He reached the exit and pressed his shoulder into the frame, then leaned around and peeked out through the glass partition in the lower part of the screen door. He peered into the cornstalks, searching for any sign of the trespasser, but all he could see were dried stands of old corn.
Satisfied there was no immediate threat, Nate burst through the door, flew down the flight of steps, and landed on the ground. He never missed a step, his feet pounding the grass as he sprinted to the safety of the cornfield.
Nate darted to the left and right, moving as erratically as possible to make for a more difficult target—in case someone had their sights on his back.
No shot ever thundered through the valley, and with every step, he gained confidence knowing that his long legs could cover a significant distance in a short amount of time.
He'd never let himself get out of shape—constantly maintaining a strict exercise regimen. He worked out six days of the week, lifting weights and doing cardio, just as he'd done in the military.
Nate was glad he'd kept up the rigorous program. He didn't feel winded at all as he steered his body slightly to the right, in the direction he knew the bridge would be. Whoever his attacker was had lost their chance at taking him out. The element of surprise was gone. Now, Nate could turn the tables and eliminate the one person he considered an equal. After that, he could finish the hunt—beginning with the McDowell boys.
Sixteen
Brown’s Ferry
Dak knew he was taking a huge risk.
By circling around to the driveway, Nate could sneak up from behind and shoot him in the back. Every second, every hurried step he took, Dak wondered when the crack of the rifle would pierce the valley's silent embrace.
He'd picked up his pace to a near sprint through the cover of the cornfields. He stayed just far enough away from the edge that spotting him from the open would be difficult, but kept close enough that he could see the gravel driveway intermittently through the stalks as they blurred by.
Initially, he'd considered his maneuver as a counter to whatever Nate was doing. As he considered it further, though, Dak realized that the second part of his reasoning was more important.
The McDowell kids had come this way, rushing away from the farmhouse along the driveway—probably thinking that would be the simplest path to escape.
They might have been right, even with the long distance to the end of the gravel road.
When Dak emerged from the cornfield, the bridge came into view and he instantly realized that the McDowell boys weren't going to be able to escape that way.
Nate had sabotaged his own bridge, removing wooden planks that typically covered the bridge.
Dak sighed, trotting to a stop at the creek. The water babbled under the bridge's frame. Under different circumstances, the setting might have seemed serene, peaceful, but not now.
The clear water spanned at least twenty-five feet across, and was easily two or three feet deep in the center. If the boys tried crossing in this chilly weather, they would risk getting sick and, at best, be slowed down significantly by their waterlogged clothes.
Dak twisted his head to the left, then right, looking for a flash of clothing or maybe a sound. The boys had a significant head start, and if they'd kept moving at a steady pace, it could take an hour for Dak to catch up. In that amount of time, the likelihood of Nate catching up also increased.
Standing out in the open, Dak felt the fear of exposure tingle across his body again, the same way it had when he was in the yard by the farmhouse. He snapped his head around, looking back down the driveway, knowing he couldn't stand out here for long.
Maybe Nate went in one of the other directions, after the other boys. Doubt snaked into Dak's brain. He'd overplayed his hand, or thought the explosion would drive Nate this direction.
"No," he barked, shaking the thoughts from his mind. "He'll come this way."
Dak shuffled toward the edge of the creek and then froze. Two distinct sets of footprints in the mud tracked from the bridge down to the water.
He imagined being in the boys' shoes, running as fast as they could to get away from the farmhouse. He envisioned them arriving at the bridge only to realize they couldn't cross it. They might have dipped a hand in the water to test the temperature, deciding it was too frigid to risk crossing.
The older McDowell boy probably suggested they keep going upstream and try to find another place to cross. That's what Dak would have done if he were in their position.
He bent down and, squatting over the footprints, traced them to the right, heading toward the ridge. The indentations disappeared onto narrow strip of grass that separated the rows of corn from the stream. If the kids didn't find a place to cross, they would be forced to keep going until they reached the hillside. Dak knew from his recon the night before that the creek bent around the base of the small mountain and ran next to it for a few miles. He didn't stay long enough to find the source of the water.
A distant sound spurred Dak into action.
It came from the direction of the farmhouse and swelled with every second, growing louder and louder.
The groan of a truck's engine along with the crunching gravel under the tires, signaled that Nate was coming.
I guess the rules went out the window, Dak thought as he darted to the right and ran at full speed into the tall grass.
He didn't stop to look back as the truck rolled ever closer to the bridge. There was no time for looking back.
Dak realized he was leaving a wake in the long blades of grass, easily trackable by an expert such as Nate. In front
