Chapter 4 #4
Crew took the wheel, Deke and Harley in the other SUV.
Rio and Stevie in a third. The road wound through Copper Mountain’s outskirts, the river a silver thread on their left, the spruce trees dusted with snow.
The sky hung low, the clouds a bruised gray, the faint howl of the wind whistling through the cracked window.
“How is it that you know these guys?” Jericho asked Crew.
“Been embedded with the SOR for the past three years,” Crew said grimly. The wipers swiped at the first flakes of snow. “Met the Sorros boys a few times. They’re snakes, all of them.”
Jericho’s jaw tightened, his gaze on the trees, the memory of that day with Harley flashing in his head—her standing in the Sorroses’ driveway, voice shaking as she blamed Mars for Gabe’s crash, Mars’s sneer inches from her face.
“I know,” he said. “I went to school with them. Mars and I got into a scuffle once. He broke my nose. My brother Sully dragged me out before it got worse.”
Crew nodded, his gaze flicking to Jericho. “Broken nose? You’re lucky that’s all you got. I saw Mars put a guy in the hospital.”
Technically, he did go to the hospital, but he left that out.
“So you’re FBI?”
“No,” Crew said. “I was just an informant. And next summer, I’m going to try out for the Midnight Sun Hotshots. For now, I’m just helping out Deke.”
They drove maybe twenty miles into the bush, along a county-plowed road. In the distance dogs barked, probably a sled dog camp nearby.
Orlando’s ears pricked, but he didn’t move.
They parked at the end of a drive and got out. Thin, dusted-over indentations in the snow evidenced a truck had been there recently. Stevie and Rio stood, their breaths gathering as Deke and Harley walked up.
“We’ll have to hoof it from here,” Deke said. “It’s not far, maybe a quarter mile. Crew, you and Rio and Stevie go in the side entrance. Jericho, you and me and Harley will go in the front.” He gestured to Orlando’s harness. “What do you say we take off the bell?”
Right. Although, the bell meant he could follow Orlando even if he ran out of sight. However, in this case, maybe Deke was right. Jericho unlatched the bell and tossed it into the cab of the truck. But he did grab Orlando’s ball with the rope attached.
His reward for finding his quarry.
Rio had tested a radio with Deke, and now he and Stevie and Crew headed up the road, branching off to head around the camp about two hundred yards in.
Deke walked ahead, glancing back at Harley, and Jericho read worry on his face.
Yeah, well him too, suddenly.
She walked with a sort of darkness, an intensity, a focus. A little hair-raising, the look of her.
As if she’d heard nothing Rio said about calling in for backup.
The SOR camp came into view, a cluster of structures in a snowy clearing, the remnants of an old kids’ camp turned militia hideout. A chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter, the metal rusted. The burned cabin sat on one side, its charred timbers jutting like broken bones.
Snow blanketed the ground, the drifts untouched, the silence heavy, broken only by the crunch of their boots.
But the scent of woodsmoke hinted the air.
Orlando emitted a tiny whine, a mix of desire and need.
“Shh,” he said as they came close to the gate, half-open. He glanced at Deke, who nodded.
He knelt next to Orlando. “Find,” he whispered, his hand gesturing toward the compound.
Orlando took off, his nose to the air, circling, his tail wagging.
He loved this game. His nose went down and he trekked to the burned cabin, his nose twitching as he sniffed the charred timbers.
The faint creak of the structure echoed in the quiet.
He moved to a cluster of smaller buildings—old bunkhouses, their windows boarded, the wood splintered, the roofs sagging under the snow’s weight.
Orlando nosed along the walls, his tail slowing, his ears pricking as he searched for the scent.
Deke jogged up, his breath fogging in the air. “What’s he doing? Just sniffing around?”
“He’s air scenting,” Jericho said, his gaze on Orlando as the dog nudged a rusted shed, its door hanging off one hinge, the metal groaning.
“He can catch human scent on the wind, doesn’t need to follow a trail like a tracking dog.
He’s picking up the scent cone, the cloud of odor humans leave behind.
It moves with the breeze, pools in low spots. ”
“No article of clothing needed?” Deke asked, his badge glinting in the dim light, as he watched Orlando circle the shed, his nose low, his tail flicking.
“Not to start,” Jericho said, his hand on his radio, his gaze tracking Orlando’s movements. “Air scent dogs are trained to find any human scent in the area—living, breathing, moving.”
“I thought he was an avalanche dog.” Deke’s gaze flicked to Jericho. “How’s that play in?”
“Avalanche dogs work in chaos—deep snow, high winds, low visibility.” Jericho watched Orlando dart toward what looked like the mess hall.
“They learn to find scent under pressure, in tough terrain, where it’s scattered or buried.
This camp’s a mess—snow, wind, old buildings—but Orlando’s used to that.
He’ll find Mars’s scent even if it’s faint, even if he’s hiding. ”
Deke nodded, his gaze on the dog.
Orlando froze, his head snapping up, his body tensing. He’d found it—the scent cone. The dog took off across the compound, his legs pumping, snow flying in his wake as he ran toward a dense thicket of spruce trees at the camp’s edge, then disappeared from sight.
See, this was why he needed a bell! “Orlando!” Jericho took off, sprinting after the dog, his boots slipping on the icy patches, his breath burning in his chest. The team shouted behind him, their voices fading as he plunged into the thicket, the branches snagging his parka, the needles sharp against his skin.
A shot barked into the morning. Sharp, quick, and Jericho dropped out of old habit, hands over his head, his heart slamming against his ribs.
And clearly he didn’t need a bell, because behind the dying echo rose a dog’s cry.