hiking socks.
A s he approached the ridgeline, he dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling through the grass, the phone clamped in his right hand. He grimaced as his knees scraped along the ground.
T he air carried the sweet smell of ponderosa pines, a hint of dust suspended on the wind—and a strong whiff of gasoline.
H e flopped on his belly and wriggled up the hump for a look to the other side.
W hat the fuck?
F ive, no, six people were in a circle wearing the bottom halves of Forest Service uniforms. Two of the men in the circle looked like unhappy cops at the beach, with short hair, aviator shades and deep scowls to accessorize their semi-undress.
T wo of the bare-chested rangers were women, and they clearly weren’t believers in brassieres. The one with curly reddish hair was even worth a second look.
T he six rangers surrounded a seventh ranger who stood at their center with a lit match cupped in his hand.
S cott remembered to tap the shutter “button” on his phone, and held it above the grass to record the doings below.
I t’s stranger than Rollo knows, Scott thought. The rangers sealed off the area so they could hold some twisted pagan ritual in the middle of nowhere. Jesus Christ, what if they decide to hold a human sacrifice?
H e missed the comforting weight of his gun, left behind with Rollo and Lani.
O ne of the women rangers—the one with chopped, dark hair—turned from the circle, lit torch held forward, and began passing through the grass, setting it aflame. She paused, dropped the torch in the grass, and donned a yellow coat from a pile of similar garments near one of the trucks.
“ Not so close,” the one with the matches yelled. “Take it further out, damn it. Burn the forest, not us!”
S cott hoped the phone’s microphone had caught those words. He slowly panned the camera toward the San Francisco peaks towering above Flagstaff in the distance, then back to the firebug jamboree in the grassy field ahead.
J ust as he carefully peered up to make sure the phone was capturing what he intended, a sensation like that of an oversized slug curling up in his right ear for a nap diverted his attention from the fiery festivities. Lying on his belly, observing nefarious doings in the forest, fifteen miles from paved road, Scott had received a wet willy.
“ Shit,” Scott yelped, slapping his hand to his ear.
H e rolled on his back to find the source of the unexpected offense—and stared straight up into the grinning face of Champ. Left ear pointed to the sky, right ear folded in a salute, slobber dripping from the tongue that had just probed the man’s ear, the dog panted, and then licked his face in canine adoration. His leash hung unattended from his collar.
S cott tilted his head, briefly, toward his friends. Lani had her arms stretched out toward him. She tilted her head and silently mouthed the word “sorry.” Rollo’s pack was open in front of him and he was frantically fiddling with something he’d apparently pulled from the interior.
R emembering where he was, Scott tilted his head back for an upside-down view of the half-dressed firebugs. The first thing he noticed was that the group he’d been watching was now watching him. One of two rangers with matching crew cuts and shades approached. His scowl was even deeper than before and he had a compact gun in his hand that Scott recognized as a Sig.
I s it a 9mm? Maybe it’s a .40. Then it occurred to him that there were better things to worry about.
S cott slowly rolled over, and then rose to his feet with his hands raised high—the smart phone exposed for everybody to see.
“ Hey folks. You must be …” He surveyed the gestating inferno in front of him. “… State Department? Anybody have a light?”
Chapter 18
H is nerves sizzling with adrenaline rush, Jason watched Ray stalk forward toward the stranger and his dog. He was surprised to see the wannabe G-man draw a gun from a hip holster. So
A s he approached the ridgeline, he dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling through the grass, the phone clamped in his right hand. He grimaced as his knees scraped along the ground.
T he air carried the sweet smell of ponderosa pines, a hint of dust suspended on the wind—and a strong whiff of gasoline.
H e flopped on his belly and wriggled up the hump for a look to the other side.
W hat the fuck?
F ive, no, six people were in a circle wearing the bottom halves of Forest Service uniforms. Two of the men in the circle looked like unhappy cops at the beach, with short hair, aviator shades and deep scowls to accessorize their semi-undress.
T wo of the bare-chested rangers were women, and they clearly weren’t believers in brassieres. The one with curly reddish hair was even worth a second look.
T he six rangers surrounded a seventh ranger who stood at their center with a lit match cupped in his hand.
S cott remembered to tap the shutter “button” on his phone, and held it above the grass to record the doings below.
I t’s stranger than Rollo knows, Scott thought. The rangers sealed off the area so they could hold some twisted pagan ritual in the middle of nowhere. Jesus Christ, what if they decide to hold a human sacrifice?
H e missed the comforting weight of his gun, left behind with Rollo and Lani.
O ne of the women rangers—the one with chopped, dark hair—turned from the circle, lit torch held forward, and began passing through the grass, setting it aflame. She paused, dropped the torch in the grass, and donned a yellow coat from a pile of similar garments near one of the trucks.
“ Not so close,” the one with the matches yelled. “Take it further out, damn it. Burn the forest, not us!”
S cott hoped the phone’s microphone had caught those words. He slowly panned the camera toward the San Francisco peaks towering above Flagstaff in the distance, then back to the firebug jamboree in the grassy field ahead.
J ust as he carefully peered up to make sure the phone was capturing what he intended, a sensation like that of an oversized slug curling up in his right ear for a nap diverted his attention from the fiery festivities. Lying on his belly, observing nefarious doings in the forest, fifteen miles from paved road, Scott had received a wet willy.
“ Shit,” Scott yelped, slapping his hand to his ear.
H e rolled on his back to find the source of the unexpected offense—and stared straight up into the grinning face of Champ. Left ear pointed to the sky, right ear folded in a salute, slobber dripping from the tongue that had just probed the man’s ear, the dog panted, and then licked his face in canine adoration. His leash hung unattended from his collar.
S cott tilted his head, briefly, toward his friends. Lani had her arms stretched out toward him. She tilted her head and silently mouthed the word “sorry.” Rollo’s pack was open in front of him and he was frantically fiddling with something he’d apparently pulled from the interior.
R emembering where he was, Scott tilted his head back for an upside-down view of the half-dressed firebugs. The first thing he noticed was that the group he’d been watching was now watching him. One of two rangers with matching crew cuts and shades approached. His scowl was even deeper than before and he had a compact gun in his hand that Scott recognized as a Sig.
I s it a 9mm? Maybe it’s a .40. Then it occurred to him that there were better things to worry about.
S cott slowly rolled over, and then rose to his feet with his hands raised high—the smart phone exposed for everybody to see.
“ Hey folks. You must be …” He surveyed the gestating inferno in front of him. “… State Department? Anybody have a light?”
Chapter 18
H is nerves sizzling with adrenaline rush, Jason watched Ray stalk forward toward the stranger and his dog. He was surprised to see the wannabe G-man draw a gun from a hip holster. So
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