Page 13 of One Last Shot

He turned and pointed east. “Followed the river. And I’m not crazy.” He lowered his hands. “My name is Oaken Fox. And I need your help.”

She blinked at him, took in the name.

And then, as she watched, he collapsed, right there on the highway.

He couldn’t imagine this epic adventure into the wilderness going any further south, but as Oaken opened his eyes, staring up at the woman, all he could think was?—

Gun.

And right after that—“Mike.”

“Mike Grizz?” The woman knelt over him, her headlights shining across the shadowy highway even as he pushed himself up. Oh, his stupid jaw throbbed. That’s what he got for scaling a cliff in the middle of the night.

Now, “Yeah. He’s hurt.”

“So are you.” She had left the gun in her car, he guessed, and now seemed to be assessing him. “Hey, hey. Don’t get up. You passed out.”

“I’m just thirsty.”

“Or you have head trauma. Where’d you get that cut?”

“I don’t know. A rock.” He pushed himself up, against her protestations, and then stood and reached out for the hood of her car, just to right the world a bit.

“I think you shouldsit back down.”

He looked at her. “Do you have a phone?”

“Yes. But first, you... sit down. I have a power bar in my car.”

He leaned against the hood. “And some water, maybe?”

She unlatched the back of her SUV, and in a moment returned with a power bar and a bottle of water. He drank the water down and ate the power bar in two bites.

She stepped back and pulled out her phone, and he got a good look at her. Dark hair, dark brown eyes, she wore a black parka, canvas pants, Ugg boots, no makeup, and a concerned look about her that made him take a breath.

So maybe running out into the middle of the road to stop the first—and only—car he’d seen in hours hadn’t been a terrible idea.

“Moose. Hey, it’s me. You remember that guy you dropped off yesterday?” She looked over at Oaken now. “Yeah, well, I’m standing on Highway 1, about forty miles south of Copper Mountain, staring at Oaken Fox. Minus Mike Grizz.”

She looked at Oaken. Then handed him the phone.

He put it to his ear. “Hello?”

“What’s going on?”

Sounded like the low baritone of the chopper pilot he’d met in Anchorage, what seemed like thousands of years ago. “Mike’s chute failed. He’s... really hurt. Walkie was damaged—I hiked out.”

“Where is Mike?”

“I left him—I built him a shelter, but...” He looked up and met eyes with the woman. “We need to hurry.”

“Give the phone back to Boo.”

He handed her the phone and she stepped away, started to nod.

The sun had begun to drop behind the mountains, bleeding out red against the cloud cover that seeped into the valley. Flurries swirled in the air, down the neck of his jacket. The temperature must have dropped a good fifteen degrees over the past day.

Please be alive, Mike.