Page 3 of Chased By the Mountain Man

“We got a tip-off a few minutes ago that there were drugs in your vehicle,” the first cop says, looking down at my documents again to check my name. “Do you have any explanation for why this substance is in your car, Ms. Phillips?”

Blood is pounding in my ears, pooling in my head. I’m struggling to breathe as I stare at the unfamiliar white powder that the second cop is still examining.

“It’s not mine,” I say, my voice squeaking. “I’ve never seen it before, I swear!”

My mind is racing, shock rooting me to the spot. The cops exchange a knowing look.

“We’ve heard that one a few times, Ms. Phillips,” the second cop says wearily. “Why don’t you tell us the truth? It will make things easier for us all.”

I can see the disbelief and impatience on their faces, and I feel like I might throw up. And then it hits me like a freight train, my thoughts finally catching up with my panic.

Danny.

He must have stolen my car keys out of my bag and planted the drugs while I was in the bathroom. It wouldn’t be the first time Danny’s had drugs on him, I think to myself, remembering how he showed me the white powder in his pocket at the bar. Then once I left the office, he must have called the police and tipped them off.

I can’t believe it. All this because I wouldn’t go out with him?

“Possession of illegal narcotics is a serious offense,” the first cop says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Things will go a lot smoother if you cooperate. Are there more illegal substances in your car, Ms. Phillips?”

“No!” I cry. “I swear it’s not mine. It’s this guy at work, he put it there! He’s trying to get me into trouble.”

The cops share another look—the look of two people who have heard it all before, every possible excuse and explanation. It’s obvious they don’t believe me. And heck, for all I know, there are more drugs in my car. Maybe Danny has hidden a whole stash in there.

The first cop steps forward with a sigh, reaching out for me. “Ms. Phillips, you are under arrest for the possession of—”

I don’t wait for him to finish the sentence. Adrenaline shoots through me, my body springs to life, and suddenly, I’m running. It’s automatic: fight or flight. My legs move of their own accord, and I run faster than I’ve ever run before, heading for the tree line on the other side of the road. The cops shout, and I hear their heavy footsteps pounding the tarmac just behind me. But I’m like a hunted animal, flying through the lanes of traffic with only one thought racing through my head:

Run!

2

Trent

I can hear the buzz of traffic nearby as I wend my way through the trees, keeping my eyes peeled. I don’t usually walk this far down the mountain, but now that the weather is clearing up, I can cover more ground. Spring is a great time for foraging around Snowfall Ridge. Hunting for mushrooms might not sound like everybody’s idea of a good time, but it helps me keep my mind off shit that I’d rather not think about. That’s civilian life in a nutshell: I spend all my time in the forest trying to outpace my demons.

Sometimes it works. Mostly it doesn’t.

I absentmindedly run a thumb down the scar on my face, brushing the rough, uneven skin as I follow the slope of the forest downward. Touching the scar is a bad habit that I just can’t kick. I hate the damn thing. Not because of how it looks; I’m not a vain guy, and I don’t give a shit if my scar is ugly. I hate it because it’s a reminder of the worst day of my life. A permanent mark that will never let me escape the things I saw in Syria.

“Fuck,” I mutter, stopping in my tracks and running a hand over my face. It still haunts me. I’m in the middle of a forest in Colorado, thousands of miles away from Syria, but when I close my eyes it’s like I’m still there, lying in the rubble, my ears ringing from the explosion.

I stand there for a while, lost in dark memories, before a noise yanks me back to the present. Something is streaking through the forest behind me. I whip around and catch a glimpse of a dark figure disappearing into the trees. A second later, two more people burst into the woods, their shouts echoing over the hum of traffic.

“STOP RUNNING!” one of them cries. “POLICE! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!”

Instinctively, I jump into action. I barrel through the trees toward the running figures. As I approach, I finally make out their cop uniforms. One of them slows down when he hears me coming behind them, and I recognize him instantly as David Goodman. We served together years ago before he joined the police force.

“Trent!” he shouts when he sees me, beckoning me forward. “Get over here! We’ve got a suspect on the run!”

The other cop turns to look at me, but I don’t recognize him. He’s panting hard, red in the face as he says, “Dave, this guy’s not a cop.”

“He knows these woods like the back of his damn hand!” Dave snaps. “And he’s the fastest son-of-a-bitch I ever met.” He looks at me urgently. “Go on!”

I nod and take off through the trees. I’m a big guy, built like a grizzly bear, but Dave’s right: I’m faster than I look. The trees are dense around here and it can be hard to see even a few feet in front of you, but I know how to track, so I follow the signs—the cracked branches, the subtle sounds of somebody moving around up ahead. Dave and the other cop are still running, but I’m already way in front of them, and I soon catch sight of a dark figure crouching down in a bush off to my left.

“Playtime’s over, buddy,” I grunt as I circle the bush, springing out before the suspect can escape.

Holy shit.

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