Last Track, The by Sam Hilliard Page A

and two syringes of epinephrine for the kid’s asthma.”
    Besides the weight factor—food was heavy—to Mike the gear made sense. Except one item. “Why syringes?” Mike asked. “Auto-injectors are more portable and sturdy.”
    Shad nodded. “They would have been a better choice, yes. Unfortunately, this is what we had on hand.” He continued. “A flare gun and three flares if we have radio trouble and need to locate you. And here’s a special GPS, already calibrated for the terrain and preloaded with more than two dozen local maps . . .”
    With a shake of his head, Mike said, “I’ve got my own, thanks.”
    Shad countered. “At least take it as a backup device.”
    “Definitely appreciated, but I only trust my own navigation gear,” Mike said.
    “Okay,” Shad said. “Last—weapons. That USP is not going to cut it for you, Dagget.”
    “I know what I want,” said Dagget, pointing toward a rifle with a high-capacity magazine and shoulder straps. “Gimme the AR with the scope.”
    Shad reached for the firearm.
    “You don’t want that,” said Mike in such a way that Shad stopped reaching.
    “And why not?” Dagget asked, snorting.
    “It’s heavy,” Mike said. “Carry that for a few hours, it’ll tire you out.” He knew a few things about hauling heavy weaponry all day, even when he was exhausted.
    “Pretending you even know what you’re talking about, what do I want?” Dagget asked.
    Mike pointed to a Marlin 444. It was a big bore rifle, designed for backwoods hunting and just over seven pounds loaded.
    “I’d have to agree with him,” said Shad, who nodded at Mike.
    “Looks like a cap gun,” Dagget said dismissively, his jaw clenched.
    “That . . . ahem . . . cap gun can drop a grizzly bear. Forty-four pounds of recoil,” Shad said. “Not for the meek. What about you, Mike? You want something?”
    Mike shook his head no. He rarely carried anymore, and hunted even less. Weapons had their time and place.
    Dagget stared at the rifle, hesitating.
    “Listen,” Shad said to Dagget. “It’s what I would pack in this situation.”
    The last bit sold Dagget on the Marlin. He relented, reached for the rifle, and conceded. “It is pretty light.”
    “Let me get you a shoulder sling and some shells.” Shad reached for the appropriate ammo box while Dagget checked the chamber, pointing the rifle at the ground. Shad grabbed the correct box without checking the label; the dimensions and weight told him all he needed to know. The shells rattled in the package.
    Dagget found that the chamber was clear. Presenting two boxes of twenty rounds, each shell three hundred grains, Shad asked, “That enough?”
    “If it takes more, we’ve got real problems,” said Dagget, checking his watch. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
    Shad laid the weapon against the bumper. The barrel pointed upward. “I’m impressed, Mike. Most cops grab a machine gun.”
    “We’re not trying to clear a room,” Mike said.
    “No, you’re not,” Shad agreed. “Looks like Dagget is giving you a hard time.”
    “I don’t take it personally,” Mike said.
    “Good.” Shad paused. “Man, I’d swear our paths have crossed before. Were you ever in Fort Benning, Georgia?”
    “A long time ago,” Mike said, wistful for the past and at the same time, hesitant about looking back right now.
    Shad yanked up his sleeve and revealed the Ranger scroll tattooed across the toned shoulder. Mike recognized a brother in his midst and smiled. When the sleeve fell back over the ink, they shook hands.
    “What brings you out this way?” Mike said.
    “Same thing that always held me back in the Army,” Shad said. “I’m better with gear than getting promoted.” He scrawled a cell number on his business card and tucked it in the gear bag. “If you need support out there, give me a shout. Technical or otherwise.”
    “I really appreciate that.” Never shall I fail my comrades. Part of the Ranger creed.
    “You’d do the same