The Marshals Service typically only transported prisoners on the smaller planes when they were thought to be especially dangerous. Like Damon Barrick. And they had no idea where he was.
Jonas studied the tail section of the plane. The impact had twisted the metal, splitting the plane in two. But it was where Barrick had been sitting that captured his attention. Not only had the man managed to survive the crash, he’d escaped.
“He clearly managed to get out of his seat belt,” he said, “but there’s blood on the seat, so we know he was injured.”
“But not badly,” Madison said. “There’s not enough blood.”
Madison rested her hands on her hips and stared out through the surrounding forest. “In our favor is the fact that he’s still shackled and wearing orange. That will slow him down and make it harder to vanish.”
But they also knew enough about the man to know he was resourceful.
Madison crouched down and studied the soft dirt next to the tailpiece. “This has to be him. Fresh footprints. He took off this way”—she pointed toward the woods—“and should be pretty easy to follow. He can’t be more than a few minutes ahead of us.”
“And he’s going to be moving slowly,” Jonas said. “But there’s also a good chance he’s looking to ambush us. He could have taken something from the plane, but he’s going to want our guns and supplies, because he knows we’re coming after him.”
“I think we should also leave a trail of our own.” She pulled a bandana from her pack and started ripping it into strips. “That way if help makes it here, it will be easier for them to follow us. Especially if we end up getting lost.”
He frowned, but knew it was a possibility. He stared out at the densely wooded area as they walked, leaving the plane and three dead bodies behind. An icy shiver slid through him. It was a miracle they were alive.
“How’s your leg?” she asked.
“Manageable.”
They paused their hike for a moment while she dug some pain medicine out of her backpack and handed it to him. “This should help.”
“Thanks.”
“What would you do if you were him?” Jonas asked. It was the question he asked himself every time he hunted a fugitive.
“I’d find a way to get out of my shackles and into a change of clothes, then I’d get as far away from here as possible.”
“He’ll need to find a hiker or try hitching a ride,” Jonas said before downing the medicine. “He’ll also need money and a cell phone, and if he had everything on his wish list, a weapon as well.”
“I agree,” Madison said. They started walking again. “The good thing is, like us, he has no idea where he is, and maneuvering in shackles won’t be easy.”
“Which gives us the advantage. He’ll need to find a trail and stick to it. It would be far too hard to maneuver in his condition off one of the designated routes out here.”
“You said you thought we were over Idaho?” she asked.
Jonas let out a low chuckle. “That’s my best guess. The flight plan took us over the corner of Washington, then across Idaho and Wyoming. Because of the thick forests, I’d say we have to be in one of the national forests. Either Payette or Salmon-Challis. Possibly a corner of Yellowstone, but I don’t think we were that far.”
“That’s what I’m thinking, but we still could be miles away from a road or main trail.” She tied another scrap of her bandana to a tree limb. “He’ll need to find the nearest town.”
But they had no idea which direction the main trail lay.
They continued in silence for another five minutes, with no sign of their fugitive.
“Did you do any hunting growing up?” he asked, breaking the quiet that had settled between them.
“My father was a hunter. He didn’t have any boys—and my sister refused to go camping—so I became his sidekick.” She readjusted the strap on her backpack. “He taught me how to judge yardage and to age and identify tracks, with the goal of spotting the deer before it spotted me.”
“Why am I not surprised. You were the one with the almost perfect scores at the shoot house. The one I’d never want to be on the wrong side of the law against.”
“What about you? You were always my toughest competition.”
Jonas shook his head. “Believe it or not, I shot my first gun in basic training. My mother hated weapons growing up. She didn’t even