Chapter 4 #3
But all he remembered was holding onto his dog—Please let this not be how we die.
Jericho had jolted awake, a cold sweat slicking his skin, his heart a fist slamming against his ribs. He sprawled on the bed in the guest room, the nightmare’s grip lingering, the wind rattling the windowpanes. It was just a dream. Just a—
Beside the bed, Orlando whined, a low, trembling sound, paws twitching against the pine floor.
Jericho reached down, stroked the Bernedoodle’s flank, the curly fur warm under his palm. “We’re okay, boy,” he rasped. “Just a dream.”
Orlando’s brown eyes cracked open, haunted, as if the dog shared the same nightmare.
Jericho sat up, the mattress creaking, his gaze darting to the clock on the nightstand. 4:50 a.m. Aw—
He threw off his comforter, the chill sweeping over him, and his bare feet hit the cold floor. Dawn still hadn’t touched the day, the night thick against the windows.
The closet door stood ajar, jammed with boxes—his belongings, packed away by Hudson after the family moved from the big house. He’d given the stacks a quick and dismissive purview last night.
Not ready yet.
Now, he yanked on his jeans, the denim stiff from the chill, and pulled a flannel shirt over his thermal. Then he grabbed Orlando’s harness, the bear bell on the collar clinking softly. “Let’s go, boy.”
The kitchen glowed, the lights on, the air sharp with the scent of burnt toast, but the smell of fresh coffee lured him in.
Hudson leaned against the black granite counter, pouring coffee into a Copper Mountain Lodge mug, his flannel shirt rumpled, his dark hair tousled, shadows under his eyes.
The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet, the window above the sink framing the river’s icy curve, the glass dusted with frost.
“You look pretty,” Jericho said, searching a drawer for a travel mug. He found one. “What are you doing up?”
Hudson grabbed a cast-iron skillet, turned the stove on. “The Eagle’s Nest’s heating system went down around midnight. We have issues with the boiler. An alarm went off and I need to get it running before pipes freeze.” He cracked eggs into the skillet, the sizzle sharp in the quiet.
“Need help?” Jericho asked, sipping the coffee he’d poured, the bitter taste grounding him, the steam curling under his nose.
Hudson glanced at him. “You’re late, aren’t you?”
Jericho glanced at the clock on the wall, the hands ticking past five. “Yeah.” He capped the mug. Eyed the burnt toast.
“Have at it,” Hudson said, flipping the eggs.
Jericho picked up the toast, stuck it into his mouth, then opened the fridge and grabbed a package of Orlando’s food.
“The dog eats better than I do,” Hudson said.
“Yeah, well, you haven’t had thousands of dollars of training behind you. Save some lives, then we’ll talk.” But he grinned at Hudson.
He didn’t hate being home. He headed toward the door.
“Be careful.”
Jericho turned on Hudson’s words, spotted him lifting eggs onto the plate. Hudson met his gaze. “Those Sorros boys don’t play nice.”
Right.
At the door, he pulled on his green parka, grabbed a wool hat, and shoved gloves into his pocket. Then headed out into the cold.
The night still bore down to the west, to the east, the golden simmer of a new day breaking through low clouds. Orlando jumped into the truck, riding shotgun.
The drive to Deke’s office cut through the heart of Copper Mountain, the river a shimmering ribbon to the west. Small, sleepy houses to the east. The clouds hung low, still teasing the threat of snow, the air biting as he waited for his heater to warm.
Starlight Pizza’s neon sign glared in the darkness, Bowie Mountain Gear a dark silhouette. He parked, then turned and fitted on Orlando’s harness, checking, then led the dog inside, his nails clicking on the hardwood, the bear bell on his harness jingling softly.
Conversation spilled out of the conference room, the air thick with the scent of burnt coffee. He walked in to see the sheriff and his deputy, Crew, along with two others standing in front of the map. A stained conference table held a coffeepot, the brew steaming in mismatched mugs.
“J, you made it.” Deke turned from the map. “Good. We’re just waiting on Harley.”
He gestured to the two others standing nearby.
“This is Rio. Local FBI. Worked with me last summer to round up the Sons of Revolution. He knows the area.”
Rio was a dark-haired FBI agent with a sharp jaw and a leather jacket, his dark eyes landing on Jericho, then his dog. “Hey.”
Jericho shook his hand.
“And this is Deputy Marshal Stevie Mills. You remember her, right? She was a couple years older than us in school. She’s in town for the weekend, said she’d help out.”
He turned to the woman, her blond hair pulled into a tight bun, her gray eyes assessing. “Stevie. Yeah. How are you?”
“Good. You’ve been gone a hot minute.”
He nodded. “So you’re a deputy marshal. Wow, I’ll bet your dad is . . .” And then he stopped.
His last memory of her had been something about her father being arrested for an accidental homicide. So maybe he was still doing time.
“Dad died about a year ago. Cancer. But he was exonerated before he passed. And yes, he was proud of me,” she said, smiling.
“He was a good man,” Deke said.
Stevie nodded. Took a sip of her coffee. “Yeah, he was.”
“So,” Rio said, turning to the map, “according to my memory, there are two entrances to this old camp.” He glanced at Crew.
Crew stepped up to the map. “Yeah. Front gate is the first, and the second is over here, by the machine shed. There’s a burned cabin here.” He pointed out the locations.
Behind them, the door creaked open, boots thudding on the floor.
He turned. And yep, it wasn’t a joke, or a nightmare, or even a dream yesterday. Harley Tatum was back, and she strode in, her long blond hair tied back but spilling out under a wool hat, over the collar of her black coat, her golden-brown eyes sharp.
He’d noticed it yesterday, but she moved with a sort of confidence, as if she could handle herself, and if possible, she looked fiercer, stronger.
Yesterday’s conversation haunted him for a second. “You have to promise me that you’re not going to do something stupid and get me or my dog hurt.”
Way to charm her, Jericho.
Not that he’d ever charmed her, really, but if he hoped to maybe lay ghosts to rest, an apology might be in order. Especially with her accusation of him abandoning her.
Maybe he had.
Now, she walked in, her jaw set, her gaze cutting from him to Deke to the others and back.
“Hey, Harley,” Deke said.
“Sorry I’m late. Is the coffee gone?”
“No, grab a mug. We were just walking through the game plan.” He glanced at his watch. “But we need to get moving.”
She poured herself a mug and walked up to join them. “I’m listening.”
Deke outlined the plan—splitting up, entering through the two locations.
He turned to Harley. “Anything we should know?”
“About Mars?” She took a sip of coffee, nodded. “He’s a creature of habit, always smoking Marlboro Reds. Orlando might pick up that scent—strong cigarette smoke. And Mars is paranoid, sets up trip wires, noise traps, tin cans on strings—that kind of thing. Look for those.”
She stepped closer to the map. “It looks like there’s a trail behind the mess hall that leads to a creek bed—if he bolts, that’s where he’ll go. And watch for old defensive dugouts under the snow.”
Deke nodded. “Anything else?”
“He’ll have a lookout spot—probably the water tower or a tree stand,” Harley said, her finger returning to tap the map. “He’s got an itchy trigger finger—itchy personality, really. If we corner him, he’ll shoot first. Let’s get a pack of Reds so your dog can establish the scent.”
“He doesn’t need it,” Jericho said. “He is trained to pick up fresh human scents and follow them.”
Her mouth pinched, and he spotted doubt. Didn’t know why that irked him—many people doubted the ability of dogs to simply scent out a person without a source.
Maybe people didn’t know his dog.
“I agree that we should split up,” Harley said, her gaze on Deke.
“We approach from the north—less visibility from the tower. And we look for signs—footprints, trash, anything. If Mars’s there, he’ll have left a trail.
” She glanced at the others. “He might have even booby-trapped the place, so stay alert.”
Great.
“The good news is that he doesn’t trust anyone, so don’t expect him to have backup. And he’s a terrible shot. So that means he’ll wait until we’re close. But, like I said, if we corner him, he will shoot first.”
“Okay,” Deke said. “When we get there, you two need to hang back,” he said to Jericho and Harley. “You’re not official law enforcement, so don’t get in the way.”
Oh, that got Harley’s hair up—Jericho recognized the narrowing of her eyes. Oddly, she just took another sip from her mug.
“First, we find him,” Rio said. “Then we’ll call in reinforcements from Anchorage. We’re not equipped for a full manhunt. This is just legwork till we can call in the big dogs.”
Orlando nudged Harley’s hand, his tail wagging, the bear bell clinking.
She glanced down at the dog, and a small smile lifted one side of her mouth. Her fingers brushed his ear.
Orlando leaned into her hand.
And Jericho didn’t know why, but heat flamed inside him. “He’s on duty,” he said. “Don’t distract him.”
“Noted,” she said, her voice cool. Her gaze flicked to Deke. “We moving or what?”
“Gear up—there are vests and jackets in the locker area,” Deke said, grabbing his jacket as he left.
They piled into vehicles, the air sharp with cold. Jericho climbed into a sheriff’s SUV with Crew, Orlando hopping into the back, the dog’s harness jingling as he settled.