| |
Wolf cupped his watch face to prevent light from leaking. 11:05 p.m. Less than half an hour until Tom jumped ship and joined them.
So far the stakeout disappointed. A dozen milling men had arrived in dribs and drabs and seemed to lack any sense of purpose. Since Wolf had never seen Nick Monson, he glanced at Ray after each arrival. His cocked eyebrow always triggered the same response—a shake of the head that said no, not him.
His jaw tightened as he watched Tom saunter over to Dark Hair, the guy who’d chewed out Smitty the day before. He’d witnessed the hulking man’s short fuse, which seemed to be coupled with a measure of authority. Though Dark Hair didn’t look like he itched to draw the pistol on his hip, worry tugged at Wolf.
If only he could hear the conversations. Occasional expletives proved loud enough for clear reception. Nothing more. Time was running out. He snapped a few photos. Even if they didn’t identify Onward’s leaders, they’d help the Feds round up players and chip away at the hate group’s cell.
Ray nudged him and pointed his chin toward a swaggering newcomer. Deputy Nick Monson.
The man didn’t look evil. Except for his cock-of-the-walk strut, he looked, well, ordinary. Under six feet, muscular build, thinning brown hair streaked with gray. His tan, weathered face might have belonged to a middle-aged farmer. Wolf couldn’t see his eyes.
Monson wore civilian clothes—hunter’s camouflage. While the man had jettisoned his uniform and badge, he’d brought two guns to the party, an AR-15 semi-automatic and a 9mm pistol. Wolf held his breath as Nick walked toward Dark Hair and Tom.
Move off, Tom! Time to disappear.
Wolf shot photos of Monson, Dark Hair, and Tom in the iffy lighting. Through the lens, he watched his student turn to leave. Then the boy stumbled and his hand dipped into the pack at Monson’s feet. Dark Hair helped Tom recover his balance.
You idiot. What are you trying to pull? Get out of there.
Tom ambled away. Thank God. He tracked his graduate assistant’s progress while he continued to monitor Monson and Dark Hair. Deep in conversation, the men paid no attention to the kid’s departure.
Casual as you please, Tom sauntered to the edge of the woods. He playfully punched one of his new comrades in the arm. Hand gestures and laughter followed. Tom disappeared between two massive pines at a ninety-degree angle to their rendezvous site.
Smart. If anyone went after him, they’d start in the wrong direction.
Once the forest swallowed Tom, Wolf and Ray began their own withdrawal. They’d taken cover behind a moss-covered oak log with dead branches pulled over their heads to create a makeshift blind. As Wolf rose to a crouch, he retracted the surrounding twigs with silent precision.
Gaining his feet, he probed the forest floor with the balls of his feet before he committed to planting his boots. He held his breath. Sweat pooled under his armpits. A mosquito buzzed near his ear. His fine-tuned hearing made the pest sound like a Bell helicopter.
Not a single dry leaf crackled beneath his feet. Thank you, Jesus.
They’d agreed on a meeting spot about three hundred feet from the camp. As Wolf and his uncle crept toward it, they bent at the waist to shrink their profiles. They’d almost reached their destination when angry shouts erupted.
“Where’d that damned kid go? That blond boy in the gray T-shirt.”
What the hell? A man who was still in Wolf’s sightline yelled back. “Aw, calm down, Nick, he went to take a leak. I just passed him.”
As the talker zipped up, the deputy stormed into Wolf’s narrow field of vision. “Go after him. He’s a thief! Everyone, and I mean now!”
The Onward men rushed to obey the order. They made so much racket Wolf quit worrying about acoustic cover and ran flat out. Time to snatch Tom and boogie out.
Wolf knew their one-time contingency had become their primary plan. They had to lure the pursuers to Ray’s booby-trapped path and hope the unexpected hazards gelded any macho enthusiasm. If the traps slowed pursuers, the trio could gain separation, melt into the woods.
If the booby traps didn’t shake Onward from their tail, they’d employ guerilla tactics. A necessity given their inferior firepower.
Ray signaled Wolf. He’d spotted Tom. The young man crashed through the brush like a wounded buck, looking back over his shoulder to see how fast the devil was closing on him. Wolf snagged the terrified kid and clamped a hand tightly over his mouth. A holler would draw the bubbas faster than free tickets to a stock car race.
A ragged burst of gunfire echoed on the hillside. Wolf guesstimated the trigger-happy shooter was five hundred feet to his right. He’d probably flushed an animal and mistook it for human quarry.
He took his hand from Tom’s mouth. “What the hell did you do?”
“Palmed Nick’s cell phone.” Tom gulped air. He sounded proud. “Figured the Feds could check out who the deputy’s been calling.”
“Ah, crap,” Ray said. “We gotta move. Fast. We’re gonna turn on our headlamps. Don’t have one for you. Stay between us. Keep low. Here. Grab hold.”
Ray clamped Tom’s hand around a rope he’d attached to the flap of his backpack.
The men switched on their headlamps. The red wavelengths safeguarded their night vision while helping them spot obstacles. They moved in single file. Shouts and grunts sounded behind them. Someone—Nick?—screamed orders to organize the ragtag band.
We know the mountains. We’ll lose the beer guts. But maybe not Dark Hair or Nick.
Wolf’s headlamp picked up the first neon flag warning of a dangling fishhook ahead. Ray pocketed the flag before the trio veered off the trail. Would the Onward boys take the false trail and fall prey to their improvised landmines?
Thirty feet down the road, his uncle swung back onto the planned escape corridor, and Tom’s wheezes lessened. Then a scream echoed through the forest. The bleating cry seemed to vibrate the air.
Wolf sensed Tom’s fall even before his arms windmilled. He struggled to put on the brakes, stop his forward motion. He didn’t want to land on top of the kid.
Dammit. Wolf swerved sideways. The ground rushed up to meet him.