Search and Rescue by April Wilson
Chapter 3
Hannah McIntyre
When I come to, I’m seated on the cold hard ground, propped against a tree. Dampness seeps through my cargo pants, chilling me to the bone. My arms are stretched behind me, my wrists secured with something hard and unforgiving—a zip tie, I suspect. I feel warm blood trickling down my right temple, where Scarface must have struck me with the butt of his gun.
It’s my own damn fault for letting them get the drop on me. I was so focused on the guy beside me that I didn’t hear the second man coming up from behind. I want to kick myself for being an idiot. I should never have engaged them at all. As soon as I spotted the first guy, I should have high-tailed it out of there and reported him to the sheriff.
My head throbs like a bitch, the pain so excruciating I’m afraid I might lose the meager contents of my stomach.
When I scan the area, I find the first guy—the blond—digging through my pack. He pulls out my satellite phone and slams it into a nearby tree trunk, shattering the plastic case. He tosses what’s left of it into the woods. The second guy—Scarface, the one who knocked me out—paces in front of me. He’s holding a Glock. I watch him pop out the magazine to count the rounds, then slam it back in before tucking it into the waistband of his pants.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
When I try to move my head, a burst of pain explodes in my skull, setting off more fireworks behind my eyes.
“We need to move,” Scarface says to his buddy. “Now.”
The blond nods as he adjusts his knit cap. “We have to deal with her first. She’s seen our faces.”
“Let’s handle it here,” his companion says.
The first guy shakes his head. “It’s too public. Someone could come along.”
They step farther away from me to confer in low voices, but I don’t need to hear what they’re saying to know they’re discussing what the hell they’re going to do with me. At this point, I have no doubt they’re poachers. At the very least, they’re up to no good and are afraid that I can identify them.
Poaching has been on the rise in the Rockies for some time now. Illegally sourced bald eagle feathers are a big part of it. I have no doubt these guys came up here looking for Betty. Her feathers would be worth a fortune.
Finally, they walk back my way, pointing their rifles directly at me. Their faces are still uncovered, which doesn’t bode well for me. Two Caucasian men, both mid-thirties, average height and weight. One with an obvious scar on his face, the other with numerous piercings. I can identify them both, and they know it. And yet they don’t seem overly concerned about that fact.
My stomach drops like a rock.
Scarface seems to be the one in charge. He steps forward, just a foot from me, and gazes down at me. The other guy holds back, tense and on high alert. We’re on a public trail, and it wouldn’t be out of the question for hikers to come up this way, especially birders hoping to spot Betty.
“This is unfortunate,” Scarface says as he gently nudges my boot with his. “You should have minded your own business, sweetheart.”
I grimace. “Don’t patronize me, asshole.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be telling me what to do.”
“Just shoot her and be done with it,” the other guy snaps. “We can toss her body over the cliff. It’ll take ages for anyone to find her, if they ever do.” He gazes up at an increasingly dark sky. “Come on, man. We need to get out of here. The storm’s gonna hit soon, and I don’t want to get stranded up here.”
He’s right about that. The storm is rolling in much faster than expected. The forecast is for at least two feet of snow overnight and a drop in temperature of fifty degrees. That’s not unheard of this time of year. Mountain weather is unpredictable. Temperatures can swing wildly from one hour to the next.
“Just do it, man,” the blond says as he gathers up his duffle bag and my pack.
Scarface glances around as if surveying the options. “I told you, not here. It’s too public. We’ll have to take her somewhere more remote.”
I can’t believe how casually they’re discussing my fate, as if they have no empathy for another living being and no fear of getting caught.
The blond nods toward me as he says, “Fine. Cut her loose, and let’s hike back to the vehicle.”
As he unsheathes a wicked hunting knife, Scarface walks behind me and cuts the zip tie, freeing my wrists, which have grown cold and numb. As I try moving my arms, pain from lack of circulation shoots through me. My wrists are rubbed raw.
“I’m not carrying her pack,” the first guy says as he slips it onto my back. “She can carry it herself.”
Scarface starts walking back down the trail. “Let’s go.”
I stumble over the uneven terrain, my mind racing as I consider my options. One thing I’m sure of—there’s no way in hell I’m walking off this trail with these guys. I know the score.
Never get in their vehicle. Once you do, you’re done for.
My only option is to make a run for it.
The snow has started falling already, quite heavily, and that turns out to be a blessing in disguise for me. The sky has grown overcast thanks to a heavy, dark covering of clouds, and with the arrival of heavy snowfall, visibility quickly deteriorates. After half an hour of walking, we can hardly see ten feet in front of us. Scarface, who’s in the lead, is already out of sight.
If I can make a run for it, I might be able to avoid detection long enough to find help.
I glance back at the guy behind me, who’s carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder. At least it’s not pointed at me. That will buy me a couple of precious seconds. I didn’t study kickboxing with my youngest brother, Liam, for ten years for nothing.
Feigning a stumble, I get into position. Then I throw a heel hook kick into the loser behind me, knocking him off balance as the sole of my boot clips his jaw hard enough to break it. I hear a very satisfying thunk just before he goes down hard. And then I run like hell at a perpendicular angle to the trail, hoping to lose them in the densely packed woods that border the trail.
The loser behind me yells to his friend, but his voice is partially muffled by the wind whipping through the trees. I glance back and see he’s still struggling to get to his feet.
I can barely make out what they’re saying.
“What the fuck happened?” yells Scarface. “Where’d she go?”
“She kicked me, the damn bitch! I told you, we should have taken care of her up on that ridge.”
“Which way did she go?” Scarface asks.
“That way, into the woods.”
I run as hard and fast as I can as their voices quickly trail off to nothing. Visibility is growing increasingly worse as the snow comes down hard. Shit, I’m not dressed for this kind of weather, but now’s not the time to worry about that. Branches whip at my body, tearing my jacket sleeves and scratching my face.
I can hear them crashing through the brush as they chase me, yelling to each other. They’re gaining ground, and they’re not even trying to be stealthy about it.
A gunshot cracks loudly in the cold air, making my ears ring. That was way too close, so I veer to the right—away from the sound of shouting—and keep running.
But still, they’re gaining on me. It’s hard to run through the thick underbrush. I feel like I’m slogging through quicksand. My backpack keeps catching on tree branches and shrubs, slowing me down even more, but I don’t dare ditch it as there are supplies in there that I might need.
Another shot rings out, and the round strikes the bark of a tree not a foot from me, sending a piece of wood ricocheting into my right cheek. I feel the sting as the shard cuts into my face, followed by the warmth of blood streaming down my cheek.
Just as a third shot rings out, fire scorches my upper right arm. I glance down to see a jagged tear in my jacket sleeve and blood welling up from a gash. That bastard shot me! It’s only a graze, but still it burns like hell. I bite my tongue hard, tasting blood, in an effort not to cry out. I don’t want them to know they’ve scored a hit, and I certainly don’t want to reveal my position. If they catch me now, they’ll kill me on the spot.
My arm burns like it’s on fire, and pain radiates up to my shoulder and neck. The pain is excruciating, but I keep running. I change direction, turning ninety degrees, and hope to lose them in the trees. I run as hard as I can, even though my sides are cramping and my lungs are burning. I can’t risk slowing down. I move in a random pattern, changing direction frequently in an effort to lose them.
Another shot rings out, the sound echoing through the trees.
“Over there!” one of them yells. “I see her.”
My heart thunders as I push myself, my boots slipping on the accumulating snow, which is now starting to reach through the heavy tree canopy above to the ground. I glance down at the splatters of blood staining the newly fallen snow, leaving an easy trail for them to follow.
That’s just fucking great!
I continue to run, half-blinded by the falling snow. Without warning, the ground beneath me gives way, and I drop like a stone, sliding and scraping down a wall of dirt, rocks, and roots. It’s an uncontrolled free fall, and my limbs and head strike hard surfaces repeatedly as I fall into a deep ravine. Visibility is so bad that I can’t even see the ground below.
Without warning, I come to a jarring stop, and screaming pain shoots up my left leg. My foot is wedged between thick roots of a tree, and as I collapse forward, my palms slamming into rocks and dirt, my ankle is wrenched brutally. Gasping at the burning pain, I manage to free my boot and smother a scream as I hit the ground face hard.
I don’t have time to worry about injuries because they’re up there at the edge of the ravine, both of them. I can hear them griping at each other. I roll to my back and try to get up, but my left ankle folds under me, and I hit the ground again with an involuntary scream. Shots ring out as the two men fire blindly into the ravine, hoping to score a hit. All I can do now is crawl beneath the shelter of a large tree rooted into the wall of the ravine, hoping to find protection from their bullets.
As hot tears stream down my icy cheeks, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the pain and the cold. Already the temperature has dropped at least fifteen degrees. And it will get much colder before night sets in.
Shaking, I remain frozen to the spot and listen to them yelling as they blame each other for my escape.
A few minutes later, their argument is drowned out by the deafening sound of shots starting up again. They fire haphazardly into the ravine, in spite of the risk that they’re drawing attention to themselves.
I crawl a few feet away, dragging my useless foot behind me, until I find better shelter beneath an overhang created by a gnarly tangle of tree roots. I plaster myself against the ravine wall, pressing into the cold, damp earth to make myself as small a target as possible.
I lose all track of time as they move back and forth along the top edge of the ravine as they search for me. Occasionally, one of them fires into the ravine, the shot a loud crack in the frigid air. With bad weather rolling in, there won’t be any hikers up here to spoil their hunt.
I need to lie low and out of sight long enough for them to get tired of looking and head back down the trail. Once they’re gone, I’ll see about climbing out of this ravine, or maybe hiking down to the trailhead. But with the way my left ankle is throbbing painfully, the chances of me getting myself out of this anytime soon aren’t good.
As the cold seeps into my thin jacket, my mind wanders. Two thoughts are clear. One, I’m not going to make it to Maggie’s for dinner tonight. And two, I hope she realizes I’m missing and takes care of Scout for me. Surely she will. When I don’t show up for dinner, she’ll call me, and when I don’t answer my phone—there’s no way I can get a signal in this ravine—she’ll come looking for me. And she’s not going to find me. Not tonight. Not in this weather.
* * *
I have no idea how long I’ve been hiding. Darkness falls, and the temperature continues to drop, along with inch after inch of fresh snow. The poachers bring out high-powered flashlights and sweep the ravine floor as they search. I can hear them still bickering with each other, although their words are muffled by the howling winds.
How long are they going to keep this up? Probably as long as it takes for them to accomplish their objective. They want me dead because I can identify them to the authorities.
Poor Ray. My boss is going to be beside himself when he finds out what’s happened.
It becomes clear pretty soon that I’m vastly underdressed for the weather that’s rolling in. Snow is accumulating on the floor of the ravine, and I estimate it to be close to a foot already, in just a matter of hours. Who knows how deep it will be by morning?
I’m chilled to the bone, my muscles shivering despite my long-sleeved shirt and insulated jacket. My bare hands are numb from the cold. I search my jacket pocket for my gloves, but they’re long gone. Those assholes must have removed them when they secured my wrists with the zip tie. All I can do is wrap my arms tightly around me and tuck my hands under my arms for warmth.
In the waning light, I shrug off my backpack and dig around inside it as I search for food and water, and anything else useful. I find a small thermal blanket, a pocket-sized flashlight, and a can of bear spray. I don’t dare turn on the flashlight in case the poachers see the light, and if I find myself in need of bear spray down here, I’m in far worse trouble than I ever imagined possible.
Because my water bottle is stainless steel, it fortunately survived the fall. The protein bars are smashed, but they’re still edible. I fish a folded pocketknife out of my pack and tuck it into my jacket pocket, just to have it handy in case of an emergency. I know full well there are plenty of predators wandering these forests.
I unscrew the cap off my water bottle and immediately guzzle a third of it. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until that cold water hit my tongue. Then I rip open a chocolate protein bar and devour it.
I can still hear them up above the ravine, their muffled voices carrying on the wind. I have no choice but to wait them out. The way the snow is falling, wet and heavy, and as the temps continue to drop, I figure they’ll get tired eventually and move on. At least I hope so.
I try to move my left ankle, but the joint isn’t cooperating, and the pain is unbelievable. I can’t tell if it’s broken or just badly sprained, but either way, I know it’s not going to hold my weight. I can’t even rotate my ankle without wanting to scream.
I settle back against the ravine wall and pull my knit hat down as low as it will go, managing to cover my ears and forehead. Then I hunker down beneath the thermal blanket I pulled from my pack and try to conserve as much heat and energy as I can.
When darkness falls, the only sound I hear is the wind whistling through the ravine… no more human voices. Either they’ve moved on or they’re more patient than I gave them credit for and are waiting me out.
But I can be patient, too. Unless they rappel down into this ravine—which I doubt they’ll try in this weather—I’m safe for the night. Unless the cold gets me first.
Try as I might, I can’t sleep—my nerves are too raw. Instead, I worry about Scout. It’s well past six now, and Maggie already knows I didn’t make it to dinner. Hopefully they’ll come to my cabin and check on him. Maggie has a key. She’ll take care of Scout. She’s one of the most reliable people I know.
She won’t give up looking for me. Once she realizes something must have happened, she’ll call the sheriff’s office as well as my brother Shane. She has his contact information for just such an emergency.
And when Shane knows I’m missing, he’ll send in the cavalry. Security—taking care of people—is what he does. It’s not just his job, it’s his calling in life.
Maybe he’ll send Killian, who’s an expert at tracking in the wilderness.
Just thinking about Killian sends a pang of longing and regret through me. I’d give anything to have him here with me right now. The man’s a force of nature. He wouldn’t let a freak mountain snowstorm or poachers stand in his way.
Shivering uncontrollably from the cold, I close my eyes and picture Killian as he looked just a few days ago at my brother’s estate. Like the rest of us, he’d come to celebrate little Ava’s birth.
I can still picture how he looked in the airport, standing head and shoulders above the crowd. My heart nearly stopped beating when I saw him waiting for me in the arrivals lounge. I don’t think I’ve ever known such a good-looking guy—broad shoulders and chest, huge biceps, tattooed arms, dark hair and eyes, and a trim dark beard. His smile makes me weak in the knees, and that Cajun accent of his, which he slips in and out of, according to his mood—damn. It makes me melt.
But unfortunately, he lives in Chicago—where he works for my brother’s security company—and I live here in a remote section of the Rockies, far from bustling cities and towns. I don’t do cities, so it would never work out between us. That’s why I shut him down every time he tries to make an overture, even though it kills me to brush him off.
I close my eyes and try to ignore my pounding headache. My ankle is throbbing, and my wrists sting from where the zip ties cut into my skin. Whoever invented zip ties should be shot. They are nasty, wicked devices of torture.
On top of the sound of howling wind comes a different kind of howl—the forlorn cry of a wolf. His plaintive cry is soon followed by a chorus of howls. In an odd way, hearing their cries gives me comfort. I know I’m not alone out here in the cold and snow. My friend Ruth would tell me it’s a good omen.
I settle beneath my blanket and hope that when morning comes—as long as I don’t freeze to death in the night—I’ll find a way out of this ravine.
Eventually, when I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, I lean my head back and succumb to the inevitable. I can only hope my predicament looks better in the morning.
