from his eyes he took careful stock of the aftermath. Moment by moment, body by body, as he checked on the others, the toll emerged: Cox, Leclair, Banner, Phife and Johnston.
They were all dead.
Garrett pulsated with shock.
Steadying himself against a tree – where’s his prisoner? -- Garrett seized on the metallic glint of cuffs, chains, leg irons and tracks in damp earth, leading into the forest, until it became clear there was a second survivor.
Yacine had escaped.
Reaching deep inside, clawing for whatever he had left, Garrett did what he was trained to do.
He pursued his prisoner.
For Yacine, the pine-scented mountain air was almost as sweet as freedom. Moving fast over the rugged high country, he embraced the whip crack of needled branches against his pale skin.
Anything was better than his cage in Saskatchewan.
But he had to stop. Again. Disciplined bodybuilding did not make him a long-distance runner.
He doubled over, gulping air and thinking. His sources on the outside had tipped him to what the patriots in the U.S. justice system had planned for him in Seattle, with their special witness, who was going to make some kind of deathbed ID.
Yacine laughed at his luck.
In just a few days, there would be nothing connecting him to any of his contract work in Seattle, or D.C., or London, or Madrid, or Athens, or anywhere else.
They thought they had this old boy nailed.
They thought wrong.
Yacine was strong and the strong survived.
He caught his breath at a clearing that offered a sweeping view. He scanned it calculating that all he needed was to get to that road, get into a vehicle, and he was gone.
He saw patches of highway beyond the next ridge and grinned.
He was almost there.
Nancy Dawson set her suitcase in the passenger seat of her SUV, closed the door and got behind the wheel. She went through a mental checklist as she rolled along Little Timber Road to the highway and Seattle where her son was dying.
No he’s not! Don’t say that. Concentrate. Focus on the checklist .
She’d already taken Tipper to AJ’s kennel, locked the house, and asked Leo, her neighbor, a retired firefighter, to watch over her place.
“I’ll say a prayer for Craig, Nance.”
On the highway, Nancy noticed her fuel gauge rested on “E” and wheeled into Grizzly’s gas station. As she filled her tank, she looked up at a helicopter thumping by, wishing she could use it to fly to Seattle.
Wishing for a miracle.
Garrett drew on all he’d learned from survival and tracking courses he’d taken near Yellowknife. As his blood warmed, he pushed himself harder, gaining speed.
He came to a clearing and studied the panoramic view, fixing on slivers of a highway in the distance. A few hundred yards off, he noticed a tiny burst of black near the sway of bush.
A bear?
Garrett locked on to the spot and saw another streak of black then a tiny flash of pale white.
A face. That’s him.
Garrett was close.
For Nancy Dawson, Seattle was some three hours away, but Craig was in her heart.
As her SUV threaded through the mountains, she bargained with God.
“Please don’t take him. Eileen and the kids need him. I need him.”
Hadn’t Nancy’s small family endured their share of hardship?
Chet, her husband was killed ten years ago while changing a flat on his pickup near Coulee City. A Freightliner hauling logs hit a deer and lost its load. Chet never had a chance.
Craig took it so hard.
Then five years ago, nine people were shot dead during a robbery of the Seattle bank where Craig was a junior manager.
He saw the whole thing.
They never caught the killers.
For over a year afterward, Craig struggled with the post-traumatic stress and during that time he was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease. Gradually, the severity of the disease increased and now, despite
They were all dead.
Garrett pulsated with shock.
Steadying himself against a tree – where’s his prisoner? -- Garrett seized on the metallic glint of cuffs, chains, leg irons and tracks in damp earth, leading into the forest, until it became clear there was a second survivor.
Yacine had escaped.
Reaching deep inside, clawing for whatever he had left, Garrett did what he was trained to do.
He pursued his prisoner.
For Yacine, the pine-scented mountain air was almost as sweet as freedom. Moving fast over the rugged high country, he embraced the whip crack of needled branches against his pale skin.
Anything was better than his cage in Saskatchewan.
But he had to stop. Again. Disciplined bodybuilding did not make him a long-distance runner.
He doubled over, gulping air and thinking. His sources on the outside had tipped him to what the patriots in the U.S. justice system had planned for him in Seattle, with their special witness, who was going to make some kind of deathbed ID.
Yacine laughed at his luck.
In just a few days, there would be nothing connecting him to any of his contract work in Seattle, or D.C., or London, or Madrid, or Athens, or anywhere else.
They thought they had this old boy nailed.
They thought wrong.
Yacine was strong and the strong survived.
He caught his breath at a clearing that offered a sweeping view. He scanned it calculating that all he needed was to get to that road, get into a vehicle, and he was gone.
He saw patches of highway beyond the next ridge and grinned.
He was almost there.
Nancy Dawson set her suitcase in the passenger seat of her SUV, closed the door and got behind the wheel. She went through a mental checklist as she rolled along Little Timber Road to the highway and Seattle where her son was dying.
No he’s not! Don’t say that. Concentrate. Focus on the checklist .
She’d already taken Tipper to AJ’s kennel, locked the house, and asked Leo, her neighbor, a retired firefighter, to watch over her place.
“I’ll say a prayer for Craig, Nance.”
On the highway, Nancy noticed her fuel gauge rested on “E” and wheeled into Grizzly’s gas station. As she filled her tank, she looked up at a helicopter thumping by, wishing she could use it to fly to Seattle.
Wishing for a miracle.
Garrett drew on all he’d learned from survival and tracking courses he’d taken near Yellowknife. As his blood warmed, he pushed himself harder, gaining speed.
He came to a clearing and studied the panoramic view, fixing on slivers of a highway in the distance. A few hundred yards off, he noticed a tiny burst of black near the sway of bush.
A bear?
Garrett locked on to the spot and saw another streak of black then a tiny flash of pale white.
A face. That’s him.
Garrett was close.
For Nancy Dawson, Seattle was some three hours away, but Craig was in her heart.
As her SUV threaded through the mountains, she bargained with God.
“Please don’t take him. Eileen and the kids need him. I need him.”
Hadn’t Nancy’s small family endured their share of hardship?
Chet, her husband was killed ten years ago while changing a flat on his pickup near Coulee City. A Freightliner hauling logs hit a deer and lost its load. Chet never had a chance.
Craig took it so hard.
Then five years ago, nine people were shot dead during a robbery of the Seattle bank where Craig was a junior manager.
He saw the whole thing.
They never caught the killers.
For over a year afterward, Craig struggled with the post-traumatic stress and during that time he was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease. Gradually, the severity of the disease increased and now, despite
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