Chapter 11 #3
He shook his head. “He’s armed. We’re not. C’mon, stay on course.”
She drew in a breath, met his eyes. “He might have taken them!”
“So, we find them. We deal with him later.”
She stared after the man, back at Jericho. “Fine.”
Jericho nodded, crouched to Orlando. “Find.”
Orlando’s bell jangled as he circled, nose to the ground. Blood tainted the winter air—a copper tang that made Jericho’s neck prickle.
Please, Orlando. Find the scent.
The dog spun, then took off, almost on the man’s trail.
Jericho scampered after his dog. Shoot—shoot—not that way!
“Team Three to Air One, do you have visual on the man?” This from Harley, behind him.
“Air One. No visual. Trees block the sight line.” Dodge’s words emerged clipped, almost frustrated.
Jericho crashed through the trees, the boughs hitting him as he chased his dog. “Orlando!”
He found him, circling, panting, whining.
Jericho pulled up, chest heaving. Sweat froze on his temples as he scanned the shadowed snow. Boot prints carved through the white—the man had abandoned stealth for speed.
Except, why had Orlando stopped—
“Jericho.”
He looked over at Harley, just a few feet away.
“Look.”
He stalked over to where she pointed at a white birch. “This looks like old blood.”
The blizzard hadn’t touched it.
“Could belong to the hunter.”
“Or Gregg,” Harley said. She glanced at Orlando. “Find.”
He wanted to tell her that she had just broken so many SAR rules, but apparently Orlando didn’t know that.
The dog ignored the hunter’s fresh trail, nose locked on the blood-marked scent and took off through the woods.
“Base. We found a blood trail,” Harley said as she ran behind Jericho.
Deke answered and Jericho slowed for her to catch up.
“You think they fought?” Harley asked.
“Who, Gregg and the hunter?” Jericho glanced at her. “Gregg is ex-military. Looked like Marine Force Recon, given the picture in their living room.”
“That’s a special unit?”
“Yeah. They’re in charge of reconnaissance and direct action ops. Tough guys. They know how to handle themselves. So, yeah, Gregg and the hunter might have fought. Over protecting his grandson? You bet.”
“Base to Team Three,” Deke’s voice came over the radio. “Air One spotted a barn. Northeast, maybe a quarter mile from your location.”
Right. They had the GPS.
“The Bridgeman place?” Harley asked.
“Could be the hunter forced them off the road, caught up with them, and they had a scuffle,” Jericho said. “With that leg injury, could be he couldn’t chase them down, maybe had to head back before the storm hit.”
“And what? Gregg didn’t want to chance going back to the car?”
“Or, he was hurt too.” Jericho met her gaze.
“Don’t say it.”
“I’m sure Daniel is okay.”
Her mouth made a grim line.
And oh, he wanted to make promises.
“The hunter might have been looking for the barn,” Harley said.
“Yeah,” Jericho said. “Storm killed the trail.”
Pine shadows cut blue stripes across the snow. Jericho tracked Orlando’s bell while his eyes swept the tree line.
Men with scars like that didn’t quit a hunt.
“Base to Team Three,” Deke’s voice crackled through static. “Air One is looking for a place to land. You’re nearly there.”
“Copy, Base,” Harley said. “Any success on grabbing the hunter? We have questions.”
Ahead, Orlando bounded out of the forest, into another field.
And through the twilight, at the far end of the expanse, Jericho spotted a small homestead. Gray, with a weathered barn, log home. Abandoned but . . .
Orlando took off through the field, and Jericho ran after him. Sweat burned through him, coated his body.
He climbed a fence that Orlando easily slid under, then turned.
Harley grimaced but let him help her too.
Good grief, the woman got shot two days ago. Yeah, she was tough.
The barn rose, wearing fifty winters of storms. The door gaped open, snow building a drift across the threshold. A rusted hay trolley hung from the peak, its chain swaying in the wind.
Orlando circled outside the door, his bell wild. As Jericho came up, he darted to him, then spun to the door. Barked.
Then he sat, tail wagging.
Time to play.
Except as Jericho stood there, his breath knifing through him, the creak of the wind, the aloneness of the place, the lack of prints leading into the barn—
It stirred up the past, hit his gut and buzzed through him.
Ambush.
“Team Three to Base,” Harley said, breathing hard. “Found the barn. Recent—”
“Help!” A child’s voice cut through the cold. “Help. Please!”
Harley stilled, glanced at the open door.
“Harley, wait”—he took a step toward her, grabbed her arm.
Because what if, well, what if “Keith Smith” had friends, just lying in wait for them?
Harley looked at him. “Jericho, calm down. You’re not the only one who knows how to breach a building.”
He took a breath. Right. He was trying to trust her. He let her arm go.
She scooted inside.
He was just a step behind.
Light pierced the broken roof, painting silver stripes across weathered beams. The wind moaned through gaps in the walls.
Orlando shot past him, bell ringing.
Harley had slowed, hands up, approaching a small boy huddled against a mound of horse blankets, his breath making ghosts in the cold.
“Daniel,” she said.
He looked like his kindergarten picture—round face, big brown eyes—yeah, he was definitely Gabe’s kid, although he saw traces of Harley in the boy’s features.
The boy nodded.
Brave, although frozen tears tracked his cheeks.
“We’re here to help,” Harley said. “Your mommy sent us.” She crouched now and Jericho gave her points for not grabbing the kid up and scaring him.
Then Jericho spotted Gregg, curled in the hay, beneath another horse blanket. Blood had frozen black on his temple. His chest hitched with each shallow breath.
Jericho headed over to him.
Orlando had wiggled up to Daniel, whining.
“He’s a good dog,” Harley said. She seemed to be checking Daniel over. “You can pet him.”
She turned when Jericho reached Gregg. “I’ll call it in.”
Jericho leaned over Gregg. A sturdy man, he opened his eyes, just barely, when Jericho called his name.
“Is he okay?” The voice emerged broken.
And Jericho knew. “Daniel. Yes. He seems . . .” He glanced at the boy.
The five-year-old had his arms around Orlando, his face buried in his fur. For his part, Orlando had switched into comfort mode, not moving.
A wave of heat slid over him. So, yeah, he should have trusted his K9.
Jericho turned back to Gregg. “Yes. He’s okay. Let’s look at you.”
The man must have had piled snow into a mitten and set it on his head wound, although now it lay soggy over the gash.
“He had a gun. Hit me with it . . .” Gregg shook his head. “But I had a tire iron.” He offered a small smile. “Oorah.”
“Well done, sir,” Jericho said. He winced at the sight of the wound. “You get turned around?”
“Oh, it wasn’t the head wound that slowed me down.” He groaned and tried to lean back.
And that’s when Jericho spotted the soggy puddle of blood in the hay.
“He had a trick up his sleeve. Or rather his boot. It’s not deep, but it hurt like a bear.”
Jericho eased him onto his back. Opened his jacket. The wound was right above his hip, left lower quadrant. “It’s deep enough. You might have internal bleeding, but hopefully it missed your liver.”
“That’s important?”
Jericho looked up at Gregg, who winked.
Yeah, he was a Marine.
“So I’ve heard.” Jericho took off his scarf, bundled it, and pressed it against the wound. “We have a chopper coming in. Can you tell me what happened?”
Gregg glanced at Daniel. Drew in a shaky breath.
“Forced off the road. Guy got out carrying a .308. I carry too and shot back.” He opened his jacket.
A Smith and Wesson, .44 magnum. “Missed. Then I was out, but he was out too, so I took off with Daniel. We had a tussle in the woods. I injured him good, but my killing days are done.” His gaze hardened. “Maybe they shouldn’t be.”
Jericho raised an eyebrow. “What did he want?”
Again, his gaze went to Daniel.
Right.
“Get me out of here, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
He tucked the blanket back around Gregg, got up and walked over to Harley, overhearing her words.
“Team Three to Base. Medical emergency.” Harley glanced at him. “Both subjects located. Adult male injured, child alert.”
“Status?” Deke’s voice, through the static.
She glanced at Jericho.
“Head trauma. Lower body stab wound. Hypothermia risk.”
She relayed the information.
The barn creaked, ancient timbers protesting the wind. Temps were dropping.
“Medical inbound,” Deke said. “Five minutes.”
A knot had formed in Jericho’s gut. Yeah, this felt all kinds of wrong.
All kinds of Mars Sorros. It hadn’t been Mars in the woods, though, so . . . what? A hit man?
Except, the hunter could have finished this. Could have silenced witnesses. Instead, he’d walked away when they showed up.
Unless . . .
Unless he was waiting. Unless this barn was about to become a trap.
Jericho reached for the walkie. Keyed the mic. “Deke, any news on our hunter?”
“That’s a negative, JB,” Deke answered.
Jericho drew in another breath, looked at Harley. Then, “I’m not sure we have five minutes. Hurry up.”