in front of Raven had helped bring his dream of a normal life to a crashing halt by arresting Raven for poaching. His business was shut down, and the court costs and fines had eaten up his remaining savings. Now Raven was behind on his payments to Mr. Redford. He was the type of loan shark that charged blood instead of interest, and he was starting to get impatient. That’s when the drinking got worse, and when the nightmares of the things he had tried to forget started coming back every night.
The musical rush of water pulled him back to the trail. To the west was the Roaring River, which originated at Crystal Lake. From there it flowed through Lawn Lake and down the valley to where it met Fall River. This trail was one of Raven’s favorite spots in the park.
Fifteen minutes into the trek, he spotted the brown, rocky embankments framing the river. A fence of aspen trees grew out of the steep inclines. He stopped at the edge of a dirt path, cautiously making his way to the side to angle his flashlight over the edge. Fifty feet below, the clear water rushed around and over boulders, polishing them smooth.
Thirty-four years ago, the dam at Lawn Lake had broken and emptied thirty million cubic feet of water into the valley and Estes Park. It had resulted in three deaths. Since then, the walls had continued to erode, pulling more of the montane forest into the valley.
Raven moved away from the ledge and continued up the trail, stepping over fallen trees and around rocks covered in moss and orange growths that reminded him of whale barnacles. The loose dirt and rocks were already slippery from the rain, and the canopy of ponderosa, spruce, and Douglas firs provided little protection. He directed his light back to the ridgeline above the Roaring River, keeping it in sight.
Colton trekked ahead with his AR-15 lowered toward the ground. Tonight he was acting like Raven’s buddy, but they weren’t friends and that wasn’t going to change. He was here to collect a paycheck and hopefully find the kidnapped girl. If it was the same man that had scared his niece, then all the better. Raven had an arrow with the bastard’s name on it.
He tightened his grip on his custom TenPoint Venom crossbow. Holding the weapon was reassuring. Not as reassuring as his old automatic M4, but the Marines didn’t let him bring that gun home. He preferred his crossbow to a semi-automatic rifle on a hunt; not because it was more powerful, but because it was quiet.
The grumble of thunder broke in the distance, reminding Raven he had other problems beyond Mr. Redford and their chase. A dozen people died from lightning strikes out here every year, and a strong wind could also kill whatever scent Creek had picked up. The dog had reappeared on the trail ahead, his muzzle wet and covered with flecks of leaves.
“You got something, boy?” Raven asked. The dog sat on his hind legs, and Raven bent down next to him, cradling his crossbow in his arms.
Creek looked up and snorted. That was Creek speak for Yeah, dummy. The dog knew over one hundred commands and was far smarter than any bomb-sniffing dog Raven had worked with. He could do everything but speak—which was good, because sometimes he felt like even the dog was judging him.
“Storm’s getting worse,” Colton said. He stopped on the side of the trail and looked skyward. Lightning webbed over the mountain peaks. Clapping thunder came a few seconds later, punctuating his words.
The radio on Colton’s hip crackled, and he plucked it off his belt. “Colton here. Go ahead.”
“Chief, it’s Don reporting in. Trail’s cold out here. Dogs don’t have anything. You havin’ any luck on Ypsilon?”
Colton exchanged a glance with Raven.
“Creek’s picked up a scent,” Raven said. “Too early to tell what it’s from.”
Colton brought the radio to his lips. “Maybe, Don. I’ll report back later. Stand by.”
“Copy that. Good luck.”
Another torrent of electricity snaked across the horizon. Colton went to put the radio back on his hip but hesitated. His lips moved as if he was counting.
The next boom of thunder shook the marrow in Raven’s bones. The storm was definitely getting worse.
Colton brought the radio receiver back to his lips. “Don, send everyone home for the night. Weather’s getting too bad to risk it.”
Raven pulled his Seattle Mariners hat from his bag and pulled it over his hair as the sky opened up. Sheets of rain hit the army of ponderosas at an angle, the patter echoing all around.
“Copy that, Chief,” Don replied. “See you back at the station.”
Colton attached the radio back on his belt.
“Keep away from the trees,” Colton said. “The lightning—”
“I know,” Raven interrupted. “You want to turn back?”
Colton frowned and then said, “No. I can’t look Rex Stone in the eye if I didn’t do everything I could to find his daughter.”
Raven nodded and then patted his dog. “Show us. Find her.”
Creek took off running through the woods. His nose was remarkable. Even in the rain, Creek was working a scent, following what Raven hoped was Melissa’s trail. They continued along the path for another thirty minutes, jogging to keep up with the Akita. Colton didn’t say much, and Raven was fine with that. He’d grown up in a household that was almost completely silent. On the rare occasion when his parents had spoken to him, his sister, or each other, it had usually been with raised voices.
He should have known the quiet was too good to last.
“You did good work on the Kirkland case,” Colton said.
“It was either find the girl or go to jail,” Raven said.
That effectively killed the conversation.
Creek reemerged on the trail ahead. He jumped over a fallen log, wagged his tail, and took off again. By the time Raven angled his flashlight into the forest, the Akita’s white tail was vanishing through a cluster of ash trees.
Raven pointed and signaled. Colton was already on the move. The men hurried over the terrain, careful not to slip on the wet bed of pine needles and loose dirt. Rain tore through the canopy overhead. Raven’s coat and pants were waterproof, but his gloves weren’t. They were already drenched, and his fingers were freezing. He never went into the wilderness without the proper gear. This goddamn debt had him on edge.
Light as a feather. You’re light as a feather, he thought. It was the motto that always grounded Raven. He put every worry out of his mind and focused on the tracking. They were still a good three miles from Lawn Lake.
The forest became a two-dimensional canvas, and Raven divided the terrain horizontally into thirds like he had learned in the Marines. His eyes were accustomed to systematically scanning the canvas from left to right, right to left. If he detected any movement, he would stop to search.
Tonight the canvas was almost pitch black. The beam from his flashlight illuminated a narrow path through the dense woods. He ran and ran, needle-covered branches reaching out to grab him. A bird called out in the distance, a sign that Creek was too close to its nest.
Lightning streaked overhead and thunder clapped a few seconds later, echoing over and over through the valley. The chatter of raccoons followed as the forest came alive around Raven. He was completely in tune with his surroundings, at one with nature. He sniffed the air, checking it for signs of campers or their chase. There was no scent of cooking or smoke, only the fresh smell of rain and evergreens.
The canvas transformed the farther up they moved. A massive storm, far worse than this one, had blown through the forest a few weeks prior. The straight-line winds had taken down thousands of young or unhealthy trees. Beams from their flashlights danced over the debris still scattered across the path like a battlefield. The trees that had perished would take months to rot and return to the earth.
Creek reappeared on the trail and then turned and bolted into the woods. Colton flashed an advance signal after the dog. Normally Raven would have marked where they left the trail, but he didn’t have time.
Crossbow dangling from the strap on his chest, he put his flashli
ght in his mouth and grabbed a tree branch to pull himself up a small embankment. Colton was already a hundred feet ahead and moving at a good clip.
Raven jogged after him, branches from fallen trees reaching up and cutting his legs. He was careful to keep his light low. A beam into the sky would warn the chase that they were being hunted. He ran until his lungs felt like they were going to pop. A Marine never stopped to rest, but Raven wasn’t in the same shape he had been eighteen months ago. Of course, he also hadn’t smoked half a pack a day—or drunk a six-pack every night—back then, either.
Colton stopped ahead, scanning the forest with his AR-15 and flashlight. Despite his labored breathing, Raven was moving a minute later. He did his best to whistle to Creek, but it came out as more of a hiss.
The dog suddenly appeared in a clearing with something hanging from his mouth. Raven nearly tripped over a log as he directed his light on Creek. The beam fell on a wall of Douglas firs that opened to a meadow beyond. Boulders, glossy from the rain, and knee-high shrubs speckled the landscape. Before Raven could see what was in Creek’s mouth, the dog took off running toward the maze of mossy rocks, zigzagging to follow the scent on the wind.
Colton shouldered his rifle and approached cautiously while Raven raked his light over the ground. He held the light on what looked like a footprint. He quickly raised a hand at Colton to tell the story. The lawman nodded and hunched down.
Raven leaned down to get a closer look at the track that was partially filled with water. It was male, about a size ten or eleven. This was too far off the trail to be the random track of a camper, and if Creek had picked up a scent here, they couldn’t be far from their chase.
They were close. But his tracker’s sense told him they weren’t the only people on the mountain tonight. Raven couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was nearby—waiting, watching. Hunting.
***
Nathan Sardetti kept his hand on the side-mounted control stick as his F-16 Viper tore over the Denver skyline.
His wingman, 1st Lieutenant Mark “Mutt” Blake, flanked him on the right. They were heading west over Denver to patrol the surrounding areas. The rumble of their single-engine fighters was likely to draw some attention as the Vipers provided a combat air patrol. Restaurants and bars would be hopping below, with patrons anxious to de-stress after a long week. The sound of fighter jets was going to freak out a lot of civilians.
Nathan scanned the city. He had spent his fair share of Friday nights down there, drinking whiskey and watching the Colorado Rockies get their asses kicked. Part of him missed those wilder days. He’d earned his call sign, “Gambler,” for his legendary all-night poker parties as well as his risky moves in his F-16. His older sister had left the skies to settle down with a family and a career in Washington. They were both driven, hardworking, and loved flying, but unlike his sister, Nathan had never married or had children. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be happy with a desk job, but lately the idea of settling down with a nice girl had started to appeal to him.
Blake’s voice broke over the comms. “Gambler, you got any idea why we were called out for a CAP? I have a hard time believing we’re up here to sightsee.”
“Negative, Mutt, but I think it’s supposed to make the governor feel better while he sleeps tonight.”
“Holy shit, what a waste of tax dollars.”
Nathan chuckled. “Did you hear how much the new helmets cost for the F-35s? Four hundred k, brother.”
“Damn! That can’t be right.”
“Believe it.”
“I guess I don’t feel so bad about burning some fumes, but Kiley’s mad that I’m not home for the weekend.”
“She’ll forgive you,” Nathan said with a smile. “I was supposed to go see Ty. Good thing he didn’t know I was coming, or he would have been disappointed.”
“Maybe you can still drive up tonight.”
“Hopefully,” Nathan said. They pulled away from the city, heading northwest. The vibrant lights of Denver vanished behind them as the two F-16s raced toward the Rockies. Nathan blinked several times in an effort to keep his tired eyes open. Shit, he was exhausted.
He opened up a line to the other two fighters from the 120th. 1st Lieutenant Kyle “Rabbit” Swanson and Captain Tim “Bullseye” Negan were patrolling the southern part of Colorado.
“Bullseye, this is Gambler. How’s it looking to the south?”
“Mostly clear skies out here, Gambler. We’re passing over Lamar.”
“Copy that,” Nathan said.
In the distance, the jagged white peaks of the mountains came into focus, a long jaw of teeth that never seemed to end. Lightning streaked across the dark sky, illuminating a fort of clouds with brilliant flashes as they approached a storm.
For the next thirty minutes, Nathan and Blake cruised the angry skies. Below, hubs of light glowed from the small cities nestled in the mountains. While citizens prepared for sleep, Nathan and his wingman watched over them.
All traces of civilization vanished below as Nathan passed over Rocky Mountain National Park. The no-fly zone was off limits to civilian aircraft, and there weren’t any communities in the park.
A voice came over the channel. “Viper 3, this is Strobe. You have traffic at nine o’clock. Chinese ARJ21, 100 miles, angels 35, heading 120 toward Wichita. Check.”
Nathan was wide awake now. The last thing he was expecting tonight were orders from an E-3 Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) specialist out of Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma. He checked the radar for a Chinese commercial airliner heading east at thirty-five thousand feet.
“Copy that, Strobe. Viper 3 is radar contact, tally-ho.”
Nathan watched the radar blips for Viper 3 and 4 change direction to intercept the Chinese plane. A bead of sweat dripped from his short-cropped hair.
He glanced at Blake’s jet and opened a private line. “Mutt, keep sharp. Something’s off.”
Nathan shifted his gaze from the controls to the view. Flying a fighter jet was all about multi-tasking, and he was damn good at it.
Another message came over the channel. “Viper 3, Strobe. That ARJ21 is now angel 38, heading 135. Pilots are unresponsive.”
“Copy that, Strobe. We’re on it. I’ll let you know when we have visual,” replied Negan.
Nathan tried to wrap his mind around what the radio chatter meant. Could there be a technical problem aboard the Chinese craft? If so, why the hell would the pilots be ascending? And why had they changed course? If they kept this heading, they would be above Denver within thirty minutes.
“Gambler, I got a bad feeling about this,” Blake said.
“Agreed. Stay on me.”
Nathan twisted his side-mounted control stick and tore through the clouds. They were north of Rocky Mountain National Park now. Nathan surrendered to the forces lashing his body as he increased his velocity to twelve hundred miles an hour.
There had to be a rational explanation for the rogue plane’s behavior. Sometimes pilots lost contact with the ground and changed course due to technical issues, but that was rare. Maybe this wasn’t a bullshit mission; maybe the governor had known something when he sent the 120th up here tonight.
Nathan opened a line to Viper 3. “Bullseye, Gambler. Do you have a visual?”
“Negative, Gambler.”
Nathan studied the radar. The air traffic controller came back online, but this time his voice was panicked. “Viper 3, ARJ21 is still unresponsive. Angels is now 46.”
The update made Nathan scrunch his brows. The F-16s had a max ceiling of fifty thousand feet. Swanson and Negan wouldn’t be able to pursue much past that.
“Strobe, Viper 3, I have a limited visual,” Negan said. There was a pause, and then, “You said that was an ARJ21, right?”
“Copy that, Viper 3.”
“Stand by for confirmation,” Negan said.
Nathan’s F-16 rattled as he shot through a pocket of turbulence. He held steady and waited for Negan to relay a visual.
“Strobe, Viper 3, this is not an ARJ21. I’m looking at what appears to be a Soviet-built…”
Static broke over the line.
“Viper 3, Strobe. Come again, I didn’t get your last.”
Nathan held in a breath.
“Holy shit! It’s an Ilyushin II-28,” Negan shouted over the comms.
Nathan swallowed hard. That couldn’t be right. The only country still actively using the big gray Soviet Union birds were the North Koreans. They were supposed to have a max service ceiling of around forty thousand feet, but this one was still in a climb, pushing its advertised limits. He had only seen pictures of the old planes, but he knew their purpose, and he knew they would likely be stripped down to hold as much jet fuel and as many bombs as possible. If that was the case, then they were facing the North Korean version of the American Doolittle Raid into Tokyo during WWII.
“Weapons hot, Mutt,” Nathan said. “On me!”
They came together in a fighting formation and ripped south over Rocky Mountain National Park, punching toward Mach 2 as the Ilyushin continued ascending. The plane was now at fifty thousand feet.
Questions ping-ponged in Nathan’s mind, but one kept coming to the surface: How could the North Koreans have made it into US airspace disguised as a Chinese ARJ21? They would have had to spoof multiple transponder codes.
“Strobe, Viper 3. I am weapons hot. Do I have permission to engage?”
“Copy that, Viper 3. Take that plane down and—”
The transmission suddenly cut out in a wave of static, the connection severed.
Nathan dipped his helmet to check the radar, but the contact was gone.
“Bandit just faded,” Blake said. “Where the hell did it go?”
Nathan checked the radar again to see Viper 3 and 4 vanish. An instant later, a brilliant flash lit up the sky to the south.
“Evasive maneuvers!” he yelled. “Get out of there, Mutt!”
Trackers Omnibus [Books 1-4] Page 4