of family members, were unaware of anyone or anyplace he would be inclined to flee to.
His residence, a small apartment on the east side of Tacoma, was searched. There was no evidence of any extremist affiliation.
Firearm used in the shooting was a Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special, registered to Adam’s father.
Neither of the suspects’ phones are active.
Both men have passports. Erick’s is still in his parents’ home.
A video of a currency exchange showed two men, in sunglasses and wearing hoodies, changing $500 U.S. into Canadian. They matched the general builds of the suspects.
Shaw scanned these notes, sat back, closed his eyes, digesting what he’d read, drawing conclusions about the incident and the people involved.
His phone hummed. It was Chad Johnson.
“Detective?”
“We’ve got them, Mr. Shaw.”
Fastest reward job on record. No money. But the good news was that he could now return to his other mission: tracking down his father’s secret.
Echo Ridge …
“Anybody hurt? Did they resist?”
A pause. “Oh, we haven’t apprehended them yet. I mean, we’ve located them. They’re in Adam’s pickup. There was a sighting of it headed north on I-5. Then they turned off on surface roads and were still heading north. Making for Canada, of course. We’ve got a taskforce on the apprehension detail. Ten person.”
The last word stumbled out. Johnson had recently been trained not to use the male gender if possible, Shaw guessed.
“Should get them in the next hour.”
“Good.”
“Sorry about the reward, sir.”
He didn’t sound too sorry, Shaw thought. Maybe the Ecumenical Council and the high-tech wunderkind Ed Jasper were contributing the bulk but the rest of the cash would have to come out of his budget.
Shaw thanked him. He sipped a bit more coffee, then sent a text to Mack McKenzie, his D.C.-based private eye, requesting three items of information. Shortly after, she responded, answering all of them with the level of detail that she was known for.
Shaw read the reply closely and, after scanning a map, fired up the Winnebago’s engine. He pulled out of Harper’s parking lot, surveyed the vehicles nearby—those parked, as well as those in motion—then drove onto the uneven road. He steered east out of Gig Harbor, his GPS directing him to a trailer camp, where he’d park the Winnebago and Uber to a car rental agency to pick up a sedan or SUV. He edged the camper as far over the speed limit as he dared without getting pulled over.
He couldn’t afford any delays. Time was vital.
An hour later Shaw was steering his rental Kia along a mountainous route fifty miles east of Tacoma in the beautiful country approaching Mount Rainier National Park. Winding roads, panoramic views, verdant forest, formations of rock shiny and pitted as wet bone.
He eased out of a climbing switchback and onto a straightaway, a hillside face on his right, and began to accelerate.
Then a moving shadow caught his attention.
The boulder was cartwheeling toward the road directly in front of him.
Seconds to decide.
Swerve left? Swerve right?
T his bullet hit its mark …
A golden eagle, troubled by the sharp crack of the pistol rolling through the valley, lifted off and descended away from the human disturbance in stately urgency.
Colter Shaw glanced down, noting the sizable gunshot hole in the Kia’s right front tire. The car knelt.
Now free from the vehicle, Shaw pushed through the forsythia and watched the shooter walk across the road, dusting away pollen and burrs from his sleeves and jeans.
Fully bearded, Dalton Crowe was two inches taller than Shaw’s six feet even. Broad shoulders, ample chest, both encased in a black and red plaid lumberjack shirt. Camo overalls. His belt was well tooled, and well worn, shiny and unevenly dark. The holster for the long-barreled revolver was cowboy style, brown and glossy and chrome studded.
Each of the men had bestowed scars upon the other, about the same number, the same length, the same depth. The bruises had long fleshed away. The confrontations were not intended to be lethal but simply to derail the other’s success in finding the suspects in reward jobs. In one instance, Crowe wanted to stop Shaw so he could get one hundred percent of the money for an escaped prisoner; Shaw wanted to stop Crowe from gunning down the trapped, unarmed man.
Crowe ambled across the road and looked at the tire. “Hmm.”
“You fired in my direction,” Shaw said. His tone was scolding only; he hadn’t felt himself in much danger. He’d known to a certainty that the rock-tipper and shooter was Crowe and not the suspects, Adam Harper or Erick Young.
For a big man who would look right at home in Hells Angels’ attire, Crowe had an eerily high voice. “Nup, Shaw. None of that. I was saving you from a snake.” He was from Birmingham, Alabama, and came equipped with the accent. “Timber rattler and a damn big one.”
Shaw glanced down. “Don’t see him.”
“Aw, I just fired to scare him off. Which I did, as you can see. I like all of God’s creatures, rattlers included. Sorry about your tire.”
Shaw looked at the boulder, completely blocking the highway.
Crowe didn’t bother to spin a tale about that.
“These boys’re mine, Shaw. Adam and Erick. I’m going to find ’em and I’m going to bring ’em in. I got to Gig Harbor ’fore you did. So, dig yourself out and head on home.”
“How’d you find me?” Shaw asked.
“I’m the best, that’s how.” Crowe slipped his gun away. Shaw wondered if he ever twirled it on his finger like gunslingers do in the movies. Shaw had once seen somebody shoot himself in the armpit doing that. Human stupidity has no bounds.
“You heard my piece. That’s all there is to it. I’ve got a yellow Volkswagen to catch up with.”
Shaw’s brows compressed. “How’d you know they were …” His voice faded, as if he’d slipped up, confirming a fact that Crowe hadn’t known for certain.
“Haw.
