At 4:40 am, my phone buzzes with a text message from Simone. It’s not really from Simone, of course.
It’s a pin, sending me a location.
A spot in the Wisconsin woods, two hours and twenty-eight minutes from where I’m currently located.
Raylan and I start speeding in that direction immediately.
I have to go ten over the limit, or faster. Otherwise we won’t make it there by 7:00 am.
“Watch out for cops,” I say to Raylan, through gritted teeth. I don’t have a second to spare for getting pulled over.
“How do you want to do this?” Raylan asks me.
“We have to triangulate. Try to figure out his location. Then close in on him from two sides.”
“You don’t know what he’s got set up,” Raylan says. “He could have traps. Mines. Other people.”
“I don’t think there’s anyone else,” I shake my head. “You said he didn’t have friends in the army. I doubt he has any now. The hotel room above the rally, and the shooting at the restaurant . . . that was one person. Same with his little shack outside his aunt’s house.”
“One person on their own ground still has the advantage,” Raylan says.
I know he’s right.
“If you see Simone, you get her out of there,” I tell Raylan. “Don’t wait for me.”
“Yeah, likewise,” Raylan says. “Though, I really don’t want to get shot by Du Pont. He was such a little creep. It would be embarrassing, you know?”
I snort and shake my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Now, if it was a bear or a wolf that got me . . .” Raylan says, looking around at the woods on either side of the road. “That would be cool, at least.”
“There’s no wolves in Wisconsin.”
“Oh there damn well is, my friend. Big gray wolves. Not as big as the ones in Alaska, but still twice the size of a husky.”
We crossed over the border into the other state about a half-hour ago. I know it’s probably mostly in my head, but the woods look thicker and darker here, more menacing. I don’t know this area. I don’t know what Du Pont has planned.
All I know is that he’s determined to use Simone to hurt me.
He couldn’t have picked a better target.
When I was in the army, I was never afraid. I was too unhappy for that. I didn’t want to die, but I also didn’t care that much if I did.
Now, for the first time, I have a vision of a possible future. Me, Simone, and Henry. Living in Chicago or living in Europe, I don’t give a fuck which. All I care about is that the three of us could be together.
Nothing is more important to me than the idea of us together in the same room, as a family. I haven’t experienced that, not for a moment. I won’t let Du Pont take that away from me.
I have to see Simone. I have to tell her I forgive her. And most of all, I have to save her.
If I have to choose . . . if only one of us makes it out of this . . . it’s going to be her.
Raylan and I are speeding closer to the pin. The closer we get, the less we talk. We’ve already run over our potential strategies. We won’t know exactly what to do until we get there, until we see what the fuck Du Pont is up to.
For now, all we can do is mentally prepare ourselves.
It’s 6:22. The edges of the sky are beginning to turn deep purple instead of black. It’ll be sunrise, soon.
As we drive on, the sky lightens a little more.
Thank god it stopped raining. The ground is still wet and muddy, though. The pavement is dark with silvery patches of standing water.
At last we come to the place where the map tells us to turn right. We’re leaving the empty two-lane highway, turning onto a winding dirt road leading into the woods. The pin looks to be about eight miles up.
I’m on edge as we slowly creepy up the rough road. The road becomes fainter and fainter as we go, so rocky that I wouldn’t be able to drive up it at all in a normal car. Luckily, I brought the Escalade. It bumps and jolts us, but never bottoms out.
Raylan and I are watching for anything in the road, tense in case someone ambushes us from the close-pressing woods on either side. There’s not much we can do to prevent that. We have to keep moving forward.
When we’re about a mile from the pin, I stop the car. It’s 6:41.
“Better get out here,” I say to Raylan. “The pin is a mile that way.” I point northeast.
There’s no cell service out here. Raylan won’t be able to call me, or to follow the map. I lost connection a mile back, and I’m just going off memory now.
“I’ll hoof it,” Raylan promises me. “I might even beat you there, with how rough the road is.”
“I doubt it,” I laugh.
“Just try me.”
He throws his duffle over his back. He’s got his Dragunov rifle in there, and one of my old guns. A couple smoke grenades, rope, a Bowie knife, and some old clothes of mine.
“See you soon, Deuce,” he says.
“See ya, Long Shot.”
We didn’t call Raylan that because he could shoot from a distance, though he certainly can. We called him that because he’s the eternal optimist—always thinking he can get the job done, whether there’s a real chance or not.
That’s why he’s come along with me on this suicide mission. He believes we can grab her and get out alive. I hope he’s right for once.
I watch Raylan disappear into the woods, then I keep driving up the winding road. Eventually it disappears entirely, the trees and bushes crowding in so close and the path becoming so steep that I have to abandon the SUV and continue on foot. I’ve got my own rifle over my shoulder, and a knife in my belt. Extra ammo packs, and a light Kevlar vest under my shirt.
It’s damn cold. The air is wet from the rain, and my feet sink silently in the spongy ground. The only sound is the last droplets dripping down from the trees.
At five minutes to seven, I come to a log cabin. There’s a pump out front. No light shining from the single window. I’m about to approach, when I see an arrow scratched in the dirt, pointing east into the woods. Directions from Du Pont.
I go east, but not directly along the path of the arrow. I skirt around, heading in the same direction by my own path. I’m not going to walk willingly into Du Pont’s trap. Not out in the open.
The sun is rising, tinting the sky orange through the tall pines. I can see the light, but I don’t feel any warmth from it yet. Only jogging through the wood is keeping me warm.
After another half mile, I come to the top of a ridge. Down below, I see an open meadow. The grass is yellowed and dry, thick with morning mist. Sunlight is just starting to extend across the open ground.
At exactly 7:00 am, a shot rings out.
My heart clenches up in my chest. For a second I think Du Pont shot Simone exactly at seven—that he brought me all the way out here just so I could hear it myself, without any chance of saving her.
Then I see what looks like a white bird flying across the field. It’s Simone—running as fast as she can, her long legs whipping back and forth under her skirt.
I want to call out to her, but she’s too far away to hear. And I don’t want to draw attention to her, or to myself. Instead, I look around for any sign of Du Pont. Terrified that any moment I’ll hear another shot, and Simone will drop.
Thinking the same thing, she starts to run in a zig-zag.
“That’s right,” I mutter, under my breath. “Don’t make it easy for him.”
Then, even better, she comes to a thick stand of grass and drops down out of sight.
“Good girl,” I breathe.
I head down the ridge, trying to circle around to where Simone might be going, while watching for any sign of Du Pont.
