“Not going to happen, Matt,” Molia said. “Pipe dreams never do.”
Barnes turned to Atkins. “Where are they?”
“Grow site sixteen, about a quarter mile east.”
“You see, we even moved your sons up here to make it appear this was a rescue mission while they were out of the facility that went horribly wrong,” Barnes said.
Sloane gave Molia a quick glance. Jake and T.J. were here, close. A burst of hope shot through him, but just as quickly that burst faded with the circumstances.
“Get them back to Fresh Start,” Barnes told Atkins and Bradley. “There will be people up here searching when I report these two have disappeared. Leave the camp as evidence. And the site. I’ll tell Dillon we have to abandon it. Who shot the gun?”
Each in the group looked to the other. “Heard it, don’t know who shot it,” Atkins said.
Barnes sighed. To Sloane he looked and sounded worn down. “Find out. See that it doesn’t happen again.” Barnes turned to Wade. “You can handle it?”
Wade nodded. “Looking forward to it.”
Barnes seemed to give this due consideration. He looked to his three men. “Leonard, you go with him.”
A radio crackled. The intrusion interrupted Barnes’s train of thought. The radio had come from where the horses had been tied up. Atkins left in that direction.
“All right,” Barnes said, recovering. “Let’s move out.” Greg and Dean lifted Sloane and Molia from beneath their armpits to their feet. The back of Sloane’s legs felt weak, and not from a lack of circulation. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, gentlemen. I genuinely liked the both of you.”
Wade motioned with the barrel of a semiautomatic for Sloane and Molia to start walking when Atkins returned with the handheld. He looked a shade or two redder than when he’d left. “We have a problem.” He ripped the sunglasses from his face and looked at Sloane, eyes burning. “Like father like God damn son,” he said. He spoke to Barnes. “They’re running. Both of them.”
“How?” Barnes asked.
“Hell if I know. Fucking Mexicans. I ought to shoot those two worthless bastards.”
Barnes turned to his men. “Leonard, you go with the two of them,” he said, meaning Atkins and Bradley. “Bradley, you get the rest back to the bus. Stay in radio contact.” Then he directed his gaze to Atkins. “You find the two runners, and you get them back to Fresh Start. Understood? Nothing happens to them until you get them back or we’ll have a whole God damn posse crawling around up here. You keep your temper in check.”
E
LDORADO
N
ATIONAL
F
OREST
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ROW
S
ITE
S
IXTEEN
When they reached the creek Jake grabbed the deflated plastic water container from the guard, intending to wade out and sink it. The guard smiled when Jake held out his hand for the knife. He shook his head, saying something in Spanish that Jake translated to be, “You think I’m stupid?”
The guard flipped the blade open, took back the container, cut the hole, folded the blade, and stuck it back in the pouch on his belt. He handed Jake the container. Otherwise, he was all too happy to squat at the creek’s edge, smoking his cigarettes and keeping his boots dry. Jake handed the coil of hose to T.J., and they waded out into the stream to submerge the container. He showed T.J. how to use the stones from the river to hide it and keep it submerged. Then he took a length of the tubing and reached down, shoving it between two rocks where it would eventually be twisted onto the spout of the container.
As they uncoiled the hose, sinking it along the shore, Jake kept a close eye on the guard. The man remained in his squat, gun slung over his shoulder, tossing pebbles into the water and blowing smoke into the air or squinting up at the sun. Twenty yards downstream, Jake stepped from the stream onto the shore. He grabbed the pickaxes and shovels from where the guard had dropped them. The guard stood and followed him for a few yards, but the brush hung out over the creek and prevented him from continuing along
the bank. He did not appear interested in wading into the stream and getting his shoes and socks wet.
Jake stepped from the bank into the calf-high water, sloshed downstream, and ducked into the thicket where he’d left T.J. He handed him the pickax. They were concealed from the guard but Jake knew he’d be listening. “Give me the string and start shaking the branches and picking at the ground like you’re in here working,” he whispered.
T.J. unzipped his coveralls and handed Jake the string. He looked apprehensive, scared.
“Relax,” Jake whispered, “and just keep shaking that bush and picking at the ground like we’re digging.”
The string was coarse, and strong. He tied an end around a thick branch, wrapping it several times, then threaded it around additional branches, unspooling the string up the eventual path where they would lay the hose and tying it around a third branch. He tested the line, tugging on it. All three branches shook. “Okay,” he said to T.J., “back in the water, stick close to the bank, and head downstream.”
“Where’d you learn this?” T.J. asked.
“
Cool Hand Luke.
My uncle loves that movie. Go.”
Jake followed T.J. into the water, walking backward downstream, unspooling string as he went and tugging on the line to make the branches shake. He didn’t know how much string he had, but it kept unspooling and he kept it taut, shaking as he went. The farther away they got the faster they moved. After he’d let out half the string, what Jake estimated to be a hundred yards, he dropped it, pulled T.J. to the bank, and ran.
E
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OUNTAINS
Carl Wade kept a safe distance behind Sloane and Molia. Sloane contemplated turning and telling Wade he wasn’t going to walk another step, that if Wade wanted to drop their bodies in some ravine he would have to carry their dead weight to it, but then he thought
of Jake and T.J. on the run, maybe close. The only thing that mattered was staying alive as long as possible with the slim hope that somehow they might survive and find their sons.
As they marched on, hands tied behind their backs, Sloane began to hear a distant, dull roar. It grew in volume as they continued up a footpath, a persistent grade, a light mist wet his face and arms. After five minutes they rounded another bend to where the path came to a fork that looked down on white water gushing through a chute of boulders, no doubt carved by some ancient glacier.
“Stay to the right.” Wade had to shout over the sound of the water. He indicated for them to take the path that inclined more sharply. It was mostly loose shale. With their hands behind their backs and their center of gravity off, Sloane and Molia bent forward at the waist, like two old men whose bodies had seen better days, but still their feet slipped on the loose rock. Sloane nearly fell more than once and without the ability to pump his arms, his legs had to work even harder. His thighs soon burned. They ascended until they stood atop a bald slab of stone that looked out over the swollen river, the white water surging through a canyon of boulders and jagged rocks and out over a precipice as if shot from an enormous fire hose tumbling into the canyon. The rushing river and fire hose created its own wind, the spray drenching the boulder and the three men atop it. On the horizon Sloane noticed billowing clouds gathering, thunderheads moving in their direction.
Sloane understood now why Wade and Barnes had not just shot them at the camp. The deafening roar of the waterfall would conceal the sound of the gunshots in case anyone happened to be in the area, and the ravine would likely prevent their bodies from ever being discovered.
Six feet away, the rifle slung over his shoulder, Wade held a handgun at his side. The heavy mist had dampened his hair. Water dripped down his face.
“Okay, boys, who’d like to go first?” he yelled over the rush of the water. When neither Sloane nor Molia answered he said, “Doesn’t matter to me. Both of you turn around.”
Sloane shook his head. It might have been the final futile act of defiance of a condemned man, but he didn’t care. He was going to make Wade look him in the face.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” he yelled, “to shoot us in the back. Jesus, you’re a coward, Wade. You don’t even have the courage to look a man in the face when you kill him.”
Wade stepped forward, gun outstretched, barrel less than a foot from Sloane’s face. “You’re wrong,” he shouted back.
Atkins swung down from his saddle, brought the reins over the horse’s ears, and handed them to Bradley. Bee Dee and Henry sat on the ground. The cook with the machete stood beside them, looking genuinely frightened.
“Tie their hands,” Atkins said. Bradley pulled zip ties from one of the horse’s packs and proceeded to fasten them around the boys’ wrists.
Atkins approached the cook, holding out his hand. The cook gave up the machete without protest. Atkins hacked through the brush. In no time he’d cleared a path to the river, ignoring the scratches on his arms where the jagged ends of branches cut across his skin. The second Mexican guard stood at the bank, holding the stock of the rifle, one boot in the water. He, too, looked frightened. He held up string, tugging on it, causing the branch to shake. Atkins took it and shoved the man out of his way, into the stream. Atkins let the string slide through his hand, stepping into the water and following it ten to fifteen feet downstream before walking back.
“Where were you?”
“Aqui,”
the guard said.
“
Aqui
?” Atkins asked, eyebrows raised. He pushed back the hat from his forehead and glanced up, the sun reflected in each lens of his glasses.
“Sí, pardon. Aqui.”
Atkins nodded, lips pursed, seeming to give the answer due consideration. He turned as if to walk downstream, pivoted, and
thrust back his elbow, quick and violent. The man’s nose broke with a sickening snap and a gush of blood. He fell backward into the brush with an anguished cry. Atkins picked up the automatic rifle and tossed it to Bradley, who snatched it from the air. Then Atkins grabbed the Mexican by the collar, holding the machete under his nose.
“
Aqui
?” he shouted. “
Aqui
? If you were
aqui,
where the hell are they? Huh?
Donde están los niños
?”
“No. Pardon, no.” Blood flowed down the man’s chin and neck, staining his shirt. “I find. I find.”
“
Sí,
” Atkins said, pulling the man close. “
Sí,
you find. You find, or…” He flicked the machete across the tip of the man’s nose, taking a piece of the skin, drawing more blood.
The Mexican pleaded. “
Sí,
pardon.
Sí.
I find. I find.”
Atkins shoved the man back into the brush and returned to Bradley. “You and Leonard take those two back down the hill,” he said. “When you get to the bus you radio in and tell the captain we may need the dogs.”
“Aren’t you going to take a horse?” Bradley asked.
Atkins shook his head. “Terrain’s too rough, we’ll go on foot, me and my two compadres.”
Leonard, who Barnes had insisted accompany Atkins, looked up when shadows fell over them. “Send one of the Mexicans back with him. I’m going with you. You heard Barnes.”
Atkins looked ready to argue, but Leonard again glanced at the sky. “Storm clouds are moving in fast,” he said. “We’re wasting time.”
T.J. stumbled and fell. Jake stopped, bent at the waist, hands on thighs. “Come on,” he said offering his hand. “Get up.”
“Wait,” T.J. pleaded in between breaths. “Wait. I just need to catch my breath.” The final phrase came in a rush of words.
Jake paced in a circle, hands on his waist. He had been urging T.J. forward for the last ten minutes. “We can’t stop. We have to keep going. You can do it.”
T.J. looked over his shoulder. “I need—I need water.”
They’d followed the stream, staying on land when the brush thinned and wading in the water when the brush got too thick to make progress. Jake hoped if they brought the dogs it would throw off their scent, but an hour into their escape the stream had merged into a wider and deeper river, the water rushing over rocks and boulders and cascading into pools of white foam. The bank had steepened, and the increased drop to the river now prevented them from using the water as an escape, or from quenching their thirst.
“We can’t get down there; the bank’s too steep. We have to keep moving. Come on, T.J. We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” T.J. shouted. Sweat trickled down his neck. “We don’t even know where we are!” T.J. was fighting back tears.
Jake saw no reason to lie. “No, we don’t. But we know we can’t go back. So we have to just keep going forward, right? Come on, we have to just keep going forward. Follow the river.”
“You go,” T.J. said. “I’m just slowing you down.”
Jake grabbed the front of T.J.’s coveralls and leaned down, pulling him close, eye to eye. “I’m not leaving without you. You understand me? Either we go together or we go back and face Big Baby together. You decide. What do you want to do?”
T.J. took deep breaths and wiped his eyes. After a minute he said, “I’m okay, now. Let’s go.”
Jake started off, trying to do a better job controlling the pace while ducking under branches and fighting through scrub. He kept the river on his right, not always able to see it but able to hear it. They found a rhythm to their footsteps, T.J. keeping up, huffing and puffing, but not quitting. At times they had to backtrack, and with each step Jake felt as if he were leading them into the lion’s mouth. He followed the paths of least resistance, though not always certain which way the river turned. The ground sloped down then inclined again and finally came to a stone edifice.
“Let’s climb up and see if we can get a better view,” Jake suggested.
They climbed, using foot and finger holds, pulling themselves to the top. Jake reached the top first and came to a sudden stop. He
helped T.J. to his feet, holding onto him so he wouldn’t fall. The drop was unnerving.