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Then she saw a Coast Guard cutter in the distance and two choppers in the air above her, and when the choppers roared over her, she lifted her arm in jubilation. But it wasn’t until the Coast Guard cutter blew past her, too, that she eased back on the throttle.
She’d made it. Home free again, but how many lives did she have left?
Each time she got into a situation like this, it felt like the end of her, and yet she kept going back in. She still hadn’t decided if that was a death wish, or because she was so alone in the world that it didn’t really matter.
Now that she had the power of the FBI and the Coast Guard behind her, she began to breathe easier. But coming down from the adrenaline surge of what had just happened was beginning to make her shake.
Every muscle in her body was throbbing. The coppery taste of blood was still in her mouth, her fingers wouldn’t uncurl from the steering wheel, and the wind was drying the tears on her cheeks faster than she could cry them.
A short while later, the Coast Guard picked her up and towed the speedboat into port. Rusty was taken to a hospital for treatment and then, later that same day, returned to her home in Virginia to recuperate.
A week passed. She finally graduated from soup and pudding after her tongue had time to heal, but she was still suffering from whiplash, a swollen knee, a twisted ankle, and daily headaches from the hard landing in the boat.
It wasn’t the first time she’d given thought to reconsidering her career choices.
***
Jubilee, Kentucky
It was just after sunrise when Cameron Pope left his house, still wearing the shadow of last night’s whiskers and the clothes he wore for his daily run. He wasn’t one of those guys who needed earbuds and music blasting in his ears while he ran. Although his cell phone was zipped in an inner pocket of his windbreaker, he didn’t need to listen to motivational speakers or the news of the day. He’d been a soldier too long to be stupid enough to cut off one of the senses that had kept him alive. He was aware of every aspect of his surroundings, as was the big dog at his side.
Fog was still rising as he came down from the porch of the sprawling, single-story home he’d grown up in. The air was as still as the big white dog beside him. Where he went, Ghost went. It’s how they rolled.
A hawk took flight from a nearby tree as they started up the gravel drive, and by the time Cameron and Ghost reached the blacktop road at the end of his drive, they were running.
It was the feel of foot to earth, the blood racing through his body, the little clouds his breath made coming out of his mouth, the sting of cold air up his nostrils that reminded him to be grateful he still lived. Two tours of duty in a war-torn land and still coming back with all his limbs and senses was everything.
Ghost always ran a few yards ahead, unaware that this country did not have IEDs planted at the sides of the road. Always on the alert. Always clearing the way for his human. Their bond was deep. Unbreakable. Their faith in each other unwavering.
The road up the mountain was steep and curving and bordered on both sides by trees older than the humans who now lived on it. It was the land of the Pope and Glass and Cauley families. Their sprawling generations populated the Cumberland Mountains and the town of Jubilee in the valley below.
The blood of Cameron Pope’s Choctaw ancestors ran true in his dark eyes and black hair, but it was his Scottish great-great-great-grandfather who’d put the breadth and height in the DNA of the Popes who came after.
Cameron towered over most people, just like Pope Mountain towered over Jubilee, and his long legs carried him far and fast as he ran, chasing Ghost up the mountain, outrunning the ghosts of the war they’d left behind.
They ran up, then they ran back down and all the way home.
Cameron’s day had just begun.
Back inside the house, he fed Ghost, then headed up the hall to shower and shave. He came out dressed for the day and turned on the TV to listen to the morning newscasts as he made breakfast. Then a news bulletin interrupted the morning show, and he stopped, his focus shifting.
“We’ve just been alerted to an ongoing riot inside Abercrombie Penitentiary. Guards have been taken hostage. At least four prisoners are unaccounted for and are suspected to have escaped. The warden is in negotiations with the prisoners regarding the release of hostages.
These are scenes from within the prison moments after the riot began. It is unknown how the inmates were able to get out of their cells, so at this time, it is all supposition. We’ll keep you updated as more information comes in. Authorities are asking everyone in the vicinity of the penitentiary to lock their cars and houses and, if possible, stay inside.”
Cameron frowned. Every time somebody in this part of the state made a jailbreak, they headed for the most heavily wooded areas. Like these mountains.
He thought of his sister, Rachel, and her family who lived a couple of miles further up the mountain. He sent her a text, then plated his food and sat down to eat.
A few minutes later he got a reply.
Saw the same bulletin. Locked in.
Satisfied he’d done his brotherly duty, he finished eating, cleaned up after himself, and headed into town with Ghost riding shotgun.
The day progressed. He thought nothing more of the bulletin as he bought groceries, then swung by the hardware store for nails and caulking. There were some loose boards on the porch steps, and he needed to recaulk some windows before winter set in.
***
