Page 70 of The 9th Man

Not from someone nearby.

Instead, from a speaker.

Female.

They stopped walking.

“Take three paces back, face left, and say cheese.”

They complied.

Even with his expert eyes Luke didn’t immediately see the camouflaged game camera affixed to a nearby tree trunk. He did catch a faint glint as the shuttersnapped.

The voice said, “Walk on.”

Definitely coming from the camera, which had an audio function.

For thirty minutes they followed the trail deeper into the swamp. While Luke didn’t have his tried-and-true Ranger pace beads, he knew from the length of his step and by keeping count in increments of ten they were nearly two miles from where Elijah had dropped them off.

He stopped and raised his hands in the air, then called out, “You’re good, but I spotted you thirty meters back.”

Behind them a voice said, “Forty meters, but who’s counting? You can turn around and lower your hands.”

No speaker this time.

They turned and he found himself standing before a woman in her mid-thirties, lean, with ash-colored curly hair and a face full of life and candor. She wore blue jean shorts to her knees, a light blue polo shirt, and boots. A bowie knife hung from her belt, and she cradled a shotgun, aimed right at them.

“I was navy,” she said. “We didn’t do all that much ground tracking. So I’m not that good.”

“I was marine,” Jillian noted. “He was a Ranger.”

The weapon was lowered. “Elijah said you were good folks. He can tell.”

Glad they passed muster.

“And you are?” Luke asked.

“Sue Simmons. My granddad was Ray.”

“We came to see him,” he said.

“And that’s another thing. You don’t know and that makes a difference.”

“Don’t know what?” Jillian asked.

“Ray killed himself ’bout a month ago.”

30

LUKE ASSUMED THE REAR GUARD AS SUE LED THEM ANOTHER HALFmile into the swamp, until it gave way to drier land, thicker foliage, and towering trees. Finally they stepped into a clearing at whose center sat a two-story cabin that looked like it’d been airlifted from a Hollywood soundstage. It was, Luke decided, the epitome of ramshackle with mismatched plank siding, a roof that was half-thatch, half-asphalt shingle, and eaves dripping with moss. It had clearly been there awhile. Faintly, he heard the hum of a generator and spotted a satellite dish.

“Home sweet home,” Sue announced.

A portly corgi lounging on the porch trotted over to Sue, who provided a welcomed neck scratching.

“This is Crusoe,” Sue said. “Crusoe, meet Luke and Jillian.”

Tail wagging, the dog gave each of them a thorough sniffing before wandering off.

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