Rick Mofina - Every Second

“…hikers just came out of Fox Ridge near the…need air support…”

“Air support? Where? Near where?” Stan shouted at the scanner.

“…we’re sending people to Fox Ridge…at the northwest turn of the Bearfoot River…hikers…hearing steady automatic gunfire…”

“Fox Ridge and the Bearfoot, I know it.”

“Are we close?”

“We’re close.” He pressed down on the accelerator. “The best way in is seven or eight miles from here.”

Strobic pushed his truck flat out. Kate gripped the grab handle above her door as the narrow road twisted left then right, climbing and dipping through the woods. At one point they rolled by an immense swath of charred trees and gnarled stumps, the aftermath of a wildfire from years gone by. Gradually, stands of deadwood gave way to thick, healthy trees.

Strobic and Kate listened hard to every dispatch as the road ascended and curled into forests so dense they obscured the light. They stayed on the fringes of the search perimeter to avoid any checkpoints.

Sometime later, he pulled off the road, turned and crawled into the dirt mouth of a forgotten trail. His truck was invisible from the paved road, concealed by the dense brush.

“This is the northwest entrance to Timber Point,” Strobic said as they got out and went around to the back of the truck. “It’s an old logging trail but it tapers off into some badass terrain.”

Strobic lowered his tailgate, raised the door of the cap and began rooting through his gear.

“You’ll need these.” He collected boots, heavy woolen socks, jeans and a ball cap. “They’re my wife’s, but you’re about the same size, I think.”

Kate nodded and took the gear from Strobic.

“We’ll take the trail. We might have to hike in a long way.”

“Remember, they heard gunshots.”

“I know.”

A helicopter thundered above the treetops as it passed.

Kate stepped behind a tree with the clothes. After changing, she returned to Strobic, who waited with his camera bags and radios.

All suited up and ready to move, he passed Kate a fluorescent orange vest with the word PRESS in reflective lettering across the back. It matched the one he had.

“This is so we don’t get shot at,” he said. “You know the rules, Kate, same as in a war zone. Be watchful, be careful and be lucky.”

Kate nodded. “Let’s go.”

Coyote Mountains, New York

Lori hung on to Billy as they shot along the rushing river.

They rolled and turned in the furious water as she struggled to keep Billy’s head above the churning surface.

They slid over smooth stones, banged against jutting rocks. The river bounced them mercilessly from one boulder to another, faster and faster. At times they were on a collision course with massive rocks rising directly before them. It took every last bit of Lori’s dwindling strength to raise her feet and avert impact.

Managing a glance at Billy, she saw that he was bleeding from the side of his head.

Has he been shot, or has he banged his head on the rocks?

She was hurting, her wounded arm nearly useless as the unrelenting river carried them still farther. Surely they were beyond the reach of the killers, she thought, growing dizzy, searching for calm water and a safe place. Above the roar she thought she’d heard a helicopter, but she couldn’t tell whether it was real or a hallucination, as the sound faded along with her hope.

Most of the feeling in her body was ebbing. Her strength was all but gone, her eyes closing just as the river delivered them to a section of flat, slick rocks and tranquil, shallow water. Lori lay for a moment praying. Then she summoned the last of her strength. Struggling with her numb, wounded arm, she untied Billy’s bound hands and ripped off a section of her shredded shirt. Gritting through her pain, she tore it into strips and used them to wrap the wounds she found on Billy’s stomach and head, then took a moment to tend to her own.

Cradling her son’s body, she could see that his lips had turned blue. Panic flared inside her again.

“No! Stay with Mommy!”

She bent over his still body, starting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

I can’t lose you, too!

Breathing her last breaths into him, she collapsed while voices screamed in the back of her head.

Don’t give up! You’ve got to hang on! I’ll be right behind you!

Coyote Mountains, New York

Trooper Larry Mattise stood at the checkpoint near Fox Ridge, his patrol car blocking the road as he directed drivers to pull to the side. Traffic trickled at this extreme edge of the dragnet, the junction of Birch Creek Road and Red Hawk Way.

A dog’s bark pulled Mattise’s attention to where a trooper, a Greene County deputy and a K-9 unit from Albany were searching the van of a family from Vermont. Next in line, an older man and woman in a Mercedes from New Jersey waited their turn. Behind them in a polished Lincoln was an arrogant, “Do you know who I am?” injury lawyer, who did TV commercials promising sky’s-the-limit settlements.

Mattise’s job was to ensure all civilian and commercial traffic was checked by the roadside search teams at his point. He was also directing every newly arriving law enforcement vehicle to go down Birch Creek Road, where resources were needed most. They were still setting up and expanding the search boundaries miles in every direction, pulling in people from across the region.

He studied images of the suspects on his phone. Most of the photos were crisp: Jerricko Blaine, from Dallas; Doug Gerard Kimmett, from Binghamton, New York; Jake Sebastian Spencer from Minneapolis; and a grainy head shot of Adam Chisolm Patterson of Chicago. As he reread the key facts and threat summary, an alert and photos from the FBI came through concerning a new, fifth suspect: Todd Dalir Ghorbani, of Springfield, Massachusetts, believed to be driving a 2014 red Chevrolet Malibu.

This case was busting wide-open on all fronts, Mattise thought as a fixed wing plane flew overhead for the first time.

Good, they needed more help in the air, since it was impossible to cover every road, back trail and private path in this corner of the state. If you took in the Coyotes, the Blackheads and the Catskills, you were looking at something like a million acres to search. Sure, the report of gunfire near this end of Fox Ridge gave the SWAT teams a focal point for convergence, but man, these guys could be anywhere.

Who knew? They could be long gone from here.

Mattise resumed studying their faces, lifting his head at the rumble of an oncoming vehicle. It was a marked New York State Police SUV. He didn’t recognize it right off. The brakes emitted a gentle squeak as it halted and Mattise approached the trooper behind the wheel.

“Where you coming from, pal?”

“Hudson,” the driver said. “What’ve you got going here?”

“Roadside search. And way up there along the ridge-” he nodded to the mountains “-they’re trying to nail down a report of automatic weapons fire.”

“That right?”

“Yeah, it was on the radio. And they just updated the mugs and info on the suspects.”

“What do we have now?”

Mattise showed the driver the pictures on his phone. The new cop never removed his dark glasses. His jaw muscles bunched and he licked his lips a couple of times as he studied the five faces. He seemed to be sweating a bit. After a moment, Mattise pulled his phone back and asked: “You’re here to help, right?”

The man nodded.

“Then you keep going down Birch Creek a few miles,” Mattise said, pointing. “They’ll assign you down there.”