Last Track, The by Sam Hilliard

immediately, when the idea seemed so preposterous. She did not fly for fun. That was final.
    “Can’t ask for more than that,” Erich said. “I heard you were researching an article about my ranch. I’d like to help.”
    “An interview for a plane ride. Is that your proposition?” Irked that Mike had leaked her plans, she hid her resentment as best she could. Ideally, the longer it stayed quiet she was a journalist, the easier that the writing would go. Once word spread she was a reporter, wild tales would come to her from every corner. People loved being written about as much as they liked talking about themselves.
    “I do like a good conversation.” Erich held up the room key. “About Mike, how do I get this to him?”
    “I’ll take it for now.” She reached outward for the silver key. Erich cupped his hand around hers. The gesture surprised Jessica.
    More surprising to her was how long she hesitated in the doorway.
    09:52:53 AM
    Dagget lingered near enough for a conversation, yet far enough away that it was clear he preferred talking with anyone other than Mike.
    “This is not what we discussed when I agreed to go in,” Dagget said, his voice strained.
    “You’re critical here, Dagget,” Lisbeth said. “You and Mike.”
    Dagget grunted loudly and harshly, almost as if expectorating something he could not purge from his throat fast enough. “I think it would be best if I helped with the search in another way.”
    Lisbeth gave both men a glance. “Concern noted. I’m not going to sell you on this arrangement or convince you of the merits. There are a lot of complementary skills between you. Dagget, you know this area extremely well, and you’re one of the few officers with advanced search-and-rescue training. Plus, you’ve always demonstrated a tremendous enthusiasm for assignments like this in the past. Mike, between your references and my hunch, I’m certain this pairing will work well for you, too. Trust my judgment. That’s all I ask.”
    “With all due respect, Detective . . . ,” Dagget said.
    Lisbeth cut his protest short. “The choice has been made. You’re working with Mike. Your first report is due in three hours. Now go see Shad Hammer. He’s got some gear for you.”
    Mike considered her reasoning curious, but the decision was hers. Dagget and Mike stared at each other for a long and awkward moment. Irony wore badly on Dagget; the officer was obviously uncomfortable. When it was clear to Mike that Dagget would never make the first move, he broke the silence and put out his hand. “The name’s Mike.”
    “I know who you are.” Dagget folded his hands under his arms, declining the handshake. He glared past the tracker. A disparity in their heights—Mike was easily six inches taller—blunted the effect.
    “Dagget, right?” Mike asked. He wasn’t crazy about the arrangement. He wasn’t sure he really trusted Dagget, either. Still, he wanted to help with the search. He had to.
    “That’s Officer Dagget, pal.”
    •••
    Shad Hammer was the sort of tech who preferred handling gear over dealing with people; that was Mike’s impression. The tech probably had learned to appreciate the equipment because it was a crutch during conversations and a ready-made excuse for tinkering. As Dagget and Mike approached the van, Shad was reading the movie section of the local newspaper, his back propped against the vehicle. From behind his pages, Shad hummed the Mission Impossible theme.
    “You need gear, you need the Shad,” he said, smirking at the cleverness of his own introduction. Ditching the paper, Shad opened the rear door of the white van. Inside were neat, ordered rows of firearms, ammunition, and various electronic devices. Unzipping a black tactical bag with shoulder straps, Shad rattled off its contents: “Two walkie-talkies, encrypted transmissions. First aid kit, water filter, flashlights, batteries, maps. Protein bars, Gatorade mix and assorted freeze-dried provisions,