Primal Threat - Earl Emerson [96]
“Don’t be coming back here. Keep looking!”
“Bullshit. You come over on this side of the river and look. It’s too smoky.”
“Okay. We’ll go up the hill and search. You come back and go along the river and look for a way out. That way, if one of us gets caught in an ambush, the others can flank them.”
“Sounds good. I haven’t scored yet, and I need to bag one.”
“It’d be nice if we could each bag one.”
The walkie-talkie in Zak’s rear jersey pocket grew quiet. “You think they meant that last bit?” Zak said.
“Naw. They were just trying to throw a scare into us.”
“It worked.”
“Have you noticed there are only two units talking? There should be three.”
“Maybe the other one’s up top laying for Giancarlo and Stephens.”
When they finally reached the plateau that couched Lake Hancock, Zak wasn’t as exhausted and maimed as he thought he would be. It gave him hope he might get his race legs back. It had taken more than thirty minutes, but they’d come up at an even pace, and now the woods on the plateau afforded more shade than the hillside had.
Zak said, “The air’s better up here.”
“It’s starting to get hazy toward the lake, though. In another couple of hours, we won’t have any clean air at this elevation, either. We better find Giancarlo and Stephens.”
Dreading the climb out of the lake basin, where they would have to traverse the same road that had exposed them to gunfire earlier—it seemed like days earlier—they trekked around the south end of Lake Hancock, riding with no hands while they munched Clif Bars and sipped water from the bite valves on their backpacks, gathering strength for the next climb. It was the nastiest mountain they’d done all day, but it surprised Zak to see how anxious Muldaur was. This was the area where a bullet had chipped his helmet, and until now Zak thought it hadn’t affected his friend.
It occurred to Zak that all that chatter on the walkie-talkies might have been a ploy and that the Jeep gang might be circling to surprise them at the top. Or that the third remaining vehicle might have been up there waiting all along.
They kept a watch out over the lake, which had now acquired a nappy surface from the wind. The breeze was hot and laden with the perfume of distant fires. It was just past noon, and even up here the air was beginning to get smokier. By six o’clock nothing on the mountain would be breathable.
Zak said, “You think the fire’s going to jump the river and creep up this mountain?”
“If it comes up the mountain, it won’t be doing any creeping. In steep country like this it’ll travel faster than a man can run.”
“I wonder if it travels faster than a man can bike?”
“None of these roads go straight up. Chances are, even if we outrun it, we’d get cut off.”
“Scary.”
“Most definitely scary.”
Several times Zak almost tipped over while gazing out at Lake Hancock and the surrounding mountains. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he wouldn’t be surprised to see a Porsche Cayenne or a white Ford pickup, or muzzle flashes from a rifle barrel. “We better keep our minds on our work,” said Muldaur. “If they start shooting, we’ll know soon enough.”
They rode uphill for another twelve minutes before they spotted Giancarlo and Stephens coasting toward them, their fingers tight on their brake levers. As they closed in, Stephens said, “Where are you guys headed?”
“We were coming to save your butts,” said Zak.
“We were going down to save yours,” said Giancarlo. “Why didn’t you guys go back into town?”
“Way too much smoke,” said Zak. “We figured the best place to wait this out was up top.”
“We thought so until it got too smoky. There’s a fire right below the ridge a couple of miles back. The whole ridge is layered in smoke. It’s bad.”
“It’s true,” said Stephens. “My asthma was kicking in. Are they behind you?”
“Not that we know of.”
“So are we going down or up?”
Zak looked at Muldaur, who shrugged. “Down,