Page 67 of High Velocity

He’s just not the kind of guy to get his hands dirty, and besides, what motive could he have?

“Let me see what I can do,” I offer. “I’ll call you back.”

Then I end the call. It sounds like he’s determined to see his investigation through, with or without the backing of the Bureau, so the only way to get him out of my hair is to help him get the evidence he needs. I happen to be on good terms with my colleagues and might be able to get someone to slip me some info.

I pull up a familiar number and hit dial.

“Agent Wilcox.”

I smile at the sound of his voice. We’ve worked together for the past five or so years, and have had each other’s backs. I realize I miss him.

“Hey, Shane, it’s Stephanie.”

“No shit. What the fuck happened to you? One minute you’re in the hospital, the next moment you’re gone.”

He sounds pissed, and has a right to; I haven’t exactly stayed in touch.

“Long story, but it’s gonna have to wait. I need your help with something.”

Despite being angry with me, Shane doesn’t hesitate.

“What do you need?”

Jackson

Sully spotted the first guy around two this afternoon.

He’d taken a seat against a boulder at the edge of a small clearing, and had been visible when the drone flew over.

Unfortunately, it took us almost four hours to get to him, only to find he had succumbed to his injuries right where he sat down. The only thing visible on the outside was an open head wound, and massive bruising along his lower ribs. The general consensus was he must’ve sustained internal injuries and bled out over the course of some time.

Poor guy.

Of course, that made finding his buddy even more urgent, but also more of a challenge, since dead men can’t give directions. The best we can do is try to retrace this guy’s tracks, but with the light fading fast, that is becoming virtually impossible.

Sully is still flying the new drone, which is outfitted with a thermal imaging camera, but a lot of things give off a heat signature after a mostly warm, sunny day. It can distinguish small temperature differences, which helps filter out whether you’re looking at a person or a rock. It’s effective when you are searching a small area, but pretty tedious and slow when you have the entire side of a mountain to explore.

The satellite radios Dan and Wolff are carrying on their hips crackle alive with Jonas’s voice.

“Give me an update, guys.”

Wolff answers, “We’ve got the first guy wrapped up and ready to transport down. It’s no use stumbling around blindly. We’re almost out of light. Want us to head back?”

“No. Not with little visibility and on tired horses. Camp down where you are. If there is any chance this other guy is still breathing, I want you out there and looking at first light instead of having to haul back up the mountain.”

Knowing we’d have to haul out one, perhaps two extra people, we brought Hannah, our pack mule. She hauled up some of our supplies, like food and water for us and the animals. We each carry our own sleeping bags and small survival shelters, designed to keep you somewhat protected from the elements.

It takes us ten minutes to set up camp, and JD already has a fire going to heat water for the MREs, while the rest of us get the horses secured and settled in with some water and food. Then Dan and I haul a few fallen logs around the fire to serve as benches while we wait for dinner to rehydrate in the foil bags.

I like nights like these. The environment is much different, but the camaraderie around the fire reminds me of the many nights in the field with my special ops team. It was always either the lull before the storm, or the relief after completing another successful assignment that set the tone. Tonight, it’s a little of both.

When I finish my beef stew in a pouch, I slide my ass down to the ground, lean my back against the log, tilt my head back, and listen to the muted conversation between my teammates. Every so often the moon peeks through the clouds, bathing the mountainside in a faint, blue-silver light that catches on the rocks and treetops. If it was a completely clear night, we’d be able to see the skies filled with millions of stars, but even only the occasional glimpse is worth the view.

It would be a perfect night, if not for the body of a forty-one-year-old father of two lying twenty feet from me, wrapped in a plastic body bag.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Dan observes, sitting down on the ground beside me and mimicking my pose. “Are you sore?”

“Nah,” I deny, even though my body sings a different tune.

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