Little sleep and the drain of adrenaline caused Jack’s body to feel twenty pounds heavier. After about five milesof searching, he sat on a rock under the boughs of a great pine to rest and re-fuel. He pulled out an energy bar and tore open the wrapper. Jack eyed his watch and shook his head. It was already thirteen-hundred hours and they hadn’t found anything substantial. He rubbed the back of his neck and stood to stretch when his radio squawked.

“Stone, you copy?”

“Stone here.”

“I’ve got him. I’ve got MacNeil.”

“What’s your twenty? Do you need backup?”

“Negative. This scruffy little runt won’t give me any trouble.”

“Roger that. Does he say he was with Hotchkiss?”

“He’s not talking, other than confirming his name.”

“Figures. Good work, Sanchez. Sure you don’t want help?”

“Nope. I’ve got this puke.”

Jack chuckled. “You take MacNeil down to headquarters. I’ll cut across in your direction and try to pick up mini-Hitler’s tracks further up the ridge.”

“The official trail ends where I found him.”

“Okay, I’ll track the back country, due north from there.”

“Roger that, Jack. I’ll catch up to you once I drop MacNeil off at headquarters. Leave me some crumbs to follow.”

“Will do, Gretel.” Jack chuckled. “Out.”

Jack repacked his bag and continued up the hill. As he hiked, the forest grew thicker. Unlike his quarry, Jack left obvious signs of his own route for Rick to find. Every twenty feet, he pushed a bamboo marker fitted with fluorescent orange ribbon into the dirt. Rick could easily follow him and they would collect the markers on the way back down.

He pushed pine boughs out of his face and ducked below the branches of deciduous trees. A flicker of silver caught his eye, and he stopped. He softened his gaze trying to locate what he had seen. He reached out to lift several strands of long, colorless hair fluttering in the breeze from a branch on his left. Pinpricks of excitement skittered across his skull and down his neck. Finally they had something concrete. Jack drew a small Ziploc evidence bag from the side pocket of his pack and slipped the hair inside.

Human? Or horse maybe? The hair was coarse, but not so much so he could be a hundred-percent certain it came from an animal. Besides, he hadn’t seen any signs of a horse all day. No hoofprints or manure. Whoever had the horse didn’t come this way. In fact, the boot prints Jack had seen were large, most likely not a woman’s. By this he presumed she had the horse, and had taken a different path.

Jack studied the ground around him. Something left that hair on the tree. He searched to see if that something left any prints. The one photo he had seen of Jedediah Hotchkiss depicted an older man with longish, graying hair and an even longer scraggly beard. The strand certainly could have come from him. No matter, at this point, it was all he had to go on.

A broken twig drew him further. There were still no tracks on the ground, but he knew he was on someone’s trail. If his luck held out, it would lead him to Hotchkiss. A Steller’s Jay cried out as Jack stepped off in the direction of his prey and he paused for a few seconds to appreciate the beautiful dusky blue and black feathered bird.

“What have you seen up here, my friend? Too bad you can’t show me where this scumbag is.”

The jay cawed at him and flew up into the trees.

Jack wished he had a K-9 team with him as he scanned the mulch-covered forest floor. Not expecting to be tracking people through the woods, the FBI hadn’t deployed any canines with the mission. Dogs would find their target in no time. He was confident the SAC had sent to Denver for a K-9 unit by now.

Mashed moss on a small rock outcropping convinced Jack he was on the right trail. He considered the length and direction of the scuff and determined the footfall headed north. Step by steady step, Jack followed where the signs pointed.

He pressed the talk button on the transmitter. “Sanchez, I’ve found his tracks.” He gave the GPS coordinates on his watch and said, “I’m headed northeast from here. Stone out.” He wished Rick would hurry. The sun hunkered deep in the sky on his left and the temperature dropped fast.

No reply came across the radio. Rick was most likely out of range, but his partner knew the general area where he was tracking. Jack realized he should wait for Rick before he got too far away, but finding signs was like crack and he was addicted. He couldn’t resist looking for the next one. Besides, Rick would catch up soon, making much faster time since he could follow the flags and not take time looking for tracks.

He moved on, looking for the next mark. He found a line of fairly regular footprints in the mulch and Jack followed the clues easily for another several miles, or so, before the tracks disappeared into a mountain stream. His body sagged. Jack had no doubt Hotchkiss was an experienced survivalist and had hiked through the water with the single purpose of hiding his trail.

At the edge of the chortling stream, Jack squatted and studied the stones on its bed, underneath the clear, cold currents of tripping water. As he caught his breath, he noticed several stones had been dislodged up stream. He would track upstream then, monitoring both banks for signs of someone getting out of the water. A frigid wind rolled down the side of the mountain whispering that Jack should head back to camp, but he ignored the warning, not wanting to lose the trail. Besides, Rick would be there soon and had promised to bring his cold-weather gear up when he came.

Jack blew into his cupped hands to warm them before he headed up the bank. Watching for tiny signs of passage on both sides of the water was a challenge, so Jack kept his pace slow and methodical. He almost gave up and returned to the last known marker when he saw a minor tread, so small he nearly stepped on it. The mere arc of a boot heal on his side of the stream in wet mud.

Got him.

Adrenaline hit him in the gut and his pulse surged. Encouraged, Jack marked the track and searched for the next clue. He flipped the collar of his jacket up against the chill in the air and stepped out. His exertion kept the cold at bay. Ten feet more and Jack found a small patch of sand from the stream clumped on top of otherwise regular dark-brown dirt. Then he noticed a section of crushed leaves surrounded by a tapestry of undisturbed foliage.

His breath led the way in bursts of steam, and Jack’s ears stung with cold. The mountain grade steepened, and made the going more difficult. Again, Jack wished he had been more prepared for this trek. They’d been in such a rush to start tracking that they weren’t as properly rigged as they should have been. Ropes and a pickaxe would have been welcome tools on this incline. He tried the radio again, but still no response.

Fifteen feet had passed since the last indication that Hotchkiss had come through here, so Jack back-tracked. He spiraled out from the last mark, searching for another. Though he wasn’t certain, Jack found what might be a sign. It appeared as though there were two different tracks moving away from each other. Maybe Hotchkiss and the woman were together up to this point, or someone purposefully attempted to confuse the trail?

Jack employed the spiral search tactic once again, selecting the more prominent trail. He hiked for another milebefore he found himself on the brink of a deep ravine.

Surely, Hotchkiss wouldn’t have traversed down into the ravine. If he did, today’s tracking ended. He didn’t want to follow him down the cliff without the added safety of climbing gear Jack clenched his teeth together and let loose a frustrated growl. He stared hard at the ground hoping to see another mark.

Jack pulled water from his pack to moisten his dry throat. With his back to the cliff he gulped the clear liquid and then peered through the surrounding trees. A gray squirrel chittered at him from a tree branch above him. The lateness of the afternoon would soon force Jack to head back down to the compound. He certainly was not outfitted to camp overnight in the wilderness. The temperature already dipped below freezing and though his body stayed warm from his physical exertion, cold crept up his extremities.

Snap.

Jack’s body went still. He focused on slowing his breathing to quiet his heart. Then he heard it again.

Crunch.

Human footfall or wildlife? Jack slid his fingers over the pistol grip of the gun in his shoulder holster. He crouched down and stared into the charged silence. He was exposed, out in the open with only the early gloaming for cover.

A loud pop resounded through the forest seconds before a slug rammed into Jack’s chest. He heard a rifle report echo in the hills, half a second after the impact. Then instantly, two more slugs. He flew backward into the air, light as a feather. Air rushed from his lungs as a searing pain burst across his torso. He couldn’t draw a breath. His vision dimmed. Jack reached his hands out to grasp onto something, anything. There was nothing.

Cold wind rushed around his head to his face. His lungs refused to pull in oxygen. Pain ignited throughout his body. His shoulder-blades slammed against something hard, immovable. His skull crashed into granite and the sharp tang of copper pressed into the back of his tongue. Agony exploded behind his eyes. Red. Yellow. White-hot light.

Then darkness stole him away.