Chapter 7. The Living Trail #4
“Atlas has human-scent interest along north bank, not in water. Working upstream.”
Hope returned too fast. Grant hated it.
Miles looked at him. “Breathe.”
Grant almost told him to go to hell. Instead he did. Atlas moved upstream. The river shelf narrowed. Finn stopped the dog before a steep section where runoff had undermined the bank.
“Hold.”
Atlas waited. Finn checked the terrain and radioed Cole for safety line before proceeding. No shortcuts. Not even now. Especially now.
Bear remained downstream with Cole, anchored to a rope system and ready for water extraction if anyone entered the current.
The Newfoundland watched the river with the grave patience of an animal bred for exactly the environment humans kept inventing ways to underestimate.
Mara coordinated both teams from above. Nyx’s concealed road had led directly to River Three.
Echo’s suspect track was descending toward the same drainage.
Rook was coming out of the mine tunnel behind them. The search map tightened into one area. The mountain was running out of places to lie.
Maren heard the riverbank team before she saw anyone. Voices. Faint. Below. She stopped against a granite wall and listened.
Radio. A dog collar bell? No. Metal hardware. People moving deliberately instead of crashing through brush.
Rescue. Or another trap. Her body had become too tired to trust hope without evidence. She crouched and looked downslope. Orange flashed between trees.
High-visibility vest. Then black. A dog. Labrador. Not Rook.
Atlas, though Maren did not know his name. The animal worked along the riverbank below with a man in rescue gear, staying under control on line. Not private security. Not Crowe. Raven Ridge K-9 Rescue.
Something inside Maren gave way. Not enough to cry. Enough that her knees almost did. She opened her mouth to call out. A hand clamped over it.
The pursuer hit her from behind. Maren twisted violently. The Crowe-jacketed man dragged her backward by the shoulder and tried to pull her away from the ledge. She bit the heel of his hand. He swore and struck her across the side of the head.
Light flashed. Maren fell. The second man came from the trees uphill.
“Get her moving.”
“They’re below us.”
“I know.”
“We need the crossing.”
Maren heard the panic in both voices. The search had reached them. They knew it. The first man grabbed her restraints. Maren kicked his injured shin.
He dropped one knee. She rolled toward the ravine. Too close. Loose rock broke beneath her hip. The ground disappeared.
Maren caught a root with both restrained hands. Her body swung over the slope. Pain ripped through her shoulders. Below, the ravine dropped into white water and black stone. The Crowe man caught the back of her sweater.
For one insane second, captor and victim were both trying to save her from the same fall. Not because he cared. Because dead Maren could not tell them where the ledger was. She used that. Maren kicked against the wall, swung sideways, and drove both boots into his knee.
He lost balance. His grip tore free. Maren dropped six feet onto a narrow shelf below. Her right ankle folded. She screamed.
The sound carried. No hiding now. The men above shouted. Maren crawled. Her ankle barely accepted weight.
The shelf narrowed ahead into brush. She heard a dog bark below. Another bark farther uphill. Different. Closer.
Maren dragged herself into the ravine. Branches tore at her sweater. Blood ran warm down one forearm where stone had opened the skin. She whistled. Short.
Short. Long. The first attempt broke from pain. She did it again. Louder.
Behind her, boots hit the shelf. They were coming.
Rook came out of North Vent and lost Maren. Asher expected it. Moving air at the mine exit scattered scent across road, equipment, and wet timber. The dog checked the immediate area, worked downhill, then stopped and looked back. Asher did not encourage a guess.
He radioed.
“Rook lost clean line at surface transfer.”
Mara answered. “We have whistle contact northeast ravine and Atlas working human scent upstream. Move Rook to north ravine perimeter. Fresh scent article remains protected?”
“Yes.”
“Reset there.”
They drove only partway. The concealed road Nyx had found ended above the ravine where the old bridge remained.
Asher got Rook out. The Shepherd was breathing well but had worked multiple deployments through the night.
Asher checked paws again, gave water, and waited several minutes before presenting Maren’s glove.
No drama. No urgency in the handling. The urgency belonged to humans. Rook sampled the glove. Asher resealed it.
“Find.”
The Shepherd moved toward the ravine. Slowly at first. Rain-damp air lifted from below. Rook stopped at the old bridge. His nose came up.
He froze. Asher felt every person behind him stop too. The dog sampled. Weak. Then stronger.
His head snapped toward the far bank. Not across the bridge. Downstream. Rook moved along the ravine edge. Asher followed.
“Command, Rook has interest.”
Grant heard the call from below. He stared upward into the fog. Mara’s voice remained calm.
“Work him.”
Rook descended twenty yards along the safer edge, then stopped again. Another whistle came from below. Short. Short. Long.
Asher heard it this time. Rook heard it too. The Shepherd’s ears drove forward. Sound was not scent. Asher did not let it become the answer.
“Find.”
Rook returned to work. He sampled wind moving up the ravine. One step. Two. Then the dog changed completely.
No uncertainty. No freeze. No searching circle. Rook committed so hard Asher had to brace and shorten the line before the Shepherd dragged them toward the drop.
“Easy.”
Rook pulled downstream, body low and certain. Asher’s pulse jumped.
“Command, K-9 One.”
Mara answered instantly.
“Go.”
“Strong live target scent. Rook is committed into the north ravine.”
Below them, another scream cut through the river noise. Human. Female. Then a man shouted. Grant was already turning toward Miles when Mara’s next transmission stopped him.
“All teams hold roles. Rook leads live-find. Echo works pursuers. Water teams cover downstream. Nobody freelances.”
Grant stared at the ravine. Twenty years of instinct screamed at him to run. This time he listened to the people whose job was finding her. Above, Rook pulled hard against the line. Below, Maren whistled again.
Short. Short. Long. Alive. Moving toward contact.
And this time the trail was no longer cold.