River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (11 page)

21

SALMON, IDAHO. OCTOBER 21.

11:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

“We really can't have a fire?” It was almost midnight. The flanks of Mount Phelan were covered in snow again. The air was cold but still.

Jake had just fallen sleep. He sighed. “No fire. Go to sleep.”

“You don't have any whiskey?” J.P. sounded like a child asking for candy.

“Didn't make the list of necessities.”

“I can't fall asleep without a little drink.”

“Now's a good time to learn.”

Jake and J.P. had summited Phelan at 9 p.m. and confirmed that the hunting camp was occupied. No doubt about it. To J.P.'s dismay, Jake had insisted they wait until morning to make their move. There was no sense in wandering into a potentially volatile situation blind. From a few hundred yards out, all they could see
was the smoke and an occasional shadow moving through the main cabin.

They camped a half mile away. A bright waxing crescent moon intermittently shone through snow clouds, giving an eerie feel to the forest. Two saw-whet owls beckoned back and forth.

J.P. wasn't the only one trying to keep his mind from reeling. Jake had plenty to think about too—most pressing, what was the plan for daybreak? He was still holding out hope that if Esma was in the cabin, there was a reasonable explanation. Clearing her head with some friends, whatever. In that case, a knock on the door was all that was necessary.

He wouldn't go in guns blazing; that much was obvious. Approach from downwind—whoever was in the cabin could have dogs. This was something he'd overlooked on an assignment before, and it cost him his target.

More brainstorming:
Be careful not
to reveal your intentions too early, in case Esma ha
s been taken by hostiles.

The lost hunter was his best bet. Play it dumb:
Howdy! Is So-and-So
here?
Any name but Esma. Get a feel for the situation. Of course, there was still the chance that she wasn't there at all. The only thing they knew was that Esma's phone had transmitted in the area. And this call—from the River of No Return—was the
only
trace of her in the last several days. Stolen phone, just passing through—there were plenty of possibilities.

Jake flipped over in his sleeping bag, finding the new position equally uncomfortable. Another saw-whet call, like a boiling teapot. The tranquility of the woods was a burden, allowing too much space for thought.

He rolled onto his back again and closed his eyes. J.P. was snoring. So much for the whiskey rule. He couldn't get over the
name of the mountain.
Phelan. Why does it sound familiar?
It wasn't coming together. His legs were restless, stiff and sore from ­walking. He did the best he could to clear his mind and find sleep.

* * *

Jake woke up before dawn. His arm was numb from sleeping on it. He let J.P. sleep a few extra minutes while he prepared coffee and oatmeal. Another two inches of snow had fallen. He changed socks; his had become sweaty from the down bag. He packed his pad and sleeping bag into their sacks. Then he loaded the Mariner, making sure there was a round in the chamber. The laser sight cut through his foggy breath on its way to an Aspen trunk forty yards out. He put his finger on the trigger, took a deep breath and held it. Just as he was trained. “Bang,”
he whispered. He exhaled, turned off the sight, and stuffed the Glock into its holster.

J.P. woke up on his own, to Jake's surprise. Without saying a word, he quickly broke down his tent and packed away his sleeping gear. When he was ready, he walked over to Jake and poured himself some coffee.

“Oatmeal?” Jake asked.

He shook his head. “Nervous stomach. How you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Confident?”

“Confidence is arrogance. I'm hopeful.” Jake was scarfing down some oatmeal, still wearing his headlamp, which he'd turned to its dull-red setting so the light wouldn't carry.

“What's the plan?” J.P. poured himself more coffee.

“Just go observe for a few minutes. If we don't see anything suspicious, I'll approach the camp and see what's what.”

“And me?”

“I have experience with this sort of thing. I'd rather you hang back.”

J.P. seemed disappointed but didn't protest.

The hike to the perimeter of the camp took twenty minutes. They sat on a snow-covered tree trunk a hundred yards away. Jake held his index finger to his lips to remind J.P. to stay silent. J.P. responded with a series of hand gestures, mimicking a Hollywood FBI agent. In any other circumstance, Jake would've laughed.

After fifteen minutes, there was still no sign of life at the cabin but for the thick, lazy smoke of a dying fire. The sun was struggling to shine through the spotty snow clouds.

Jake gestured for his friend to come close. “I'm gonna go in.”

J.P. nodded.

On his way to the front door, Jake took some deep breaths and rolled his neck, trying to settle his nerves. It was a fine line—he didn't want adrenaline to overpower his common sense, but he had to be on edge enough to react quickly if things went south. He made sure the Glock was covered by his pullover before approaching.

The cabin was old and dilapidated, not unusual for a hunting camp. It being so isolated, there was no easy way to bring in materials for a renovation. Jake first looked in the front windows. The woodstove was barely glowing—it hadn't been fed since the night before. A few rifles and a shotgun lay on the kitchen counter. He expected as much, but it still concerned him.

The back windows, presumably bedrooms, were covered with burlap curtains. He continued around the property. An awning extending from one side, walled in with hanging tarpaulins. Jake heard something inside.
Shit.
His heart began to race.
Not good. Relax.
He stayed still for a moment and listened. The noise continued.

Jake spoke quietly so as not to wake anyone inside. “Hello? Who's there?” Silence for a moment, then the noise resumed. He pulled his fleece up over his holster for easy access.

“Hello?”

There was no response. He approached an opening in the tarp, took one more breath and entered.

A loud fracas. Rushing air. Jake's hand went instinctively to the gun. Three or four magpies flushed past him and out the opening.
Jesus.

Jake looked around—hanging from meat hooks were four cow moose, an illegal take in this area. The men in the cabin were at least poachers, if not much, much worse.

Looking around for any trace of Esma under the awning, Jake found nothing but a few hunting knives and a bone saw. There was an open screen door between the tarped-in area and the cabin. It creaked in the soft wind.

Jake hustled back out before he was heard or seen. Poachers were nothing to shrug at—they could be dangerous and defensive, and there was no doubt they were armed.

As he walked around the last corner of the structure to get back to the front door, he saw J.P. at the tree line, frantically waving his arms. Jake started to jog back toward his friend to see what was the matter.

“Stop right there, motherfucker.”

Jake stopped, put his hands up in surrender and started to turn to face his adversary.

“I didn't say turn around!”

Jake glanced over his shoulder.

“Eyes straight ahead, asshole!”

Jake had seen what he suspected. A hunting rifle, likely a 30-06,
was aimed squarely between his shoulder blades. The man was thin and weathered.

“The fuck do you want?”

“We got lost.” Jake's hands were still up. Soon they would start trembling from the strain. “Looking for a buddy's camp.”

“Don't look like hunters! Hey, stay back!” the man warned J.P., who had moved forward from the woods.

“We're not from around here.”

“No shit. Did you go around back?”

“I was just looking for the silver ATV our friend rides.”

“Find it?” The man laughed.

“No.”

“So I guess I'm not your buddy, huh?”

Jake shook his head.
What the hell
is his problem?
“Look, we're obviously at the wrong . . .”

“Jake! Listen!” J.P. pointed to the sky. Jake heard the back end of it: the unmistakable scream of a woman.

“The hell was that?” the hunter growled.

“We have to go.”

“If someone's in trouble, I'm going with you.”

Jake turned and looked him over for a moment. Thought about the poached moose in the back. Then decided extra firepower wouldn't hurt. “Bring your rifle.”

The stranger nodded.

The scream had come from the south, at least as far as they knew. It was difficult to figure such things in varying terrain.

“This way!” J.P. had run toward Jake and the stranger, and kept running. “It sounded close.”

“There's another camp just a half mile away, overlooking the
river.” The stranger checked his hunting jacket for shells. “Should do.” He had about a dozen. He looked at Jake. “You're not lost, are you?” It wasn't a question.

J.P. turned back to them, now jogging backward. “Wait, shouldn't I get a gun from the cabin?”

“No,” Jake and the stranger said simultaneously. His name was Allen, and it turned out he was no hunter.

“Biologist, actually. Wildlife. They send me up here to collect poached animals so we can use them as evidence. This is a no-hunt zone, but there's a crew taking twenty or so animals a year from this area.” The intimidating tone had vanished. “So many damn poachers in these hills, I never trust anyone. Sorry.”

Jake waved off his apology. “Are you trained in law enforcement with Game and Fish?”

“Once upon a time. Haven't fired a weapon in five years. Used to be pretty good.”

“We might be dealing with one or several hostiles. Possibly kidnappers. We don't know.”

Allen looked confused but didn't ask. “Up here.” He was now leading Jake and J.P. “Okay, through this last stand of pines, then there's the camp.”

Jake and Allen went through first, then waved J.P. up. For a few seconds, there was silence. Then, another bloodcurdling scream. And a scuffle.

From behind a shed, two men were dragging a woman to an old F-150. She wasn't going easily. She flailed and screamed.

“Esma!” J.P. said it too loudly.

“Shhhh.” Jake glared at J.P., but the men didn't notice them. “Are you sure it's her?” he whispered.

“Pretty sure.”

Allen piped up. “Either way, we're going in. There's a bit of a rise there we can use for cover.”

They had her in the truck now. The dull knocks of her kicks against the rear windshield were barely audible. The two men were getting in the front seat.

“We gotta go,
now
!
No time for cover.”
Jake pulled the Mariner, but held it at his side as the trio jogged toward the truck.

Brrrrrrrrmmmm.
The engine came alive. Jake was in the lead, only a hundred yards away and running at a sprint now. Behind him was Allen, rifle slung over his right shoulder. Then finally J.P.

The transmission creaked as the driver put it in gear. Slowly, the truck started pulling away from the cabin.

Fifty yards. While still running hard, Jake took aim with the handgun. It was too dangerous; he couldn't guarantee a shot to the tire from this distance.

The truck accelerated.

“Stop!” Jake yelled in desperation. The men didn't hear him.

Jake stopped running when he got to the cabin. The truck was two-fifty out, at least.

Allen leveled his rifle.

“Can you make it?”

Allen stayed silent, focusing. He waited till the truck started to round a left bend in the road so he had a broadside shot at the tire. Then he took his breath. Jake watched him remain perfectly still and pull the trigger deliberately. The noise was deafening. Allen absorbed the recoil like a pro.

“Get him?” J.P. had caught up.

Allen lowered the rifle and shook his head.

“I don't know.”

22

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA. OCTOBER 22.

9:20 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

Divya came into her office twenty minutes late.

Her assistant looked up. “Everything okay?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Need a coffee?”

“Haven't touched my first one.” She held up a Starbucks grande cup and pulled open the green glass door to her office.

She sighed at the pile of untouched cases on her desk. It was going to be a long day. An endless string of trivial matters. Divya's priority was still the GPSN case, which was starting to come together. The evidence had established a relationship between Xiao and Canart. Whether it was totally hostile or somewhat cooperative wasn't clear, but Divya leaned toward the former, based on the Terrells' abduction.

Her third-story office windows overlooked a manicured lawn.
She looked out briefly before settling into her chair. While her laptop was booting up, she tapped a Mont Blanc nervously on the desk, then checked her BlackBerry. Nothing urgent.

Scrolling through her contacts, she stopped on Jake Trent. She hesitated, then pushed send. The call went straight to voice mail.
Damm
it.
Divya hung up. There was no way to explain her behavior with a message. Even a phone call was a stretch. She wished she could clarify things face-to-face. She still respected him. Cared for him. Maybe even loved him.

He'd been the same old Jake when he was in DC, and to her that was an incredible thing.

What have I become?

She needed time away. A break. The pressure and deception were getting to her.

She called a cab, not wanting to take the bus as usual.

“Yes, please. As soon as possible.”

A pause. “Yes, at Langley. Thank you.”

Divya walked out. “Maria, I'm feeling under the weather. I'll see you tomorrow.” She smiled weakly.