Search and Rescue by April Wilson
Chapter 2
Hannah McIntyre
Eagle Ridge Trail is not for the faint of heart. It’s a rugged climb, popular with hardcore hikers. Part of the trail is steep, and part of it is rocky. It takes a good two hours to make it two miles up the mountain. And that’s on a good day. If you throw in bad weather, all bets are off.
I glance up at the sky, which is already overcast. And it looks even more ominous to the west. Maybe a smart person would call off the hike until the weather clears, but I’m more worried about Betty’s welfare than getting snowed on. If push comes to shove, I can hightail it off that mountain in record time and get back to my Jeep before too much snow has accumulated.
The snow isn’t even expected until evening, and I’ll be down off that mountain long before then.
There’s only one other vehicle in the gravel parking lot besides mine—an all-wheel-drive black SUV with darkly-tinted windows and Larimer County license plates. I pass it as I head for the trail marker, where I stop momentarily to gaze at the info sheets pinned to the message board, but there’s nothing new. No trail alerts. No recent bear or mountain lion sightings to worry about. So I proceed along the trail, ready for a good workout. It’s too bad I don’t have Scout with me. He loves a good hike. If I’d known I was taking this detour, I would have brought him with me.
The first quarter mile is deceptively easy, but soon enough the incline increases. Rock outcroppings and tangles of tree roots make the going more difficult. By the half mile mark, I’m breathing pretty hard and getting a good aerobic workout. A couple of relatively easy outcroppings of rock slow me down as I have to carefully pick my handholds and footholds to make my way up.
Two hours later, at the top of Eagle Ridge, I reach the spot where hikers like to camp out in hopes of spotting Betty on the far side of the ridge. Down below is a valley with a river running through it—Betty’s main source of food. This time of year, she’s alone up here, but when mating season arrives, her longtime mate will return, and they’ll raise eaglets.
After pulling out a pair of binoculars, I scan the valley below and the air space above the ridge on the other side, hoping to spot Betty. After a few minutes, I get lucky and spot her perched high up on a bare tree branch, calmly surveying her territory. My shoulders loosen in relief when I see that she’s fine. She’s a popular lady in these parts.
A rustling sound to my right alerts me to the fact that I’m not the only hiker up here. I turn to spot a man dressed in all black, a black knit cap covering most of his ash-blond hair, and a pair of fancy binoculars hanging around his neck. He’s a good-looking guy, probably in his mid-thirties, with hazel eyes and two gold hoops piercing his right eyebrow. He’s got large black plugs in his earlobes. I don’t recognize him, though. What sends my pulse racing is the high-powered rifle slung over his shoulder. That rifle’s not designed for defense; it’s a sniper’s weapon. There’s no use for it up here on a public trail. Not unless you’re interested in shooting something at a far distance.
The guy makes eye contact with me but says nothing.
I glance back across the ridge at Betty, who takes flight.
“See anything interesting?” I ask him, hoping to draw him out and get an idea of what he’s doing up here.
He shrugs. “Not really.”
I nod toward his binoculars. “Are you a birdwatcher?”
This guy doesn’t look like a birdwatcher, or even a hiker for that matter. His attire resembles tactical gear more than hiking clothes. I notice the dark aviator shades that hang from his neckline. They’re certainly not necessary here under the dense canopy of trees. His boots are military grade, and he has a utility belt secured around his hips. Something about him sets my teeth on edge. This isn’t a birdwatcher or a naturalist. This guy has an agenda.
I glance around, looking to see what else he has brought with him, and find a duffle bag made of camouflaged material sitting on the ground not far from where we’re standing. He’s been up here a while.
I glance up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Looks like snow,” I observe casually, trying to draw him out. Maybe I’m being paranoid and reading too much into this. I’m inclined to see poachers everywhere I go these days.
Still, he says nothing, which only raises my concerns.
“You look familiar,” I tell him. It’s not true, but I’m still trying to suss him out. “Do you live around here? Maybe I’ve seen you in town before, at Ruth’s Tavern or the grocery store.”
“You sure ask a lot of questions,” he says, finally turning to face me. “No, I’m not from around here.”
There it is—an outright lie. The SUV—the only vehicle besides mine in the parking lot—has Larimer County plates, which means it’s local. And it’s not a rental. The SUV must be his.
His gaze sweeps me from head to toe as he tries to size me up, and I feel a chill creep down my spine.
Suddenly, he points to a spot on the other side of the valley. “There she is.”
Out of reflex, I look to where he’s pointing, but I see nothing.
The next thing I know, I hear a second set of boots crunching the leaves on the ground behind me. Before I can turn to look, something hard is pressed against the back of my skull. “Don’t move.”
He’s not alone.
The guy beside me, the blond with the piercings, turns to look at the person standing behind me. “She asks too many questions.”
“Indeed she does,” comes the reply. “I’d put my money on law enforcement.”
“That’s too bad,” says the blond as he frisks me. He removes the knife sheathed on my belt first, and then he confiscates the handgun in my ankle holster. He tucks my gun into the waistband of his black jeans and tosses my knife over the edge of the cliff we’re standing at.
I can hear the sound of my own blood rushing through my skull. “I’m not law enforcement.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I’m just a hiker.”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” says the man behind me. “I don’t believe you.”
I glance behind me at the man towering over me. Black hair, dark eyes, and a jagged scar that stretches from his right cheekbone down to his upper lip.
He’ll be easy to identify in a police lineup.
And then—
Crack!
Pain explodes in my skull, and everything goes black.
