Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Chase grabbed some survival gear and shoved it in a spare backpack.
Not that he thought they’d need any, but he prided himself in being prepared — a feat this perp had pushed to the limits — and he didn’t want to risk Atticus or Greer’s life because he’d cut corners.
Left a vital piece of equipment behind. He’d spent a lifetime carrying rucksacks and men across enemy lines.
He’d put his trust in all that training, now.
Greer met him at the Bronco. “I relayed our intentions on both channels. I realize our guy could pick up on the transmissions, but it’s worth the risk.” She handed him one of the radios. “You should carry one, too, in case…”
He clipped it on his belt, then handed her the pack. “It’s not much. Some carabiners and webbing. A length of cord and a few medical supplies.”
She didn’t ask any questions, just slipped it over her shoulders. “Bet it’s a quarter of the weight yours is.”
He simply smiled. “What I wouldn’t give to have Nyx right about now. Bet she’d pick up on that asshole’s scent — lead us right to him.”
Instead, they had Buck Landry — conspiracy theorist, and the guy they were betting Atticus’ life on.
Chase wasn’t sure what had shocked him more. That Buck had recorded their guy’s movements during an imagined alien invasion, or that their perp had been stalking Chase and his buddies for nearly a year. All without them realizing.
He sighed. He could question his competency later, after they’d rescued Atticus.
God, he hoped Buck was right. That their suspect had brought Atticus back to the watchtower. If he hadn’t…
They wouldn’t have enough time to reappropriate their resources, assuming their calls eventually got through. That his team would have his back like they always had.
He rolled his shoulders, looking Buck in the eyes. “Okay, Buck. You take point, just… be careful. And don’t out us before we even have a chance to assess the situation.”
Buck scoffed. “I told you. I know how to track. I just don’t like…”
He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid, then headed off, angling toward a narrow opening on the far side of the clearing, seemingly indifferent to the soaking rain.
Chase waved Greer ahead, taking up the rear.
Constantly checking their six as they crossed the gravel lot, then ventured into the trees.
Chase glanced up the path, though, path was stretching it. More of a slight depression in the undergrowth. Fewer ferns and bramble. The odd bent branch. Nothing the average hiker would look twice at.
He saw the trail. How the needles and mud had been flattened ever so slightly.
The hint of a boot tread on the fringes.
Likely when Buck had tried to scale the hill this morning.
But any variances could be easily missed, which made Buck’s presence a key Chase wished they didn’t have to rely on.
Not when the man looked as if he’d spent too much time shouting at the wind.
Seeing shadows even when there wasn’t any light.
Though, his remarks about tracking — disarming bombs — definitely sparked some questions.
Mist threaded low through the trees, veiling the distance, shifting shapes at the edges as they moved in a stacked line, weapons still holstered in case they slipped — needed both their hands to prevent a looming catastrophe.
They angled right, one side of the trail sloughing off into a steep ravine, blowdown and dead wood crisscrossing the hillside.
Buck stopped, made a few hand signals, before taking another questionable track on their left. Even more remote than the last, only the occasional bent fern as any indication the line was passable. The guy continued up, pausing every so often to stare at the trees — sniff the air.
Chase studied him, trying to decide if Buck was crazy or gifted as Chase trailed after them, boots sinking into the mud, each step leaving a print behind.
Chase avoided any twigs, every footstep measured.
Controlled. Heel to toe. Maintaining his balance in case the whole damn side of the hill gave out.
Greer followed suit, not an ounce of energy wasted as she surveyed the landscape, gaze searching the shadows, pausing at locations he’d questioned, too.
She had great instincts, moving like a wraith through the fog. Keeping Buck from slipping whenever his shoes lost traction — sent him sliding off toward the ravine. They traveled in silence, any noise muffled amidst the patter of rain — the constant dripping that sounded in the background.
They crested a small, rocky ledge and pivoted onto a larger track. Not quite a main trail, but it opened up a bit. Stopped the endless ferns from soaking through their pants.
Greer slipped on a root, stumbled back until Chase caught her arm — steadied her. She reached for his hand, used it to regain her balance before she smiled her thanks, the brush of her skin over his — a flash of warmth in the cold rain.
He lingered, her breath ghosting next to his shoulder until she’d synced her breathing to his. Calmed the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck. A small nod, and she struck off, head on a swivel, muscles tensed and ready to react to a dynamic situation.
Buck led them through a long, narrow clearing, the air heavy with freshly cut cedar.
Patches of sawdust dotted the scrubby ground, a discarded jerrycan resting against a stump.
They hit the next thicket, sticking to the non-existent trail as it wove higher, a hint of lighter sky showing through the canopy.
The underbrush thinned as they reached the top, the lush ferns giving way to heaps of pine needles beneath thick trunks.
A snap.
Sharp.
Deliberate.
Somewhere off to their right. Too heavy for a deer. Bear, maybe, though Chase doubted it. They stopped, listened for movement, scanning the mist for a glimpse of a shadow, but the rain distorted the sound — made every drop a false echo.
A crow cawed overhead.
Sudden. Jarring. Then nothing.
Buck veered left, walked another hundred yards, then stopped. He crouched behind a fallen log dotted with moss, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then his hand toward the tree line.
A faint glow flickered between the tree trunks, the amber hue moving from right to left.
Muffled grunts sounded above the rain, a low thud rumbling through the air.
Chase took lead, picking his way through the deadfall to the edge of a clearing.
The surf thundered faintly beyond the cliffside, another storm cell crawling across the horizon, rain hampering the visibility.
The abandoned lookout loomed high above a rocky knoll, separated from the access road by that narrow ravine. An old footbridge spanned the gaping chasm, the fast-moving water churning beneath heading toward the ocean.
Greer pointed to a lone truck parked across the crest of the gravel road, the gray sky spilling through the windows, showcasing the empty interior.
Chase panned left, searching for the source of that light, when a hint of movement caught his attention. He squinted, water trickling down his neck, the scent of dead leaves saturating the air, when a figure moved onto the bridge. Tall. Muscular.
The guy looked up when thunder echoed in the distance, his gaze searching the heavens before he picked up his pace — trotted off the other end.
His right leg lagged a bit, a slight limp throwing off his gait as he headed along the gravel road, gaze searching the forest. A bolt of lightning forked across the sky several seconds later, the brief flash highlighting the guy’s face.
Chase froze. Stomach knotted. Chest squeezed tight. He glanced at Greer, noted her wide eyes and ashen skin. She’d recognized the man, too.
Marcus Hodges.
Older. Wilder, with a darkness radiating off him that dimmed the growing dawn.
Prickled the hairs on Chase’s neck. He closed his eyes, tried to shove down the pain and guilt, but it was useless.
Knowing he’d been the catalyst. That if he’d remained conscious long enough to drag his ass back, maybe he could have prevented this.
Saved them.
Greer grabbed his hand. Strong. Unyielding.
She’d help him move on. Find the kind of future Rhett had wanted Chase to have. They just needed to finish this.
Chase readied his weapon, took a breath, then moved out, Greer matching his stride. He leveled his Sig at the truck, zeroing in on Hodges as he stepped beyond the flatbed, box clasped in his hands. He looked haggard. Broken. As if he’d stared into the abyss too long — had let it stain his soul.
Chase clenched his jaw, forced the name past the lump in his throat. “Hodges.”
Their gazes clashed. Held, Hodges’ eyes widening a second before a cruel smile shaped his lips.
He snickered, tossed the box, then took off, darting behind the truck as Chase’s round hit the quarter panel an inch from his shoulder.
Footsteps pounded the ground, quickly fading into the next roll of thunder as he moved out of range, his lithe form bobbing along a rough path.
Greer raced ahead, skidding to a halt once she was parallel with the end of the bridge. Atticus slumped against the bank on the far side, wrists zip-tied, ankle tethered to a post with a short leash. He roused, lifted his head enough to meet their gazes.
The older man coughed, shivered, then motioned toward the path snaking along the ridge. “Don’t just stand there, Remington, run the bastard down.”
Chase looked at the bridge, then back to the fleeing silhouette, history replaying in his head. How he’d been forced to choose that fucking night. All the dominoes that had fallen since.
Greer gave him a shove. “Go. I’ll get Atticus.” She rolled her eyes when he simply stood there, debating. “Chase. I can cross a damn bridge without you backing me up. I’ve got Buck. You’re taking the real risk. But we both know you’re faster and stronger, so, go. Just don’t freaking die on me.”
Chase grunted, then took off, tearing down the access road, gravel popping, boots flying, as he veered onto the trail skirting the bluff. Salt hung heavy in the air, the wind sharper. Colder.
Hodges bobbed along the path, that limp more pronounced as he avoided boulders and logs, wasting some of his precious lead as Chase vaulted over the barriers, quickly eating up the space.
Lightning spread like a web across the sky, the white light framing the scene — Hodges looking back over his shoulder, mouth still curved into a smile. The man ducked under a low branch, disappeared for a moment until Chase popped out the other side — spotted him heading down a lower fork.
Chase followed, scrambling over brush and debris, closing the gap, again, when Hodges stopped — headed for a flat rock jutting off the edge. He reached the stone plateau, then turned, hands at his side, strong. Resolute.
Chase slowed, looking for an ambush as he jogged to a halt, weapon zeroed in, chest heaving. He held firm, that voice inside his head screaming. “End of the road, Hodges.”
The name croaked out. Low. Raw. The word tripping across his tongue.
Hodges laughed. Deep. Loud. The haunting sound echoing along the cliffs. “What’s the matter, Remington? Have you seen a ghost?”
Chase stared at him, taking it all in. The scars. The shadows. The vision of a man who’d faced his demons and lost. “I thought you were dead.”
Another laugh. “I bet you did. Made it real easy to go on with your life. Pretend you didn’t leave us all there to die.”
“I didn’t…”
The words fell flat, the meaning lost to the roaring wind. The crash of the waves beneath them.
Chase took another step, mud splattering the bottom of his pants, rain soaking through his jacket.
“I know nothing I say will change your mind, and you’re right.
Believing you were dead did make it easier.
But if we’d known you’d survived, that there was a chance…
” He shook his head. “We would have come back.”
“You would have come back? That’s what you want me to believe? Because you looked us all dead in the eyes and swore you’d do just that. Then, more men came, started beating on us before the world exploded and everything we ever knew ceased to exist.”
Hodges glanced over the edge. “Do you know how many times I prayed to be in this exact position? In charge of my own destiny? To choose whether I lived or died? But that doesn’t matter because you would have come for me.”
“I can’t change the past. But I’m here, now. Just… walk over here. Let me take you in. I’ll get you the help you need.”
Hodges chuckled, shaking his head as he balanced on the lip, swaying back and forth as if he didn’t care which way he fell.
“Poor Remington. He’s afraid he’ll lose another one.
That I’ll become one more stain on his prestigious record?
Like Rhett? And Eli? Did you promise them you’d have their backs, too? ”
“I failed them. I know that. Just like I failed you and the others. But it doesn’t have to go down like this. You’ve suffered enough. Aren’t you tired of running?”
“Tired? I spent four years rebuilding myself. Picking up the pieces you broke apart. Finding a way to exist while trapped in the darkness. Losing everything. Everyone.” He leered at Chase. “I’m not running. I’ve finally come home.”
He stepped back, foot skimming nothing but air, his body hanging in that space between standing and falling before he crumpled.
Chase dove at him, catching a fistful of jacket, Hodges’ weight dragging them both down.
Chase dropped his weapon, clawed at the rock, digging in the toes of his boots, as his chest crested the edge, a huge breaker kissing the shore — spraying up the side of the cliff below them.
One boot caught on a root, grinding them to a halt, his right arm stretched beneath him, the nylon slowly slipping between his fingers. Rain poured off his jacket, falling around Hodges like a waterfall as the mud shifted beneath Chase, slowly inching him closer.
He tightened his hold, hand cramping, his grip loosening from the rain. He tried curling Hodges toward the lip, the sheer weight countering his efforts. “Damn it, Hodges, help me. Use your other hand.”
Hodges hung there, smiling, staring at the ocean as if it held some form of salvation. “Still trying to be the hero. Even after all I’ve done.” He reached up — grabbed Chase’s forearm. “Rhett called out for you. At the end. Your name was the last thing he said.”
Bile crested Chase’s throat, but he swallowed it. “I’m not letting go.”
“Then, let’s both go for a ride.”
He twisted, his jacket slipping free from Chase’s fist as he wrapped his fingers around Chase’s hoodie — pulled. The momentum split the root holding their weight, the unforgiving force pulling him down.
He scrambled for a handhold, nails scratching against the stone, toes digging into the mud before the world shifted and everything rushed past.