The chief got it. “They had a different out.”
“Yes, they did, you know what Monica Reynolds bought at that hardware store in Wyoming?”
“What?”
“An extension ladder. An extremely long extension ladder, “Mac answered, already moving back toward the camp site. “I’m betting Brown went up. They had that extension ladder. It’s probably not far from the campsite.”
With their flashlights lighting the way, Mac and the chief picked their way back toward the campsite. Fifty feet short, Mac’s light flashed across it. He stopped and moved closer and there it was: a streak of blood at shoulder level. Mac moved his light further left and noted two more streaks of blood. The chief saw them as well.
Mac pushed that direction. It was fifty or so feet to the base of the cliff. He looked up.
“Look there boyo,” the chief said, pointing to the right into the soft sand at the base of the cliff. “Those prints look fresh.”
“That they do. He doubled back on us,” Mac answered already making his way back south, toward the camp. He went twenty feet or so and the prints turned left into a narrow crevice, perhaps ten feet wide, which carved its way deep into the cliff face. Mac and the chief, weapons drawn slowly moved into the crevice, which curved slowly to the left. Fifty feet in, they found the extension ladder. Fully extended, the ladder reached nearly thirty feet up to a ledge.
“Cover me,” Mac said as he stuffed his Sig in his pants and climbed the ladder, his left thigh burning with each bend of his leg and push up off a ladder step. At the top, Mac saw a narrow path that weaved its way further up into the cliffs. Mac waved the chief up.
Once the chief reached the top, Mac radioed Riley.
“Riles, do you copy?”
“Go, Mac.”
“Brown doubled back. I’ve just climbed an extension ladder and I’m on a ledge some thirty or forty feet up into the cliff. You won’t be able to see me. The chief and I are going to work our way up to the top. Get up top with the chopper, see if you can see Brown. He’s either out or will be coming out up there somewhere. Also, radio the sheriff and clue him in. Brown must have a vehicle waiting up there. We’re going to need ground troops and vehicles up there.”
“Copy, Mac.”
Brown had managed to put the duffel bag of money over his right shoulder and let the strap run diagonally across his body so that the bulk of the bag rested on his left hip. Nonetheless, it was a struggle to make his way up with only one arm. The pain shot through this left shoulder with every step up the narrow path. The shoulder would require attention soon. The wound was a through and through. He had a handkerchief stuffed in the front wound but he could feel the blood seeping into his shirt from the exit wound in the back.
He could hear the sound of the chopper flying overhead. He looked up and saw the search light sweeping up toward the top. The police must have realized he doubled back on them. He needed to get to the top.
He was at an optional point in the path. There was straight ahead or a steeper and narrower path to the left. David and Dean had gone straight ahead two days ago while he and Monica had gone left. Either way would get him to the top of the cliff and to the waiting pickup truck. The left path was longer but offered more cover at the top as the path exited into the dense woods. To the right, the path was shorter but the opening at the top was exposed and he would have to run some twenty or thirty yards to reach the cover of the trees.
Mac took the point, with the chief following. Every so often, along the narrow cliff walls, Mac noted a blood smear.
“You must have hit him good,” the chief said. “He’s draining a lot of blood.”
Mac and the chief approached a fork in the path. They both knelt down and each scanned with their flashlights. There were footprints in either direction.
“Riles, have you seen anything at the top?” Mac asked.
“Negative Mac. Nothing yet.”
“How about a vehicle? Truck? Car? Anything?”
“Negative. There’s a small clearing up here but the woods are really dense, Mac. We’ve swept them, but we can’t really see down to the bottom in most places. Brown could be going through there, and I don’t think we could see him.”
Mac looked to the chief. “Are you alright with splitting up?”
“Yes,” the chief answered.
“Okay, I’m betting he went straight,” Mac said. “That looks flatter and that would be easier with his shoulder and carrying that bag. Besides, my Sig is better than that antique you’re carrying.”
“Fair enough,” the chief answered. “Remember though, the son of a bitch has that. 45. He has nothing to lose at this point. He will not hesitate.”
“Neither will I.”
Smith reached the top of the path. He’d made the right choice. Through the dense woods he could see the searchlight of the chopper, maybe one hundred yards to his right, scanning the area where the other path reached the top. All he had left was a narrow path, perhaps one hundred yards long to the pick-up truck, which was covered with a camouflage tarp.
He started down the path, jogged thirty yards, glanced back and saw him.
The chief reached the top of the path and met Brown’s eyes, and the barrel of the. 45. He raised the Smith.
The end of the path emerged into a clearing on the top of the cliffs. Mac looked up to the chopper.
“Shit.”
Brown went the other way. There’s no way Riley would have missed him. He immediately turned back to his left where the chief’s path would have come out of the cliff. The exit of the chief’s path would have been into the dense forest. Then he saw the muzzle flashes.
“Riles, shots fired at ten o’clock! Shots fired at ten o’clock!” Mac yelled as he ran into the dense woods and toward the muzzle flashes.
The chief got two off before he ducked for cover, as Brown unloaded his. 45 causing shards from the trees to rain down upon him. The shots stopped, and the chief looked to see Brown was running down the path. The chief pushed himself up and gave chase, firing.
The chopper was overhead scanning the path as Smith ran as hard as he could, even as one, two, and then three shots went by. The chopper must have seen the muzzle flashes for Flanagan’s shots as the light was behind him now. The truck was within reach, another thirty yards. But he needed to stop Flanagan first or he wouldn’t be able to get the tarp off and get away.
The chief was shooting on the fly. Then he saw Brown turning around with the. 45, standing in the middle of the path, exposed. The chief set his feet.
Smith’s leg buckled as Flanagan’s shot grazed his right leg. He was hit, but it didn’t put him down. It was nothing like the wound in his left shoulder. Flanagan was trying to fire again, but nothing was coming out of the gun. He was out of bullets. Slowly Flanagan’s arm dropped to his side and a resigned look appeared on his face.
“Flanagan, that must be an old Smith you’re holding there and you’ve had your six. You’re finished,” Brown yelled as he raised the. 45.
“But I’m not!” a voice yelled from behind him.
Smith turned around to see Mac McRyan, with bloody arms and face, feet set, gun pointed right at him.
