He didn’t retrace his steps. If the feds were any good, they were following the path he’d left behind. But he still headed back in the samegeneraldirection until he came upon a length of muddy ground.
Stepping into it, he picked up the pace even as the thick mud clung to the soles of his boots, trying to slow him down. The wet, sucking sound his steps made kept time with the loudthumpof his heart. And he trained his near-blind eyes on the three feet in front of him at all times lest he plow into a tree or run into another wild animal.
He wasn’t sure how far he’d gone when the shallow depression leveled out and the ground beneath him turned dry and crunchy with the usual detritus found on a forest floor.
Slipping his helmet off his head, he felt the cool fingers of the night air tunnel into his sweaty hair. The helicopter was farther off, somewhere to his right. But behind him, in the direction of the overgrown track, were the sounds of the feds. Their radios scratched and squawked as they relayed information to their superiors and each other.
They were close. Following the muddy footprints he’d left behind like Hansel and Gretel followed the trail of breadcrumbs.
Perfect.
He hated to do it. But the final breadcrumb would be his helmet. The helmet Becky had painted to match Haint’s tank. The helmet he’d personally retrofitted with an internal sun visor and pin-lock anti-fog main visor.
Sometimes subterfuge demanded sacrifice.
He heaved the helmet as far as he could and listened to it crash into the undergrowth. Then he broke off a low-hanging pine branch, hooked the wooden end into his back belt loop so that the smaller, thickly needled branches fanned out against the ground behind him, and cut a ninety-degree path away from the one he’d been running and away from the direction he’d tossed his helmet.
The pine branch effectively brushed away his footprints. And when he figured he’d gone far enough to avoid the agents following his trail, he turned back toward the farmhouse.
He was in the clearing in less than five minutes. Emerging from the trees at the back of the property, he noticed a small, dilapidated barn with rakes, shovels, and hoes leaning against its side. But, most importantly, inside the open door, he saw the outline of an old truck.
From that distance, he couldn’t make out what kind of shape it was in. Couldn’t tell if it looked like it was drivable or not.
There’s only one way to find out, he thought.
He stepped toward the structure but quickly darted back into the shadow of the trees when he heard the approaching helicopter. Fifteen seconds later, the bird appeared in the sky overhead, hovered for a moment, and then started to descend.
Shit.
With hisescaperoute effectively cut off, he was stuck back in the evasion phase of his SERE training.
He looked around for a hiding spot and spied a large, fallen tree. It’s been toppled some time back. And its death had heralded new life. Fungus and moss grew over its decaying carcass. Soon, nothing would be left of it but the countless lives it’d nurtured and sustained. In the meantime, though, it afforded him the perfect camouflage.
He wasted no time shimmying himself into the hollowed-out trunk. Dirt and debris fell into his face and hair—probably a few bugs, too—but he didn’t bother brushing any of it off.
He’d hidden in worse environments. The crocodile-infested waters in the Nile Basin came to mind. So did the rural areas outside of Aleppo, Syria, where he’d been eaten alive by sandflies.
Carefully pulling over his hiding spot the bushes that had grown up around the fallen tree, he reckoned he was as concealed as he could make himself. Then, peering through the foliage, he watched as the helicopter’s landing skids touched down in the open field.
The trees around the clearing bent and swayed in the wash from the rotors. And when the pilot cut the engine, the bird's loud roar became a dullswish-swishas the slowing blades lazily cut through the air.
Two men in suits hopped out of the aircraft, crouching low as they trotted into the open field. Then came Agent Dillan Douglas. He was followed closely by Agent O’Toole.
Julia.
Britt’s heart ratcheted up a notch because…she looked absolutely beautiful. Andfierce.
Her hair had come loose from its bun. It blew wildly around her heart-shaped face while her suit jacket flapped, revealing her shoulder holster and duty weapon.
What is it about a woman packing heat?he wondered, feeling a measure of chagrin when his body responded to the mere sight of her.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t so much about a woman packing heat as it wasJuliapacking heat. Everything that woman did was sexy.
Including, he thought,running me down like a rabid dog.
13
Majestic Ridge Road, Traverse City
