Last Track, The (34 page)

Coughing, he let his throat claim the water and swallowed. Laying on his side, he used his arm for a pillow and slept—a fitless rest. His mind drifted in and out of consciousness till dawn.

Six hours later, daylight lapped the alcove walls. He woke up, wheezing. Very little air made it to his lungs. He sat against the wall, and tried his usual tricks, but his heart throbbed faster. He could not control it.

A paralytic shock ripped through him.

His fingernails turned a dusky blue, matching his lips.

05:35:48 AM

Morning broke. Mike stood at the main entrance, facing the trees. The sounds and smells of a new day roused him. He almost felt human. Most of the standing water from the storm had dissipated, though rain still covered the lower-lying areas, and slicked the rocks.

Bleary-eyed, he swapped the laces in Dagget’s burnt boots with a few feet of sliced-off rope. The grommets were large and accommodated the thicker nylon strands, although a few eyelets on the shaft had to be widened with a knife. He also scraped some of the carbon off with the blade. “That’ll get you there,” Mike said. “More or less.”

Dagget was appreciative. Having a pair of boots, even scorched ones, beat walking barefoot over rocks. He tested them out over a few steps. Satisfied, he said, “Thanks.”

“Just be careful walking,” Mike said. “You could trip yourself.”

“Do you really think Sean made it miles more from here without being spotted?”

“With enough time, anything is possible,” Mike said. “He would have been very careful, and maybe walked through the night. I don’t think Sean traveled after dark, though. The tracks seem steadier than that.”

Dagget nodded. “When you checked the crime scene before we left, I watched you pretty closely. You kinda trance when you work. Anyway, you said something in the clearing to Lisbeth . . . ‘I found the second most important track.’ What does that mean?”

Mike said, “The first track. It’s my baseline. I build a picture of the subject in my mind—how he moves, what he feels, what he might do next—it all flows from the first track. At a scene, most of my up-front time is spent isolating that from any interference.”

“So what’s the most important one?” Dagget asked.

“The last track.”

05:50:52 AM

Drug raids had never been Lisbeth’s forte, and the plan for Sean’s rescue meant launching one. She enlisted the narcotics desk who supplied both technical expertise and weaponry. They lacked the budget for much personnel, but they had gear: M4 carbines capable of semiautomatic or three-round bursts, a dozen AR-15 clone rifles, a battering ram, and two large utility vehicles. Exercising a collaborative agreement between four local counties, she rallied a few more bodies, bringing the total head count to nine, including herself. There was not enough time to get the Montana State Highway Patrol involved, though they offered air support.

Gathering at 5 AM, they met inside the local office, dressed for the raid. Lisbeth and the narcotics investigator split the management duties, leaving six officers for the entrance and one for additional exits.

“Listen up,” Lisbeth said. The other officers gathered around her. “We’ve got intel on the target.” She spread the schematic across a whiteboard, tapping out their route. “Another agency will meet us near the scene for support. Our primary interest is a missing boy named Sean Jackson. You all have a picture of him. The support group’s interest is the other occupants at the facility. Anyone detained, they have first crack at questioning, so hold the collateral damage as close to zero as possible. Questions?”

There were none, so everyone piled into the utility vehicles with dark-tinted windows and rolled off as the sun rose over the mountains.

•••

Sean lost feeling in his hands and feet. This had more to do with the rocks pressed into his sciatic nerve than asthma. Electricity pulsed down his spine, the signals bound for his extremities that missed the proper receptors. He gasped, wheezed, desperate for one full breath.

Trembling, he accidentally rapped his head against the wall.

The color drained out of his face, leaving his cheeks ashen.

•••

Halfway into position, Lisbeth and her team waited for the promised support group. And they waited. A quarter past six, the grumblings started. The officers gathered around the utility vehicles, wanting directions.

“They’re late,” said one to Lisbeth.

Lisbeth checked the time on her cell phone. This was unexpected. She dialed her contact number, and got a busy signal.

“Now?” another asked Lisbeth.

Lisbeth surveyed the target—the entrance to the manufacturing facility—through high-powered binoculars. She missed it at first, even with proper bearings. Easily overlooked, it blended into the rocks. Actually, the entrance was
in
the mountain, perfectly concealed from overhead view. The entrance was large enough for a truck, though no vehicles were in sight.

A series of vents to the left of the entrance were the same color as the rocks. She only noticed the well-formed circles carved through the mountain because she knew of them from images faxed to her office. “Not a creature stirring,” Lisbeth said.

“Yeah, kinda spooky,” said a lanky cop.

•••

Trying to inhale, Sean gasped. Mucus tickled the back of his throat. He hacked fluid up reflexively. Bile seared his esophagus on the way out.

He thrashed his legs, trying to stir his feet back awake.

•••

Lisbeth held the binoculars, her eyes lost in the digital imagery. She scanned the areas of interest, diligent as she worked in manageable increments. Tilting an inch to the left or right through the specs translated into dozens of feet. She chanted in her mind, right one . . . steady one . . . look one . . . look two . . . steady one. She kept counting. She kept straining. She kept searching for signs of Sean. “Gimme something,” she practically begged the equipment. “Anything.”

The spotter mentioned he had the same issue—nothing to report. “Negative so far, Detective,” he said.

Lisbeth stopped. She started again, beginning with a crag further to the left of the entrance. She had not moved this wide before. An inlet of some sort. Within the inlet, a tiny movement. Might have been an animal.

She zoomed in tighter.

•••

To Sean, everything looked smaller, including his own body. Though his eyes were wide open, images assumed a foggy edge.

His chest constricted as if a massive weight balanced on his chest.

Panic took over, fueling the desperation. Before that morning, he had never believed he would die. Now that single thought overloaded his brain. Now the incredibly awful impossibility seemed so very possible. Only once had an attack been this severe, and it had ended with a 2 AM hospital visit. He still had nightmares about the syringe the doctor had used. The needle felt worse penetrating his leg than it looked, and it was the scariest needle he had ever seen.

The closest hospital was forty-five minutes away by car.

His eyes closed themselves.

•••

“Double-check something for me, please,” Lisbeth said to the spotter. She read out the coordinates. The spotter rattled them back and zeroed in on that point. “Do you see it?” Lisbeth asked.

The spotter nodded. “It could be human.”

“Is it moving?” asked Lisbeth.

“Maybe,” said the spotter.

Lisbeth thought through her options. The promised support was nowhere. She had only what resources she had—which were fewer than she needed. The risks of storming a meth laboratory, particularly an active facility, were numerous. For starters, the chemicals used in processing methamphetamine were hazardous. The manufacture of one pound of meth generated five to six pounds of toxic waste. The super lab inside the cave allegedly pumped out twenty pounds of product per day. Methamphetamine production endangered the public in general through distribution and consumption, and anyone who came in contact with the raw materials in particular. Its grip on users was near absolute.

Even low-level handlers risked addiction. A single dose could hook someone. For that reason, the officers strapped on black bio-hazard suits and oxygen tanks.

Withdrawal from a high-intensity addiction was a vicious beast, and rolled psychosis, anxiety, and depression into a forty-eight-hour nightmare. But that was only the beginning of the journey back to normalcy. A full physical recovery took two years, if an addict quit. Ninety-four percent of meth addicts did not. They could not.

And there was the security factor Lisbeth must consider. Operators rarely left a lab unguarded. The contents were too valuable to trust to the whim of strangers, or the predatory nature of competitors. Intelligence provided by Crotty indicated a permanent force of at least four, armed with fully automatic weapons. Nine against four. Lousy odds, and she didn’t like them.

Her team was all competent, seasoned officers, highly regarded men. Their main weakness—they were untested as a unit. Lisbeth patted the pocket where her cigarette pack was. Later, she promised herself, later she could smoke.

The one thought she kept stumbling over: she was no widow maker. She had never issued orders that led to a fellow officer’s death—a record she wanted intact. She checked her watch. Thirty minutes was enough delay.

“Hard to tell from this range,” said the spotter. “Maybe it’s Sean.”

“Are you sure?” Lisbeth asked.

“Not one hundred percent . . . the angle is bad,” he said, turning toward the entrance.

“We have to be certain,” said Lisbeth, deliberately.

A bit of metal glistened near the facility entrance, then disappeared. Lisbeth suspected they had been spotted. The sails of hesitation listed; they had to act before the situation acted upon them. There could be anything inside the facility, but if they waited too long they sacrificed the element of surprise. And that got people killed.

“All right. Holst, head for Sean, and keep him out of the way. The rest of you, this is it! Let’s go!”

•••

Sean’s eyes opened in small slits as he wheezed. He barely made a sound. He wanted to tell his mom he was sorry for storming out three days ago, and being so stubborn. This was all his fault. If only he had stayed closer to the ranch. If only he had been brave enough to stick to the road, and not wander through the trees because he was scared of the killer. Honestly, he had tried to make it back to the ranch. He really had.

Mom would worry, as mothers did. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for screwing up.

Even Dad, for all his hassles and tantrums, had fathered him the best he could.

Sean squinted, gasping.

The alcove slipped away . . .

•••

An explosion blasted red and yellow flames out of the entrance of the old production facility. The fireball spread up and out, scattering materials. Black smoke swirled. A shockwave slammed through the morning air. Debris and shrapnel battered the utility vehicles. The immediate area smelled like fertilizer and heavy metals. The sound was deafening.

Both vehicles braked hard, and the riders twisted and ducked, dodging broken glass. The windshield and hoods absorbed the initial impact. Heat scorched the paint, causing bubbles and cracks.

The officers disbursed efficiently, evacuating as if they had practiced a hundred times. Glass shattered and cracked beneath Magnum Stealth boots. Using the truck bodies as a shield, cops crouched along the steel frame. All present and accounted for, though eight of the nine officers had cuts and abrasions, mostly mild. Lisbeth assessed her condition: she had a contusion. A piece of shrapnel was wedged in her left shoulder. Pain throbbed through her upper body.

“What a mess,” Lisbeth said of the explosion. To Holst, she said, “How you feeling?”

The officer hustled over to her. “Aight,” Holst said.

“Go check out that spot in the rocks,” she said. “We may not have a second chance.”

“I’m on it.” Holst swung out in a wide arc of the trucks, bolting for the spot.

Behind the utility vehicles, a caravan of three black Suburbans approached from the same direction the police had driven. They all halted, seemingly as one. The front passenger door of the lead vehicle opened. A man kicked his legs out, one foot landing on the step.

“Perfect timing,” said Lisbeth.

He was tall, distinguished-looking, and thrust off the balls of his feet. White letters on the back of his blue jacket read, DHS. “Peter Mayhew, Department of Homeland Security.” Crotty’s day-job boss. “What’s your business here?” Mayhew demanded.

“Checking to see if there’s a missing boy anywhere near this mess, and picking glass out of our wounds. Where were
you
?” Lisbeth said unkindly.

Mayhew stared at her like a man billed for services he never ordered. “What are you talking about?”

Lisbeth yanked some of the faxes off the seat, and thrust the folder at him. Mayhew glanced at the pages. “You called me yesterday, set this whole thing up,” Lisbeth said, glaring. “You faxed over all these specs. I thought this was a joint effort. You showed up late. This was not our deal.”

Mayhew shut the file, tucked the folder under his arm, and said, “The fax number is mine. But if you talked to someone in my office, it wasn’t me, because I was out of the office yesterday.”

06:30:12 AM

Aftershocks spread across the mountain. Ripples from the blast echoed against the ridge. Distant perhaps, though it was still a disturbing sound early in the morning. Mike and Dagget continued.

Picking up at the last confirmed track was priority number one. An oversight the previous night made the job harder than it might have been, had he taken more time. In the rush for cover, Mike had ditched the trail without placing reflective markers. He regretted this decision as a possible endgame mistake. Once again, he cursed waiting so long to find shelter. If he had allowed a more generous window, he might have remembered to set tags in the soil. Whether the markers could have survived the driving rains and rising waters, or the shadowy figures that followed them, he would never know. Right now, the lack of markers was a big problem.