Chapter 47 - Smoke Along the Riverbed
The Skykomish River bottoms were a nightmare of braided channels, dense blackberry brambles, and rotting alder groves half-submerged in silty, gray glacier water.
Six state patrol cruisers and two armored BearCat tactical vehicles had formed a loose containment perimeter along Highway 2, but the swampy riverbed was too dense for motorized vehicles. The afternoon heat was turning the valley into a humid green sauna, trapping the scent of mud and stagnant river water close to the ground.
At the river crossing near Tualco Road, the escapees’ stolen transport van lay on its side, black smoke still boiling from its smashed radiator.
A Washington State Patrol sergeant ran up to my truck, wiping river mud from his ballistic glasses. "Marcus, the four runners hit the marsh ten minutes ago. Our patrol bloodhound took one step into the mud, got tangled in the submerged wire, and spiked his leg on a beaver stake. We need a track right now."
I brought Jax and Nova to the rear doors of the overturned van.
On the shattered asphalt lay a discarded prisoner jumpsuit, soaked in sweat, kerosene, and cheap gun oil.
I held the cloth down. Jax inhaled once—a deep, full-lung draft through his flared nostrils. His copper eyes narrowed into needlepoints. He turned toward the dark wall of willow trees bordering the river, his lip pulling back over ivory fangs in a silent, savage promise.
I knelt beside Nova, holding the fabric out. The four-month-old pup leaned in, her small black nose twitching as she cataloged the sharp scent profile. She sneezed once, looked at her father, and gave a sharp, confident tug on her leather lead.
"Lead out, Jax," I murmured, clicking the twenty-foot tracking line to his combat harness. "Nova, shadow."
We slipped beneath the emerald canopy of the willows.
The mud was knee-deep in places, sucking at our tactical boots, but Jax moved with effortless, piston-like power. His wide paws spread across the silt, carrying him forward like an aquatic predator. Behind him, Nova followed in his exact footsteps, learning where to plant her lighter paws to avoid the hidden roots and slick clay banks.
Two hundred yards deep into the marsh, Jax paused.
He didn't make a sound. He sank three inches into the mud, flattening his muscular body until his belly grazed the water, using a fallen cottonwood trunk as concealment.
Nova dropped beside him instantly, mirroring her father’s posture so perfectly she became invisible in the ferns.
Ahead, through a gap in the willow brush, two men in muddy gray tactical shirts were crouched beside a rusted irrigation ditch. One was binding a gunshot wound on the other’s forearm with electrical tape. Resting against the ditch bank were two high-caliber carbines fitted with drum magazines.
"Where is Cruz?" the wounded man hissed, his voice trembling with panic.
"Down at the old pump house," the second shooter replied, racking the bolt of his rifle. "He’s forcing the barge tender at gunpoint to bring the river tug across from the south bank. We hold the rear guard here until the horn sounds."
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Jax’s tail gave two rhythmic, iron-stiff twitches against my boot.
The prey had set an anchor.
