Chapter 3 #2
He’d thought, early on, that he’d been actually tracking someone, but after the first ten minutes, he’d given up that hope. Especially when Caspian stopped, looked at him.
“Caspian! Get back here!”
The dog barked, then darted off again.
Ever so briefly he’d considered leaving the animal behind, but the lineup of people who might murder him started with Flynn, with Hazel close behind, and probably even Tillie, who rolled her eyes every time Fluffy scratched at the back door.
No, Dawson was in this, despite the cold and the wind and the fact that he was probably out of cell range. Moose would be the one leaving him in the bush.
He’d let out another “Caspian!” and heard the wind take his shout. His trek had spilled him out to the edge of a forest overlooking a ravine—if the animal had gone over that, all bets were off. That’s when the scream lifted. Sharp and high and ripping through him.
A female scream. Maybe. Could be an eagle or a hawk. He stumbled along the edge of an old creek bed, a thirty-foot drop, and the barking turned to snarls.
As Dawson scrambled along the side of the ravine, he spotted—
Oh no. It looked like Caspian had attacked a man, a trapper from the look of his attire. The dog had put himself between a woman crumpled on the snow and the trapper, growling, barking, scary.
Huh.
“Stop! Caspian!”
Except then he spotted the rifle in the man’s grip.
“Don’t shoot him!” He searched for a way down, his hands up to distract the man.
The woman knelt in front of the spectacle. Her long blond hair spilled out of a white pom-pom hat, and she backed away on her knees, her hands up.
Whoever this man was, Dawson knew in his gut that Caspian had stopped him from something terrible.
All thought, all pain stripped out of him, and in that second, he shook out of the past, the ringing inside, and found himself, or at least who he’d been, and scrambled down the side of the ravine—only a few feet here—and across the creek bed.
“Stop!”
The trapper still aimed his rifle at Caspian, and Dawson cursed his injured knee. “Don’t shoot him!”
But the man had backed away, as if to get a better shot, and from five feet away, Dawson launched himself, throwing his entire body weight into the man, locking his arms around his waist.
They went down together in a terrible whump, cushioned only by the now-trampled snow. Caspian rounded on them, barking as Dawson pinned the guy, his good knee on the man’s arm. He reached for the rifle.
The man grabbed a handful of Dawson’s jacket, pulling him close, as if to hit him.
Yeah, no. He was wired now, the adrenaline hot, a part of him unhinging.
The bad guys didn’t get to win today. His fist balled—
“Dawson! It’s me! It’s Sully!”
He jerked, stilled. Stared at the man.
Golden-brown beard, a flash of fire in his pale-blue eyes.
“Sully?”
Sully Bowie, older brother of one of his buddies in Copper Mountain.
Just like that, the realization shut him down. He scrambled off the guy, backed into the snow, breathing hard.
And Caspian all but launched himself into Dawson’s arms, nearly standing over him, his hackles still bristled.
“It’s okay,” he said, his hand on the animal’s back. Looked at Sully. “What’s going on here?”
Sully looked at Caspian. “That’s your dog?”
Sort of. “Yes.”
“Is he going to bite me?”
Seemed like it, but then Caspian sat, his bottom right on Dawson’s legs. Stopped growling. That felt like the right sign. “I don’t think so.”
“Nice.” Sully put the rifle down and looked at the woman. “Are you okay?”
Dawson, too, looked at her.
Pretty. And scared silent, the way her hazel-blue eyes rounded, looking first at Sully, then Dawson, then Caspian.
Sully got up. “I heard the barking and came to see what was going on. Don’t get a lot of dogs up here signaling like that.”
Dawson glanced at Caspian. Signaling? He turned to the woman. “You okay, ma’am?”
She swallowed, then shook her head, and wouldn’t you know it, her eyes filled. Then Sully took a step toward her, and she drew in a breath, flinched.
Sully halted, his gaze swinging to Dawson, back to her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She gave Dawson a dubious look, and to be fair, Sully did resemble something out of the wild Alaskan bush. Dawson, however, wore a parka, a normal wool hat, and boots. Like a man who didn’t make his living tromping around in the woods dressed in the hides of animals.
Yeah, he might have been a little freaked out too, if he didn’t know the guy.
“I promise, he’s harmless,” Dawson said. He scooted over to her. “I’m Dawson Mulligan. I’m a cop.” Or was a cop. Oh, it didn’t matter. “Are you from the downed plane?”
She drew in a breath. “Are you really a cop?”
“Yes. Off duty—”
“There’s a man out here trying to kill me.”
He stilled. But he believed her, given the gunshot in Mack’s head and the way she held her arms around herself. Blood had dried on her lip, and her stuttered breathing suggested she might be having a panic attack.
“You’re safe with us. Sully is . . . well, despite the Daniel Boone appearance, he’s a good guy.”
“I’m wearing Carhartts and a two-thousand-dollar Overland coat,” Sully said. “I’m hardly a trapper from them thar hills.”
The woman nodded.
Caspian came over, whining, and she recoiled.
“Aw, he’s okay. He just got a little excited.” Dawson put his hand on the dog’s back.
“I thought he was going to jump me,” Sully said. “What, you train him to be a guard dog?”
“I can’t train him to fetch my shoes. No. He just took off, as if he knew she was there.”
Caspian crouched down then and started to inch toward the woman.
“He followed me?” She eyed the dog.
“Yeah, I think he . . . picked up your scent at the river. I don’t know. Or maybe he heard you.” Dawson put his hand on the dog’s head and looked at the woman. “Can you tell me what happened at the crash?”
“I don’t exactly know.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and he could barely hear her, what with the wind raking the trees.
She took a breath, her voice emerging louder but gravelly.
“A passenger stabbed Mack and then we crashed. And then he tried to kill another passenger and then me and . . . and . . .” Her voice broke off, and she shook her head, pressing her gloved hands to her mouth.
Oh boy. To Sully, “I need to call Moose. He’s on the shore, waiting for me.”
“No cell service here, Daws. But I have my shortwave. I can call Kennedy back at the outpost, and she can get ahold of the FBO via the ham radio. They’ll contact Moose.” He picked up the backpack he’d dropped and opened it.
“How far are we from the outpost?” Dawson stood up and stifled a groan. His knee had started to ache again. And from the heat, might be swelling.
“Six miles, maybe. But the blizzard will beat us there.” Sully pointed to the northwest even as he stepped away to talk on the radio.
Dark clouds jockeyed for space as they descended into the valley, turning the world to storm and shadow, the ceiling dropping fast. “If Moose doesn’t leave now, he won’t get off that riverbed.”
“Yep,” Sully said, also scanning the sky. “We need to get to shelter too.”
“Can we get to your place in time?”
“Better to go to Woodcrest,” Sully said. “We’re only a couple miles from Woodcrest. I’m just coming from there.”
“Will you make it home before the storm?”
“They have a few snow machines. I’ll borrow one.”
Dawson bent over to address the woman. “What’s your name?”
She had stopped crying a little, stared out past him. Caspian crawled up and set a paw on her knee. Then his snout. Nudged her hand.
“Keely,” she whispered. “Keely Williams.”
“Okay, Keely Williams. Listen, you’re going to be okay. We’re going to hike to shelter—”
“I can’t walk.” She lifted her gaze to him. Pretty eyes, hazel-blue. Fear in them. “I hurt my ankle.” Her voice emerged raspy again. Almost a whisper.
He swallowed. Straightened. Blew out a breath.
Sully walked back to him. “I got ahold of Kennedy. She’ll relay the message to Moose. In the meantime, we need to get going.”
“She can’t walk,” Dawson said, his tone low. He glanced at Keely. She’d dug her fingers into Caspian’s fur. “And I . . . I’m still moving pretty slow.”
Sully nodded. “I heard about the shooting. And the total knee replacement.”
He looked away. Last thing he needed was sympathy, thanks. It just made him feel . . . broken.
He was not broken.
Dawson turned to Keely. “Listen. There’s a blizzard coming. We need to get to safety. There’s a community not far from here.”
She swallowed, and something like fire came into her eyes. Better.
He held out his hand, and she hesitated a moment, then took it. Let him help her up. He gave her his elbow, and she tried to put weight on her ankle. A whimper eked out of her, but she drew in a breath, tightened her jaw.
Yeah, this would take a couple thousand years.
“Get on my back,” he said.
“Are you kidding?” Sully rounded. “Dude—”
Dawson gave him a tight-lipped glare.
“Listen,” Sully said, putting his hand on Dawson’s shoulder, “we need to move. I’ve got her.” He swung off his pack and handed Dawson his gun. “Besides, if someone is out there, you’re a better shot.”
“Hardly,” he said. Sully was former military, and there were rumors of special ops, but he never talked about it.
Dawson shouldered the pack and swung the gun strap over his neck.
“You think this guy is still out here?” he asked Keely as Sully pulled her up to his back. She locked her arms around Sully’s neck.
Nodded.
Caspian set out ahead of them, and Dawson wanted to shout at the dog to stay with them, but weirdly, the animal stayed pretty close.
Now he chose to obey.
Moose’s words rounded back to him about letting Jericho train him for SAR work. But then he’d need his handler present, right?
Who had to be able to run, right?
Dawson blew out a breath, his steps in Sully’s as he fought to keep up. They walked down the frozen riverbed.
“What are you doing out here, anyway, Sul?”
“We’re on Bowie land,” he said over his shoulder, as if that answered the question.
“How’s Kennedy?”
Silence from his friend.
“Sul?”
“She’s fine.”
Not fine, by the tone.
Behind them the wind started to howl, sending icy flakes into the air, skittering down his jacket collar. He glanced back.
The clouds chased them, catching up.
They left the riverbed, trudged through a cut of forest, and then emerged in an open area, headed toward a deer trail on the other side. Keely shivered, her head on Sully’s shoulders.
“How much farther?” Dawson’s gut tightened the minute they walked into the open. Like they might be prey. Aw, he was probably overreacting to the wind in the trees, the darkening sky, the gripping cold.
Caspian slowed, came back, nudged up against him, as if pushing him.
“It’s okay, pal.”
Sully turned, walking backward for a bit. “We’re nearly there—”
A crack bit the air.
Sully jerked and his leg buckled.
Then, just like that, he dropped to one knee.
Keely sprawled into the snow with a scream.
Dawson dropped, went prone, and rolled to his back, searching the forest for the shooter, his heart in his throat.
Caspian scooted next to him, nearly on top of him.
Silence. Nothing but forest ahead of them, but they lay in the open, exposed. He scanned the woods, fighting to control his breathing.
Nearby, Sully groaned, a deep, angry sound of frustration.
“Sul? You shot?”
“It’s just a scratch.”
Dawson began to crawl to him. Blood spit on the snow around Sully.
“Just a scratch?” His breath razed his lungs. Calm. Down. “We need to get to cover. Can you walk?”
Sully pressed his glove against the wound on the side of his leg. “I’m good.”
“He’s shot?” Keely crawled over, her breathing again panicked.
“We need to get off this field, now,” Dawson said, glancing into the trees. “Give me your scarf.”
Her hands shook as she handed it to him.
Another shot broke the air. Snow tufted up behind Keely, barely missing her.
Caspian slammed against him, nearly knocking him over. Yeah, well, good move. “Get down!” Dawson reached out, pushed Keely down, Caspian between them.
Sully grabbed the scarf from Dawson, tied it around his leg. “Let’s move.” He tried to roll over but fell.
Aw. Instinct took over, settled him as Dawson reached for Keely. “I’ll come back for you!”
Then he got up, gritted his teeth, and hauled Keely up against him. “Go, Casp!”
The dog shot off, and they followed in an awkward scramble, the losers of a three-legged race. Another shot hit a tree, scrubbing off bark, as he flung them into the ring of forest. He dumped her in the snow. “Take cover!”
Then he turned for Sully.
Caspian stepped in front of him.
“Stay,” he said, and the dog looked up at him.
Sat.
Really?
Sully had already started to army crawl from the clearing, some twenty feet from the end, and now gathered his feet under him.
A shot cracked again, and Sully went flat, his hand over his head.
For a second, he didn’t move, and Dawson’s heart nearly left his chest. Then Sully poked his head up, and Dawson took off, limping, running, ducking. He got a hand on Sully’s coat and half dragged, half helped him scramble to the edge of the forest.
Another shot followed them in, shredding pine needles.
“How many was that?” Sully said, breathing hard, now rewrapping the bloody scarf around his leg.
Dawson stared out across the field, searching. “How many shots? I don’t know—”
“Five. I think five,” rasped Keely. “A Glock 19 holds fifteen rounds. Mack fired one, so that’s nine left.”
Dawson stared at her. Really?
Sully grunted, pulling the scarf tighter.
He’d save it for later. “You good?”
“Yeah. Bleeding is already slowing.” He let out a noise, however, and Dawson recognized it as a bone-deep growl of pain, maybe frustration. So, not a scratch, but not his femoral artery either.
He blew out a breath, nodding. Then he looked at Keely. “Who is this guy? And why is he trying to kill you?”
“Us,” Sully said.
“Maybe. But you were holding Keely and turned a second before the shot. It would have hit her.”
A beat, then Sully nodded. “Right. Okay. Let’s move.” Sully used a tree to pull himself up. Dawson handed him the rifle, then turned to Keely.
“My turn.”
She wiped her hand across her face. “No. I can walk.”
“Right.” He put out his arm, crooked it, and she sighed and tucked her arm through his. He pulled it against him, steadying her.
Sully took a step and then drew in a breath and released a grunt. “Not much farther.”
This day was getting funner by the minute. “Race ya,” Dawson said.
Sully’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s go.”
They started off, Sully struggling behind him, probably scanning for the shooter. Weirdly, Moose’s voice came back to him. “Maybe there’s stuff.”
Right. Like God never giving him a break? Seriously.
And only then did Dawson realize.
Caspian was gone.