Chapter 14 #3
“Kyle’s all set up.” Marla’s voice came through the radio, and he spotted her, some twenty feet down, her red jacket bright against the snow. They’d used snow machines to ascend, wanting to get the training done before the slopes opened.
Beside him, Tanner held Juniper’s lead, the border collie sitting, antsy, her body quivering.
Orlando, too, sat near Jericho’s skis. The dog seemed alert, almost somber today.
Yeah, well, emotion traveled down lead.
“Okay, let’s roll.” Marla again, and this time with a stopwatch. Kyle had been buried in a shallow snow cave ten minutes ago, giving the dogs a real-world scenario to work.
Rusty, a new hire, stood beside Jericho, watching.
“How long can someone actually survive under the snow?” Rusty asked.
“Depends,” Jericho said. “That’s why we train year-round. Okay, Tanner, go ahead and give Juniper the command. Orlando, hold.”
Beside him, Tanner commanded the border collie to search. The dog shot forward. Orlando quivered, clearly wanting to work.
But they needed to give Juniper the chance to shine. Then, he and Orlando would head over to the out-of-bounds terrain and set off charges, releasing some of last night’s drop.
Perfect avalanche conditions. Eight inches of fresh powder on top of last week’s melt-freeze layer. The kind of morning that made skiers dream of first tracks, roused ski patrol out of bed before dawn.
“Juniper’s got something!” Marla called on comms as the dog began to dig. Orlando whined, still holding his position but clearly wanting to join the search.
“Good girl!” Kyle’s muffled voice carried over the radio as he emerged from the snow.
“I’m going to the backcountry,” Jericho said into comms. “Set off these charges.”
“Roger,” Marla returned.
Jericho checked his pack—three charges to place before they could call this slope safe.
But mostly, he wanted to work on Orlando’s startle.
He pushed off and moved over the bowl, past a roped line and toward the deep powder of the backcountry.
“Okay, buddy. Here you go.” He handed him the tug toy and Orlando took it by the rope and tossed it into the air.
Meanwhile, Jericho pulled out the first of the charges, ran the routine through his head. Check the fuse, position the charge, calculate the trajectory, throw.
He glanced at Orlando. The dog seemed distracted.
Jericho set the fuse, then threw the charge some thirty feet down the mountain.
The explosion echoed off the mountain face, sending up a plume of snow.
Orlando lifted his head, startled. But he didn’t run.
So, maybe . . .
Shoot, the slope held.
“Orlando, come.”
The dog lifted his head, ears pricked, then turned to Jericho, tail wagging.
He picked up the toy, threw it, and Orlando bounded after it.
Then he picked up his binoculars and scanned the slope. A crack in the snow line, for sure, but it hadn’t jostled the pack loose.
And now if he didn’t release the layer, the next snowfall could set it free, send a bigger mass down the mountain, maybe into the chute toward the residential area in the valley.
But if he did this right, any slide would wear itself out, at the worst, dump snow in the off-site parking area of the Eagle’s Nest, where they stored off-season gear.
He checked the area, just to make sure it was clear—wait. There. A glint of metal at the bottom.
A truck, beige, was parked near the old mine entrance, not far from the parking lot.
The area was closed off during the winter.
“Orlando!”
The dog looked up, picked up his toy. Ran over.
Good dog. Protocol said finish the job, call in suspicious activity, let law enforcement handle it. But by then, whoever parked that truck would be long gone.
And even if it wasn’t what his gut suggested, whoever was down there could be buried if he let the pack go.
He keyed his radio. “Marla, I have a vehicle near the old Sterling Mine. I’m going to ski down—when I report all clear, finish the charge pattern in section four.”
A pause. Marla would know he was breaking protocol. But, “Good copy, Jericho. We’ll pack up the training, get that section sorted.”
She knew better than to ask questions over an open radio channel.
Jericho checked his beacon. The morning sun had crested the ridge now, throwing long shadows across untouched powder.
“Orlando, with me.” He bent and his dog obeyed as he lifted him over his shoulders. Then he pushed off.
They descended in wide traverses, Jericho breaking trail through deep snow, away from the loosened pack. Each turn sent up a rooster tail of powder, the only sound their breathing and the soft shush of skis.
He kept an eye on the truck. No movement, as if . . .
Maybe they were inside the mine?
And why not? As he skied closer, an idea congealed. What if Summit Construction used the old mine to store the drugs?
He neared the bottom, slowed and skied over to a stand of trees, then let Orlando down. The dog circled him, sniffing the air.
Barked.
“Shh,” Jericho said, and Orlando sat, whined.
Then, suddenly, the dog dropped into a low crouch, the fur along his spine rising. A growl rumbled in his chest.
A man had emerged from the mine, carrying a hefty bucket. He dropped it into the back end of the truck.
Didn’t look like the hunter—and even as he turned back to the mine, Jericho’s gut clenched.
Mars. No wonder Orlando reacted.
Jericho pressed back against a snow-laden pine, his breath fogging in the morning air. The smart play was to wait for Sheriff Deke. But who knew where Mars’s next stop might be . . .
He lifted his binoculars and spotted Marla’s red jacket at the top. Not yet.
He lifted the radio, kept his voice low. “Marla, get ahold of Sheriff Starr. Tell him I called in, that I need him at Sterling Mine, ASAP.”
Static answered. Aw, she was too far out, in a dead zone.
He needed to get closer to the mine.
“Heel,” he said to Orlando, then pulled off his skis. Immediately he sank into the snow in his heavy boots, but he used the trees to steady himself as he moved down the side of the mountain, into the parking lot.
He found cover behind a slew of boulders, probably blasted out of the mine decades ago.
More sounds from the mine, and he spotted Mars again, carrying another bucket, although larger, this time carried between him and . . . the hunter, aka, Sloan Sorros.
“She showed up at the Barrow place,” Sloan was saying. “She’s going to be trouble.”
“Both of them,” Mars said as they hiked the bucket into the back. He shut the tailgate. “You were right about Tatum. He’s still alive.”
Sloan’s face had cleaned up, leaving a mottled bruise and a dark wound across the cheekbone. “I’ll find him. No loose ends.”
“And Wilder Frost too. He’s still out there,” Mars said. “He could bring it all down.”
Jericho unclipped his radio and set it to emergency signal—a continuous ping that search and rescue could home in on. Wouldn’t help now, but if things went sideways . . .
Orlando growled. Clearly he hadn’t forgotten Mars.
Jericho held out his hand. “Stay.”
The two men headed back into the mine, the entrance gaping like a black mouth in the mountain face.
He needed a way to lock them in—Except, wait, maybe . . .
He reached inside his pack and pulled out a hand charge. He just had to loosen the snowpack. They wouldn’t die—just be trapped long enough for Deke to get here. Once he got ahold of him . . .
Jericho edged out into the lot—
“. . . finish this today. I’m done waiting . . .”
He lit the charge. Orlando heeled beside him, tense. “Stay,” he growled.
Then he threw the bomb.
It landed thirty feet up on the mountain, and Jericho grabbed Orlando, scrambled to hide behind a tumble of rocks. “Down!”
Orlando lowered himself to the ground.
Bam! The bang went off, and snow splattered the air. Orlando didn’t move—good dog, but shoot, the layer didn’t budge.
He needed another go—
Footsteps echoed in the tunnel.
Mars ran out, carrying a gun. So that was great.
Jericho’s hand on Orlando’s head came a second too late to stop his growl.
Mars turned.
Orlando barked. Yeah, scent found.
Jericho stood up as Mars aimed his gun at them. He reached for Orlando’s harness.
“Well.” The voice behind him was ice. “Look who finally caught up.”
He turned and spotted Sloan emerging from the tunnel. The man also held a gun.
“Hands up,” Sloan said.
Jericho raised one hand.
Orlando trembled, still growling.
“I already called it in. They know I’m here,” he said.
“We’ll just dump your body,” Sloan said, smiling now. “They won’t find you until spring.”
Jericho glanced at Mars, who kept eyeing Orlando.
“Listen—”
“Inside the mine,” Sloan said, jerking his gun toward the entrance.
“Heel.” Jericho stepped past Sloan, his hand still on the harness—
And it hit him.
They’d kill him, kill his dog, shut the door and . . .
They’d never be found.
He reached into the pack, even as he stalked into the mine. The old support timbers looked almost rotted. Light penetrated maybe twenty feet in before darkness swallowed everything.
He took off running.
Orlando stayed with him, barking, and a shot bit at the rock. But he’d already slammed himself against the wall, in the darkness, pulled the charge and lit it.
Then he threw it toward the entrance with everything he had. Three-plus pounds of explosive, which could generate enough flying gravel and debris to, well . . . He grabbed his dog and pulled him close.
The bomb exploded.
Orlando flinched but didn’t move. Dust splattered into the mine, a cloud that obscured the opening.
But maybe—Jericho bounced to his feet, running hard for the entrance, Orlando ahead of him.
And then he heard the thunder. No!
He skidded to a stop. “Orlando, come!”
But the dog had disappeared into the cloud of silt.
The thunder turned to a roar and the debris bounced into the mouth of the mine. Jericho dove toward the wall, then turned and took off back down the tunnel, into the darkness.
Behind him, the mountain exploded. The mine shook the timbers overhead, and the shadows turned to soot.
He tripped, flew into the jagged yawn of rock, landed, tasted blood.
And lay there as the mountain collapsed and sealed him inside his tomb.