Chapter 18 #2
“Your other brother comes up for parole next year, right. You figure on staying in Bear Flat after he’s out?” Wyatt opened the door to the back corral and shooed the horse out.
“Not sure.” The mountain town had become home. The sense of community was strong, and the townspeople were a tad more liberal than his Idaho hometown. Trouble was, he hated seeing Gin at that damned prison. But options around here were limited for a counselor. They might need a city.
A door slammed before the grating sound of boots on gravel. Morgan appeared in the door moving so fast he almost skidded into Trigger.
The dog scrambled out of the way.
“Got a bug up your ass, bro?” Wyatt asked.
Morgan shoved his brown hair out of his eyes. “Virg called. There’s a prison riot in Yard A. But while that happened, a Hummer took out the fence in the minimum-security section. Several racist gang members—skinheads—were on yard work. Four grabbed a couple of the female staff and escaped.”
When Atticus’s hand stopped in midstroke, the mare nudged him chidingly. “What about Gin? Is she all right? Has anyone seen her?”
“Buddy,” Morgan’s gaze was stark. “She was kidnapped.”
“No.” The word came from his gut. Then he moved. Left the stall. Shut in the mare. “Lend me a car.” He could—
Morgan grabbed his shoulder and ducked the reflexive punch. “Hold, man. They had a Jeep. Abandoned it up around Banner Mountain. The trailhead there breaks into a shitload of small paths. Virgil wants us to mount up, take the Flint trail, and see if we can cut their tracks.”
Smelling trouble, Trigger came to sit at Atticus’s feet.
Despite the fear for Gin tearing through him, Atticus forced himself to pause.
Think. Hummer for the fence. Must have had the Jeep waiting.
All on yard work. That shouldn’t have been allowed.
Had they planned the riot as a diversion?
They probably had gun or drug money to blow on bribes.
Everything pointed to a coordinated plan.
Well thought out. So they’d know roadblocks would be set up. “They’ll have gear from the car. And maps. Are probably making for a point where they can be picked up by car.”
Wyatt had swung into action. When home, the Mastersons assisted Search and Rescue; they kept packs ready to go.
“Ware, catch.” Saddlebags flew through the air.
Atticus caught the load. Yard A. Sawyer wasn’t in that one. Still… “Any word on my brother?”
“Virgil didn’t say anything.” Morgan was saddling his horse.
Stay safe, bro. Keep your head down. Atticus saddled Festus and turned his mind to the task. The fucking inmates were canny enough to set up a prison break. They had hostages. And they’d react like cornered rats if found.
Gin, hold on, sweetling.
Atticus only had his service weapon. We need more firepower. “Wyatt, we’re going to need rifles. Accurate ones.”
“On it, buddy.” Morgan ran for the house.
Time to go hunting.
The sun went behind a cloud, dimming the forest to a twilight green.
In the center of the trail, Gin bent with both hands on one knee and attempted to regain her strength.
Sweat stung her branch-scraped face. Her limbs trembled incessantly from exhaustion—and fear.
Her wrists were lashed together in front of her, and Crack held the other end of the rope.
He’d finally tired of yanking her off-balance after Slash yelled he was slowing them down.
Unused to the wilderness, the four convicts had stopped to argue. With each new branching of the trail, they checked a map. Someone had obviously preplanned the route. What would happen when they reached the end?
A steep cliff lay to the right of the trail. Yank the rope from Crack and dive down it? She grimaced. She’d smash her head or fracture her back when she slammed into something. Or the inmates would open fire and kill her.
Because they were now armed.
Hours ago, they’d abandoned the Jeep and changed into regular clothing. Whoever had left the car had stocked it with light packs, a rifle, pistols, and enough ammunition to slaughter an army.
Despair had filled Gin. She’d seen the same understanding in Karen’s gaze. Their chance of escape had diminished to almost nothing.
Rescue was the last hope.
Surely the prison riot had been stopped. Surely they’d discovered inmates had escaped. And Karen and Gin had been taken.
Her eyes stung with tears. Had they found Sawyer?
He’d fought so hard, using the murderous skills he’d spoken of in their sessions.
The inmate today wasn’t the first man he’d slain in hand-to-hand combat.
He’d never wanted to kill again, had been glad to be out of the military, but he had killed for her, trying to save her. And he’d died. Oh, Sawyer.
Atticus, I’m so sorry.
Lordy, she hurt, inside and out. Blood trickled from her skinned, gashed knees.
How often had she fallen? Her hands were scraped raw.
Branches had torn at her face and arms. Her shirt was ripped open; Pit had wanted access to her breasts.
Her lower lip was split, her cheek bruised, one eye swollen partly shut.
Could be worse, she tried to tell herself. Only…the future didn’t hold much hope.
The convicts were hurrying to reach their pickup location before dark, which meant they hadn’t had time to do more than grope her, but tonight…would be bad.
She glanced at Karen. The other woman was in a fugue state, eyes dull and hopeless. She’d given up.
The light brightened for a moment, and Gin looked up. Above the western mountains, the sun was setting, taking her hopes with it.
Wyatt had led them up the trail at a pace not healthy for man or beast, although the horses were holding up well. Atticus wiped sweat from his face and muttered apologies to Festus. He heard Morgan doing the same with his mount.
Trigger trotted at the rear. Fucking dog. They’d left him tied up at the Mastersons’, and he’d slipped his collar and appeared on the trail half an hour later. Now they were stuck with him.
Atticus couldn’t slow down.
A prison riot. Sawyer, my brother, keep your head down. Stay safe.
He stared out at the conifer-covered mountains. Valleys formed dark green stripes; granite glinted in the sunlight. Gin was out in that damned wilderness. Being roughed up. Hurt. Possibly raped.
Pray God the convicts hadn’t taken the time to stop, but fuck… His hand clenched on the reins as he drove the thought away. Be alive, counselor. Anything else we can work through.
Urgency coiled in his gut.
After the inmates met up with their ride, there’d be no need to handicap themselves with hostages. Once on their own turf, they could get anything they wanted.
We need to move faster.
But the Mastersons and Atticus were covering ground at an incredible pace. The Mastersons had grown up in these mountains. They’d hiked, fished, hunted, and led wilderness groups all over this area. But they couldn’t work miracles and the sun was setting.
Off and on, helicopters buzzed past, their effectiveness limited by the forest canopy and the huge amount of area to cover.
At the summit where the trail forked, Wyatt pulled his horse to a stop and shoved his Stetson up to give Atticus a look. “Need a decision here. Left or right?”
Atticus moved the buckskin beside him. “Give me a rundown.”
Pointing to the left, Wyatt said, “All forest. Small trails. A couple paths come out on Argyll Road; more emerge on to Bent Hill Road.” He nodded toward Banner Mountain on the right, then scowled.
“Atticus, could the bastards manage to set up a copter pickup? Prisoners can’t communicate easily, can they? ”
“Anything can be organized with a smuggled-in cell phone. They’ve had everything else arranged like clockwork.” Atticus scowled.
“A copter could fly under radar through the valleys,” Wyatt said.
“If they hike through the Green Creek area, they’ll reach the backside of Banner Mountain. There are wide, flat clearings where a copter can land.” Morgan tossed Atticus a piece of beef jerky and added, “Search and Rescue used one last year for an emergency pickup.”
“True that.” Wyatt pulled on his thick mustache. “They’d have to traverse the Green Creek ravine. Got an old cable and plank footbridge but the wood rotted. It’s blocked off to hikers, but that wouldn’t stop fugitives. Might slow the cops since no dogs or ATVs could use it.”
The thought of the two terrified women being forced across a chasm…
God, Gin. His mouth tasted of despair as Atticus stared at the two trails.
Choosing was a crapshoot. If he was wrong…
“We’re already close to Banner Mountain past the Green Creek ravine, correct?
This trail to the right intersects the route? ”
“You nailed it.” Wyatt lifted his chin. “Your woman, Ware. Your call.”
If they finished this, she was damn well going to be his woman. The vow didn’t ease the constriction in his chest. He checked the sky. Sunset was in about an hour. Would the assholes risk a night copter landing?
They would.
“Virgil should have enough men to cover the other trails, especially if dogs keep him straight.” Maybe.
There were a hell of a lot of mountain paths terminating on the small county roads.
Atticus pulled off his hat and swiped his arm over his forehead.
“Let’s take the area where the dogs can’t go. But if we’re wrong…”
Gin and the other woman would pay the price.
“Pa always said—if not overused—an honest prayer would be heard in heaven.” Morgan glanced up at the sky. “So put in a word for us, old man.”
Atticus nodded, motioned to Wyatt to lead off, and nudged Festus. At a fast walk, they started down the backside of the mountain and into the growing shadows.
After the bridge incident, the convicts had chosen a terrifying trail down steep switchbacks into a mountain valley. Gin’s short-heeled pumps weren’t anything close to hiking boots. From the slick feel, blisters on her toes and heels had broken open and were bleeding.