Dak crept to a halt at the edge of the cornfield. He peered through the last few stalks at the roaring flames lapping out of the torn remains of the destroyed propane tank. The gas had been consumed entirely in the explosion, but the grass around it and part of the house burned steadily, spreading the flames gradually across the lawn and exterior walls.
He scanned the immediate area twice from one end to the other, searching for Nate. A terrible realization descended into his mind. Nate wasn't there.
He searched again, finding no trace of the man.
Dak felt a sudden wave of concern wash over him. The feeling came from his gut, a sense of fear that kept him alive through the years when in dangerous situations. Back then, he had a team that watched his back. Now, he was on his own, and he suddenly felt very exposed on the edge of the cornfield.
He retreated, almost involuntarily, pushing with his toes to gain cover behind the browned stalks.
Nate wasn't just a ferocious killer with a machine gun. He was an expert marksman with a rifle. If he survived the blast, odds are he was regrouping. There was the outside chance Nate might consider the explosion an accident, but that was unlikely. Those kinds of things didn't happen often. And Nate wasn't stupid.
As Dak continued to withdraw from the burning yard, he noticed something lying on the ground about forty feet from the center of the explosion. He stopped and peered through the stands of corn at the anomaly and realized almost immediately what it was.
Nate's hunting rifle, the one he'd been holding prior to the blast, lay on the grass. The explosion must have knocked it out of his hands. But where was Nate? The concussion would have sent him flying, perhaps into the cornfield? No. That was too far. It might have knocked him fifteen or twenty feet if he was close, but that probably would have killed him, or at the very least, rendered him unconscious.
Dak's senses tingled. His heart tore at his ribcage as it pumped hot blood through his veins.
He retreated another ten feet, leaving only portions of the house visible through the smoke swirling around the yard. Then he turned and picked up his speed, circling around the farmhouse toward the driveway. Dak hedged his bets that if Nate wasn't in the yard and was somehow alert enough to move, he would try to escape or, more likely, regroup.
Fifteen
Brown’s Ferry
For several minutes, Nate wasn't sure what had happened. He'd been standing on the lawn in front of his farmhouse, counting down the minutes and seconds until he could begin his hunt.
Then something happened.
The ringing in his ears, dreadful and high-pitched, wouldn't stop. He felt warm, but as his vision cleared, he could see his body wasn't on fire, despite feeling like his skin was burning.
He rolled over and saw the fire, the black and gray smoke churning toward the sky above his roof, carried high on a gentle Kentucky breeze.
When he pushed himself up, the world tilted in his vision and he felt himself being tugged back toward the ground as though gravity had doubled.
What happened?
Another look at the propane tank and he knew the answer. An explosion? How?
In his mind, he ran through the possibilities. There were only two plausible ones. The first was an accident, something that went wrong in the pipes or in the tank itself. That was extremely unlikely. He'd recently had maintenance done on the entire system due to the approaching winter. If there were issues with the tank or the lines, the expert would have addressed them.
That meant only one thing.
Sabotage.
Nate spun around in a drunken fog, scanning the cornfields that surrounded him. He remembered having a rifle, but he didn't see it. The pistol remained on his hip, though, and he could shoot the legs off a fly from a good distance with that.
Even in the haze clouding his memory, and even his judgment, Nate knew he was way too out in the open if it truly had been sabotage.
He stumbled away from where he'd been thrown by the blast, hurrying around the corner of the house even as the flames sparked on the grass behind him.
Nate leaned against the corner wall for a breath, then another. His head throbbed, and the ringing hadn't weakened.
Guns, he thought.
He knew he needed to get more of his weapons, but they were inside the house. If someone had sabotaged his propane tank, they may have done something to the house. But who would do this? Who would target him? And how would they?
His train of thought halted as the answer bubbled to the surface. It could be only one of two people: Bo or Dak.
Bo had no reason to come after Nate. He had several million reasons, actually, but Bo wasn't stupid. He couldn't take the risk of coming here and squaring off with Nate. Bo knew everyone on his team feared Nate Collier in some way.
No, Nate thought, it had to be Dak.
Dak Harper had every reason in the world to want Nate dead. He didn't have to replay the events that transpired in the Iraqi cave. Nate and the other members of their team had betrayed Dak, leaving him for dead.
That, it turned out, was a huge mistake.
Nate had always known that. Given the circumstances, there wasn't much else they could do. They'd been forced to seal the cave and hurry back to base, having completed the mission, but with a casualty.
Fortunately, Bo had the foresight to have a plan. Bo informed the colonel of Dak's betrayal, and how the team had barely managed to escape before being stabbed in the back. The colonel bought it, and Dak became the target of condemnation.
Nate shrugged off the unproductive thoughts. He had to get a rifle out of his house. He kept an AR-15 in the downstairs closet, just a few long strides from the door. The rifle was equipped with a red dot sight. It wasn't a scope, but it would do.
He waited for several seconds, even after deciding to make a run at the rifle. It was his best hope for survival.
Nate took a long breath, then darted around the front corner of the house, not stopping to look around as he ripped open the screen door and burst into the building. He rushed to the closet, anticipating an explosion or a gunshot—some harbinger of his demise.
Nothing happened.
He scanned the kitchen, his eyes jumping from point to point. He stood perfectly still for at least ten seconds, listening for the slightest sound: a breath, a creak, the crack of a joint.
Again, nothing.
Nate scurried to the closet and flung it open. The black rifle sat on the ground, propped against the wall. The muzzle leaned against the left interior corner. It wasn't the proper home for such a fine weapon, but he kept it there for a reason. If anyone ever had the idiotic idea to invade his home, he'd have more than just a pistol to handle the job.
A shotgun sat in the opposite corner. But he wasn't going to need that. His plan isn't for an up-close kill. If Dak were responsible for the explosion, Nate would have to take him out from a distance. The red dot sight on the rail of the AR-15 would be good enough. He could take out minuscule targets from a good distance with it, and he had every confidence that hitting a human would be even easier.
With the rifle in hand, Nate crept toward the door, making sure to stay low with every step.
He reached the exit and pressed his shoulder into the frame, then leaned around and peeked out through the glass partition in the lower part of the screen door. He peered into the cornstalks, searching for any sign of the trespasser, but all he could see were dried stands of old corn.
Satisfied there was no immediate threat, Nate burst through the door, flew down the flight of steps, and landed on the ground. He never missed a step, his feet pounding the grass as he sprinted to the safety of the cornfield.
Nate darted to the left and right, moving as erratically as possible to make for a more difficult target—in case someone had their sights on his back.
No shot ever thundered through the valley, and with every step, he gained confidence knowing that his long legs could cover a significant distance in a short amount of time.
<
br /> He'd never let himself get out of shape—constantly maintaining a strict exercise regimen. He worked out six days of the week, lifting weights and doing cardio, just as he'd done in the military.
Nate was glad he'd kept up the rigorous program. He didn't feel winded at all as he steered his body slightly to the right, in the direction he knew the bridge would be. Whoever his attacker was had lost their chance at taking him out. The element of surprise was gone. Now, Nate could turn the tables and eliminate the one person he considered an equal. After that, he could finish the hunt—beginning with the McDowell boys.
Sixteen
Brown’s Ferry
Dak knew he was taking a huge risk.
By circling around to the driveway, Nate could sneak up from behind and shoot him in the back. Every second, every hurried step he took, Dak wondered when the crack of the rifle would pierce the valley's silent embrace.
He'd picked up his pace to a near sprint through the cover of the cornfields. He stayed just far enough away from the edge that spotting him from the open would be difficult, but kept close enough that he could see the gravel driveway intermittently through the stalks as they blurred by.
Initially, he'd considered his maneuver as a counter to whatever Nate was doing. As he considered it further, though, Dak realized that the second part of his reasoning was more important.
The McDowell kids had come this way, rushing away from the farmhouse along the driveway—probably thinking that would be the simplest path to escape.
They might have been right, even with the long distance to the end of the gravel road.
When Dak emerged from the cornfield, the bridge came into view and he instantly realized that the McDowell boys weren't going to be able to escape that way.
Nate had sabotaged his own bridge, removing wooden planks that typically covered the bridge.
Dak sighed, trotting to a stop at the creek. The water babbled under the bridge's frame. Under different circumstances, the setting might have seemed serene, peaceful, but not now.
The clear water spanned at least twenty-five feet across, and was easily two or three feet deep in the center. If the boys tried crossing in this chilly weather, they would risk getting sick and, at best, be slowed down significantly by their waterlogged clothes.
Dak twisted his head to the left, then right, looking for a flash of clothing or maybe a sound. The boys had a significant head start, and if they'd kept moving at a steady pace, it could take an hour for Dak to catch up. In that amount of time, the likelihood of Nate catching up also increased.
Standing out in the open, Dak felt the fear of exposure tingle across his body again, the same way it had when he was in the yard by the farmhouse. He snapped his head around, looking back down the driveway, knowing he couldn't stand out here for long.
Maybe Nate went in one of the other directions, after the other boys. Doubt snaked into Dak's brain. He'd overplayed his hand, or thought the explosion would drive Nate this direction.
"No," he barked, shaking the thoughts from his mind. "He'll come this way."
Dak shuffled toward the edge of the creek and then froze. Two distinct sets of footprints in the mud tracked from the bridge down to the water.
He imagined being in the boys' shoes, running as fast as they could to get away from the farmhouse. He envisioned them arriving at the bridge only to realize they couldn't cross it. They might have dipped a hand in the water to test the temperature, deciding it was too frigid to risk crossing.
The older McDowell boy probably suggested they keep going upstream and try to find another place to cross. That's what Dak would have done if he were in their position.
He bent down and, squatting over the footprints, traced them to the right, heading toward the ridge. The indentations disappeared onto narrow strip of grass that separated the rows of corn from the stream. If the kids didn't find a place to cross, they would be forced to keep going until they reached the hillside. Dak knew from his recon the night before that the creek bent around the base of the small mountain and ran next to it for a few miles. He didn't stay long enough to find the source of the water.
A distant sound spurred Dak into action.
It came from the direction of the farmhouse and swelled with every second, growing louder and louder.
The groan of a truck's engine along with the crunching gravel under the tires, signaled that Nate was coming.
I guess the rules went out the window, Dak thought as he darted to the right and ran at full speed into the tall grass.
He didn't stop to look back as the truck rolled ever closer to the bridge. There was no time for looking back.
Dak realized he was leaving a wake in the long blades of grass, easily trackable by an expert such as Nate. In front of him, Dak also noticed similar, smaller indentations left by the two boys.
The path escalated slightly over a knoll and then sloped back down again. The undulating terrain made the run more challenging, but it was a challenge Dak met with the determined ease of a battle-hardened soldier.
He met another rise with the same grit, pumping his legs faster. He knew with every step he was gaining on the two boys. His legs were longer and the younger McDowell kid would have trouble keeping up the pace. Even if they spent hours running every week, Dak doubted they'd trained as hard as he did.
At the crest of the next hill, Dak felt the muscles in his legs warming, but he still had plenty of strength left. He slowed, however, as he saw something moving among the trees, just above where the creek steered to the left at the mountain's base.
The two boys' shirts made them easy to spot even from a thousand yards away. Dak's lungs filled and emptied in a steady, quick rhythm. He started to jog down the hill toward the mountain. When he reached the bottom, he opened the throttle to a full sprint.
His weapons and bag felt heavy, but he pressed on, forcing himself to run that much harder toward the two kids who were climbing toward the top of the ridge. A single concern raced through his mind as he cut the distance between himself and the boys.
Will I get to them before Nate's in range?
Seventeen
Brown’s Ferry
Nate slammed on the brakes and the truck's tires ground to a crunching halt a few yards short of the bridge.
He quickly opened the door and stepped out of the cab, clutching the rifle in his right hand. The overt smell of smoke filled his nostrils as thin, gray tendrils wafted by on the breeze.
A look back toward the farmhouse revealed the source. The single plume of black smoke had dissipated and been replaced by a wider column of smoke that grew with every passing second.
Nate clenched his jaw angrily—the explosion had caused a fire to break out. With the recent lack of rain and the dry rows of corn, it wouldn't take long for the inferno to reach the forest. The dry leaves that covered the forest floor would easily ignite. The entire area would be ablaze before anyone could stop it.
Fury raged inside him, burning hotter than the grass and cornstalks ever could. Dak had destroyed everything he'd worked for. His nostrils flared with every breath as all his plans, his detailed preparations, literally went up in smoke.
He reeled in his thoughts and returned to method; deliberate actions he could control when everything else around him spun wildly.
Nate trudged hurriedly down the bank where he found the soft dirt near the creek. Even with the dry conditions, the dirt left clear imprints, or should have. There weren't any on the left side of the bridge, so he quickly strode to the other side and investigated the soil there.
He noticed the footprints immediately and raised his eyes, following the three sets that trailed away into the strip of grass alongside the stream.
Two sets of prints were smaller; clearly belonging to the boys he'd planned on hunting. The third set, however, caused him concern. They belonged to a full-grown man, at least a size 10, perhaps a 10.5. The evidence couldn't have been clearer in Nate's mind. Dak wore that size. Nate would
swear on his life to that. When they served together, he'd watched Dak put on his boots a hundred times.
Nate needed a new plan. Actually, he needed a new mindset. Instead of being concerned with Dak's surprising presence, Nate shifted his thinking. It was a bonus to have Dak here. Nate could take out the only threat to his way of life—assuming Bo was keeping as low a profile as possible.
Bo had tried, Nate thought.
Considered by everyone in the team to be the least clever, Nate let them all believe that. The truth was much different.
Nate had attended extremely good schools as a young man, and had often been at the top of his class in all his studies. He didn't let people see that side of him, though, choosing to allow them to think he was stupid. He put on the disguise of aloofness and naivety, sometimes to surprise people, but most of the time to keep expectations low. High expectations brought responsibility. Nate didn't want that. He held other desires close to the vest, along with his brilliant mind.
That resourcefulness and high level of intelligence served him well during his life, and especially during his search for Bo.
Nate knew that Bo was potentially as big a threat as Dak, even though Bo had openly advised none of them using their real names or contacting each other ever again.
So, Nate worked diligently to find where Bo Taylor had gone. It took months of searching, but he'd managed to initially locate the man in Southeast Asia. Bo wasn't stupid. He'd changed his name, forged papers, just like the rest of the team. But Bo took extra precautions, never staying in the same place for more than a month. He migrated like a nomad, sure to leave no trace he'd ever been in any of the locations.
Even with all his efforts, Nate was able to track him down.
The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 35