Rick Mofina - Every Second

“They’re on our trail! They’ll be back!” Percy shouted. “We have to abort!”

Vic didn’t respond; he was concentrating on Jerricko, who’d been monitoring news reports on his powerful portable radio.

“Well?” Vic said.

“They found Fulton.” Jerricko yanked out his earpiece.

“They found him? Already?”

“In critical condition but alive. They’ve airlifted him to Albany.”

“Maybe that’s Fulton’s chopper we heard?” Cutty said.

“He’s alive!” Percy said. “What if he talks? We’ve gotta abort.”

“Relax, he doesn’t know anything. It’s in the laptop,” Vic said. Turning back to Jerricko, he asked, “Did the news say anything about our operation?”

“Nothing.”

“Then we proceed as planned in the name of Allah.”

“Are you crazy?” Percy said. “If they found Fulton, they’ve got the cabin and our vehicles-and the woman’s got our laptop! They know everything! Let’s just take the money, lay low, regroup and replan.”

Vic tightened his grip on his gun and stepped into Percy’s space, drawing his face so close Percy felt his hot, angry breath on his skin.

“Are you committed to your martyrdom?” Vic asked.

Percy searched the fire burning in Vic’s eyes.

“Completely.”

“Then shut your mouth and obey orders!”

Vic pulled his satellite phone from his backpack and confirmed that he had a signal from their elevated position. Then he made a call while the others stood near, listening to his side of it.

“Yes, we spoke earlier about the wedding…are the clocks ready?…Good…Unfortunately, we’ve had a breakdown…we’ll need a ride to the celebration hall…so you’ll pick us up at the meeting point…We’ll be there in a few hours…Yes, we do have a substantial contribution to make as a financial gift…Yes, very substantial…In a few hours, then…Yes…Many blessings on this special day…Yes and to you, as well…”

Vic ended the call and scanned the grove where he knew Lori Fulton and her son were.

“The press attention will help us spread our message to America. This is not the time to falter.” He repositioned his gun on his shoulder. “We’re going to recover our laptop and make examples of those two. Then, by the grace of Allah, we’ll carry out the successful completion of our glorious mission for the world to see.”

Coyote Mountains, New York

Kate looked into the thick forests as Strobic’s Silverado ate up the paved narrow roads that snaked through this part of the mountain range.

“We just passed Split Creek. Used to go fishing there with my dad,” he said as dispatches from police, rangers and search teams crackled from his scanners. Some transmissions were so static-filled they couldn’t be understood, while others blasted with clarity. The steady flow of cross talk emphasized the urgency and scope of the search.

“Are we close?” Kate asked.

“We’re in the right sector,” Strobic said.

They passed through a hilltop turn, providing Kate with a sweeping view that hammered home the vastness of the wilderness.

How will they find anyone in this?

Strobic’s strategy was to stay on the marginal roads at the fringe of the search perimeters before those perimeters changed.

“This is how we’re going to get inside,” he said.

The backcountry was webbed with hunting trails and old logging roads. Strobic said none of them were mapped but he could pinpoint them. They would lead him into the heart of the search by using the tip his old friend had given him at the media center.

They’d gone about five miles without Kate seeing anything promising.

“Is it much farther, you think, Stan?”

“Hard to tell. Want to go back?”

“No. I want to keep going.”

The road twisted and Strobic slowed when they spotted a couple of local volunteer firefighters on ATVs. After passing them, they continued on for about half a mile when Strobic slowed for three searchers on horseback moving along on the side of the road.

“Looks like they’re still marshaling some people at this edge of things.”

Less than half a mile later they came to flashing emergency lights and a Greene County sheriff’s deputy’s car blocking the road. The deputy swiveled his hand for Strobic to turn around.

“Great,” Kate said. “This isn’t good.”

“Hang on.” Strobic got out and approached the officer’s car. “Press,” he called out.

The deputy got out of his vehicle, adjusted his hat and approached.

“You’ve got to turn around,” he said. “No one goes beyond this point.”

Strobic held up his ID.

“We’re with Newslead out of Manhattan.”

“I’m sorry, but-” The deputy paused to study the ID, then raised his head. “Stan?”

Strobic smiled. “Harry?”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” The deputy and Strobic laughed and clapped each other on the back. “How’s Ellen and the kids?”

“Good, all good. And you? Peggy and the boys?”

“Growing too fast.”

Strobic motioned to Kate, inviting her to meet his friend. “This is Harry Baker, my best friend when I spent summers here as a kid. Harry, this is Kate Page, one of our best reporters.”

“Hi there, Kate.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“So, Harry,” Strobic said. “This is where they’re focusing the search?”

“Partly. They’ve got sectors all over.” He pointed to the hills. “I’m just sitting on my point for this one.”

“So what do you think? Can we go in?”

“No can do, Stan. Way too dangerous. I got my orders.”

“Back at the center they said we could travel on the fringe roads.”

“Sure, but not this way. Sorry-I can’t swing this one for you. Too much at stake here.”

Strobic nodded while biting his bottom lip in disappointment. He patted his friend’s shoulder and shook his hand.

“Okay, rules are rules,” Strobic said. “Look, I might get tickets to a game. You should come in and we can catch up.”

“We’ll do that,” the deputy replied, smiling.

Back in the truck, Strobic wheeled around as the radios crackled. He ran a hand over his face, irritated at hitting yet another dead end. “I don’t know, Kate. Maybe we should go back.”

“No. We’ve come this far, we can’t give up now. Let’s find another road.”

“You’re a scrappy one.” Strobic smiled. “All right, we’ll keep going.”

Albany, New York

The intensive care unit at Highland Sloan Memorial was on the seventh floor in the northwest wing of the sprawling brick and steel complex.

The unit’s corridor gleamed with polished tile.

A uniformed Albany officer holding a rolled-up Sports Illustrated was among the people gathered at Dan Fulton’s door when Varner and Tilden arrived. A ponytailed woman wearing a white coat and glasses pulled them away from the group to an alcove.

“Dr. Beth Valachek,” she said. “You must be Tilden and Varner. The desk messaged me that you were on your way up. How was your drive?”

“Fast. My ears are ringing from the siren,” Tilden said. “How’s Fulton doing?”

“Not well. He suffered six gunshot wounds-once through his right arm, his left shoulder, left hand, abdomen, the left thigh and his lower back, thankfully just grazing his internal organs. He also suffered several compound fractures to his legs, arms and ribs, and he’s lost a lot of blood. Had he not been found for another hour or two, he would’ve died.”

“The forensic people are going to need those slugs,” Tilden said.

“That’s been taken care of.”

“Can we talk to Fulton?” Varner asked.