hauled himself upward with handfuls of grass. He zigzagged between the
small trees and bushes, looking for leverage. The extra fifty feet on
the northern rim was a punishment. He tracked right to where a small
landslide had created a straight path at a kinder angle. Slipped and
slid upward through the crushed rock to the top.
He waited in the overhang, where the earth had fallen away beneath the
crust of roots. Listened hard. Heard nothing except silence. He
lifted himself onto the rim. Stood there with his chest against the
earth, head and shoulders exposed, looking north into enemy territory.
He saw nothing. Just the gentle initial slopes, then the hills, then
the giant mountains glowering in the far distance. Blue sky, a million
trees, clean air, total silence. He thought: you’re a long way from
Chicago, Mack.
Ahead of him was a belt of scrub where the ancient rock was too close
to the surface for much to grow. Then a ragged belt of trees,
interrupted at first by rocky outcrops, then growing denser into the
distance. He could see the curved gap in the treetops where the road
must run. Three hundred yards to his left. He rolled up onto the
grass and ran for the trees. Worked left toward the road and shadowed
it north in the forest.
He jogged along, dodging trees like a slow-motion parody of a wide
receiver heading for the end zone. The map was printed in his mind. He
figured he had maybe three miles to go. Three miles at a slow jog, not
much better than a fast walk, maybe forty-five, fifty minutes. The
ground was rising gently under his feet. Every fourth or fifth stride,
his feet hit the floor a fraction sooner than they should have as the
gradient lifted him into the hills. He tripped a couple of times on
roots. Once, he slammed into a pine trunk. But he pounded on,
relentlessly.
After forty minutes, he stopped. He figured Brogan and Milosevic were
having a similar journey, but they were dealing with extra distance
because they had tracked west at the outset. So he expected a delay.
With luck they would be about twenty minutes behind him. He walked
deeper into the woods and sat down against a trunk. Lit a cigarette.
He figured he was maybe a half-mile shy of the rendezvous. The map in
his head said the road was about due to arrow up into the town.
He waited fifteen minutes. Two cigarettes. Then he stood up and
walked on. He went cautiously. He was getting close. He made two
diversions to his left and found the road. Just crept through the
trees until he caught the gleam of sun on the gray cement. Then he
dodged back and carried on north. He walked until he saw the forest
thinning ahead. He saw sunlight on open spaces beyond the last trees.
He stopped and stepped left and right to find a view. He saw the road
running up to the town. He saw buildings. A gray ruin on a knoll on
the left. The courthouse on the right. Better preserved. Gleaming
white in the sunshine. He stared through the trees at it for a long
moment. Then he turned back. Paced five hundred yards into the woods.
Drifted over toward the road until he could just make out the gray
gleam through the trees. Leaned on a trunk and waited for Brogan and
Milosevic.
This time, he resisted the attraction of another cigarette. He had
learned a long time ago that to smoke while in hiding was not a smart
thing to do. The smell drifts, and a keen nose can detect it. So he
leaned on the tree and stared down in frustration. Stared at his
shoes. They were ruined from the scramble up the north face of the
ravine. He had jabbed them hard into the rocky slope and they were
scratched to pieces. He stared at the ruined toe caps and instantly
knew he had been betrayed. Panic rose in his throat. His chest seized
hard. It hit him like a prison door swinging gently shut. It swung
soundlessly inward on greased hinges and clanged shut right in his