Author: Charles Wells
Category: Nonfiction
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Chapter 1
Matt parked along an old logging road, took the gun from the car seat and a flashlight from inside the console compartment and got out. He looked around carefully while tucking the weapon into his belt and then stepped into the trees moving northward.
He traveled slowly, quietly like the hunter he was, using only short bursts from the flashlight as needed to find routes around noisy ground cover. For half an hour, he searched for signs of a large opening in the trees but found none. He estimated his location to be near the end of the level area he had in mind when guessing for a suitable runway.
"Okay, guess I'm wrong," he decided and was about to turn around and try elsewhere when the sound of a not too distant vehicle's door closing echoed through the woods. Next, he heard voices talking but he could not make out the words. He let five minutes pass until all was silent again. He could not gauge the direction from which the sounds had come but then the odor of burning wood reached his nose.
Was it a campfire? What idiot would build a campfire in the middle of a pine thicket? He literally followed his nose forward, probably faster than he should have but he did not want to lose the scent leading him. He covered a good distance until his eyes caught the glint of a fire ahead, maybe fifty yards.
Through the brush and foliage, he saw half a dozen men sitting on the ground near a small fire. A seventh stood off at a distance holding what appeared to be a rifle. No doubt, they were being cautious after hearing from Ackerman's partner.
Matt found a spot where he could see easily into the camp through the trees. The pines stood in orderly lines similar to a cornfield. This was no wild forest cast haphazardly about by the whims of Mother Nature. It was a tree farm with crops planted in rows and standing a hundred feet tall waiting for harvest.
He strained his eyes trying to see faces, looking for the man that had been with Ackerman at the cemetery but the distance was too far. Bottom line, there were seven men and one was showing a weapon. How would he deal with stacked odds of seven to one? He definitely needed his friend's help but it would take hours for him to arrive. By then this would all be over and everyone would be back in town looking for him.
Matt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He needed to get closer and find out whom they were. He could not go rushing in like a fool thinking there was only one-man armed. It would be suicide.
He stepped from behind the tree he had used to hide behind, not that a tree with a ten-inch diameter base offered much stealth for a man his size. He eased forward toward the fire until his boot landed atop an unseen deadfall limb and a loud, angry "snap" shot through the night air. “You stupid...” his mind screamed.
He froze hoping their eyes were fire blind so they could not see this far back from the flames. He did not want to break and run because that would give away his position to even the greenest city slicker among them. All he could do was stand and watch, expecting a gunshot in his direction any second, but nothing happened. The men remained seated around the fire doing much of what they had been doing when he got there, waiting. Then he noticed the man who had been standing further back holding a rifle, was now gone from sight.
Matt was now the hunted. He began taking slow easy steps backwards, keeping his eyes mainly on the men around the fire but risking short glancing sweeps elsewhere, looking for the missing rifleman. When he was far enough back, he turned around and backtracked. He made it a dozen yards before a voice very close by said, "The boss was right. He knew you might show up here. I have been waiting for almost two hours, Veal."
With no further words, something slammed Matt in the face. All he saw was a blinding bolt of whitish light and then he felt searing hot pain. He dropped hard and fast to the soft pine needle ground. His last thought was wondering how could he be been so careless, so stupid.