Ridley Pearson - Killer Summer

“We can’t just sit here.”

“Not exactly. But nobody’s ever going to find you up here. You’ve got a rock cliff behind you and a rock chimney in front of you and fourteen shells to stop anyone from trying to pay you a visit.”

“What do you mean by ‘find me’? You going somewhere?”

“You catch on real quick.”

“No way!” Kevin said. “I got you out of there. You need me.”

“Exactly. In case something goes wrong, you’re my backup. I’m going down to the Cessna and make a call out before they figure out that the radios still work.”

“And I’m supposed to just sit here?”

He set the volume control on both radios, slipped Kevin’s radio into the neck of his T-shirt, and explained how to keep from announcing themselves to the others. They’d use two different signals: one to talk, the other to announce that Kevin had spotted either of the men headed for the lodge.

“There’s no way they’re going to find you up here,” John said. “But if they should, you’re going to have to shoot them, and you’re going to find out that it’s just about impossible to pull that trigger. So what I want you to do is aim low, for their feet. The gun will kick when you shoot, and likely you’ll hit them closer to the knees. But you won’t kill them, you understand me? You will not kill them. Don’t think that way… Don’t think at all. Just hold the gun tight to your shoulder, aim at their feet, and squeeze.”

“I’m a wicked shot,” Kevin boasted. “My uncle, he’s like the best there is, and he taught me.”

“There’s a big difference between a rifle and a shotgun, son.”

“Yeah, okay.”

John asked Kevin to repeat the instructions for the radio, which he did flawlessly.

“I could give you a pep talk,” the cowboy said, “but the fact is, we’re looking up the wrong end of the horse here. As long as we don’t do anything stupid, maybe we’ll get through this. You want to do right by this girl, then do as I’ve told you.”

“I got it,” Kevin said testily.

John gave him a look in the dim yellow from the slowly dwindling fire. Kevin nodded. John laid his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, then worked his way down the rocks. A moment later, he disappeared.

John Cumberland had his pride. Three men had taken over the ranch where he was caretaker, wrecked his Cessna, lied to him, smashed his skull, tied him up, threatened the lives of others. His own life had been defined by a failed war, a failed marriage, a brush with the law, then the successful stewardship of the ranch. Now he had failed in that as well.

A man’s handshake means more than his signature and his word more than that. John had offered these people a helping hand and look how they had answered.

He would put an end to it. Had the boy and girl not been in the picture, he would have gone on a shooting spree. Instead, he would approach things in a slightly more civil manner.

He silently worked his way down the wooded slope, his body pumping with adrenaline, breaking a keen sweat despite the chill in the air. He followed a familiar game trail that switched back repeatedly until reaching the airstrip. He moved slowly and carefully among the trees as he approached two hulking shapes-his Cessna and the Learjet.

There were lights on inside the Lear, the aft door open. He couldn’t see the other side, but light on the ground suggested that the main door was open as well.

Drawing closer, John saw two shapes in a window. He wondered if one was the girl. If he could account for her and confirm she was safe, he would be free to deal with the others as he saw fit.

He considered a surprise attack. He could catch them unawares, wound them, and greatly improve his odds. But if they had the girl, his advantage was compromised. Smarter to make the radio call first to get help on the way. Timing the call was important. Given the narrowness of the valley, the Cessna’s radio would likely reach only planes flying directly overhead. Plus, it was late, approaching eleven P.M. No small aircraft would be flying now. His only chance was a commercial flight, and few flew over at this hour.

He made his way to the Cessna, keeping his eyes on the Lear.

Always account for the enemy.

Reaching the Cessna, he quietly popped open the passenger door and leaned across the pilot’s seat. He activated the battery, set the radio to 121.50, an emergency frequency monitored by all commercial aircraft, and put the headphones to one ear.

While it was possible that the hijackers were monitoring the jet’s radio, John felt making the call was worth the risk. Nonetheless, he stealthily aimed the barrel of his rifle through the Cessna’s partially open door at the jet.

He pushed the TALK button.

“Mayday! Mayday!” he said in a husky whisper. “Aircraft down. Hostage situation. Request immediate law enforcement at Mitchum’s Ranch on the Middle Fork of the Snake River. Repeat: Mayday! Mitchum’s Ranch on the Snake.”

He released the TALK button and listened.

If anybody was out there, the response would be immediate. The crackling static in his ear suggested he’d not been heard.

He repeated the call, listened anxiously for a response. Again, nothing.

He waited several minutes and tried yet again.

This time, the headphone popped with a male voice breaking through the static.

“It’s summertime. I know you can hear me, cowboy. Summer… time! No more prank calls. Get off this frequency. NOW!”

Summer. Time.

Two silhouettes appeared in the jet’s aft door, one unmistakably female. It appeared the girl had a knife held to her throat.

John sighted the man’s head through the scope and considered the tight shot. The man changed angle, putting the girl between him and the Cessna. John lowered his rifle and put it on the ground.

Three to four hours to go,” Brandon said to the other two men, slipping his GPS device back in his pocket. He was riding a chestnut filly with a blond mane, a showcase quarter horse with a gait as smooth as a Cadillac’s. All three riders wore headlamps, a bluish glare illuminating the narrow trail ahead.

“How long can the horses keep up this pace?” Walt said. He was not a regular in the saddle.

“Longer than you can,” Brandon said. “They can trot for hours, they’re fine. But it won’t be too much longer now before we have to walk them, anyway. Terrain’s not getting any better.”

“We’ll ride them ’til they drop,” Jerry asserted.

“No, we’ll walk them,” Walt corrected. “And we’ll hike the last half mile without them so they don’t give us away. They’re our way in. They may be Kevin’s only way out.”

Jerry was turning in his saddle to object but nodded instead. “Yeah, okay.”

The sudden agreement silenced all three.

Brandon consulted the GPS.

“Looks to me like the trail runs out pretty soon,” he said.

“First light,” Jerry announced.

They’d agreed that their best odds of reaching Mitchum’s Creek Ranch unseen was to cross the Middle Fork before sunrise, before four A.M. Daylight diminished any element of surprise considerably.

Walt thought unlikely they’d meet this worthy goal. They had to hobble the horses, inflate the raft, and make the crossing-all very time-consuming.

“This guy Sumner,” Brandon said, “he made Mastermind, right?”

“He produces movies,” Walt said.

Something sparked at the back of his tired brain. A voice was shouting at him. But whose was it?

“You think if we get his daughter out safe and sound he’ll make it into a movie?”

“Put a sock in it,” Jerry said.