My pace is much faster—not to mention quieter—without the presence of FWC Officer Rausch. Having grown up in the Kentucky hills, I learned three major things that I’ve carried with me into my adulthood. First, I know how to track. Doesn’t matter what it is. If it has feet, wings, or a tail, me and my cousins can track it. Second lesson is just as important as the first: silence and invisibility in the wilderness is crucial to procuring your next meal. Doesn’t matter how good a tracker you are, if your prey sees or hears you coming, you’ll starve. And the third lesson, if lessons one and two fail you…a good snoot of Granny’s apple pie moonshine makes up for it in no time flat.

As I follow Arnold’s trail, moving deeper and deeper into the subtropical jungle, it gradually dawns on me that the third option is no kind of option at all when it comes to my current situation. No matter how good the moonshine is, if I can’t find Jake, Ellie, or Cody safe and sound—and soon—no amount of booze I drink is ever going to fill the gaping wound of guilt I’ll have to live with.

This realization doubles in intensity when I’m about two miles north of the river. Arnie has stopped, sniffing something amid the underbrush. Pawing at it feverishly with his tiny, clawed hands. My light flashes across the object and I see something crimson. Wet. My throat swells. My pulse throbs against my temples.

I crouch as I approach, shooing the raccoon away with a nudge of my hand. I shine the light on the object and curse. It’s a piece of fabric from a pair of swim trunks; it’s soaked in blood. An army of ants scuttle over the cloth, marching back and forth in goosestepping precision. But I ignore them. My eyes aren’t moving from the dark red fluid coating the fabric.

“Crap,” I whisper. “Crap, crap, crap.”

I stand up, stretching my back as I do and stifling a desire to scream out into the night for the kids. Judging from the stars and moonlight, it’s approaching ten o’clock. The predators are out in full force right now. These woods are packed with several types of wild cat. Coyotes have recently started calling the area home as well, driven southeast by constant land developments and urban intrusion into their natural habitats. Less troublesome, but equally as dangerous are the gators. They’re typically creatures of opportunity. They don’t stalk humans for the most part. But if the kids stumbled onto one in the dark, they’d be deadly.

And now I know that at least one of the kids is bleeding. From the looks of things, bleeding pretty bad too. I don’t know how it happened. I’ve seen no signs of struggle or attack along my path, but the blood is bad news for reasons other than the obvious. If a predator happens to catch wind of the copper-like scent, they’d be easy to track. And wounded as they are, they’d be easy prey.

It’s because all these thoughts are swirling through my head that I haven’t noticed the sound of the helicopter rotor beating down toward me. It’s not until the thing is hovering directly above me, a blast of warm air and debris swirling around me, that I notice it.

I stand completely still. The chopper still has no running lights. No spotlights. If I don’t move, they might not see…

“Dr. Barrows,” a female voice booms over a loudspeaker from the craft. It’s nearly deafening and if the kids are anywhere nearby, they’d have to have heard it. “We are asking you to come with us.”

The fact that they can see me, without the assistance of any light source, tells me they’re running with either night vision or thermal imaging. Probably both. No need for illumination if you’re packing that kind of equipment.

“Please lower your weapon,” the voice orders. It’s only then I remember my flashlight is mounted to the gun clenched in my hand. “And surrender.”

A door slides open in the chopper, revealing a dim red light in the interior of the craft. A moment later, four ropes unfurl, and I watch as the same number of black-clad military types secure their harnesses with carabiners and prepare to descend.

For the briefest moment, I’m ready to give in. Then the gleam of my flashlight strays across the blood-soaked strip of cloth, strengthening my resolve to find the Givens children.

Without waiting another heartbeat, I bolt through the trees. The sound of fabric on nylon follows and I know the troops have just repelled from the chopper and will be pursuing me much sooner than I’d like. But I’ve come too far. I’m not going to stop now. So, my feet plow through the foliage as fast as they can, navigating the tangled mess of vegetation in hopes of putting enough distance between me and the black-clad Boy Scouts as I can.

A side note about me: I’m about as stubborn as they come. Well, in so far as when people whose authority I don’t recognize try to tell me what I can and can’t do. Maybe it’s part of my hillbilly family’s colorful legacy of bootlegging. Maybe it was Coach Perkins’ adamant insistence that my ninth grade-self clean the shoulder pads and jock straps of the senior football players purely because it was ‘tradition’. Maybe it’s just a ridiculous flaw I’ve never quite had the knack, or the gumption, to break. But whenever anyone I don’t respect tries to force me to do something, I can guarantee you I’m going to pretty much do the opposite. It’s a habit that’s been more self-destructive than life-affirming in my experience, but it’s who I am at the core, and I don’t figure it’s something I’m likely to change anytime soon.

Especially tonight. There’s just too much at stake.

I can hear four sets of boots plowing through the brush behind me, just before the helicopter’s rotors roar up an octave and turn in my direction. Even if I can outrun the soldiers, there’s no way on earth I’m going to be able to hide from the chopper. Intellectually, I know it. In classic Jack Barrows fashion, I refuse to accept it and still I run. Arnold is now running beside me. He’s excited, chattering away furiously as we move. I’m not sure if it’s because of the cat and mouse chase we’re in or something else, but there’s no doubt he’s trying to get my attention.

As I drift easterly, Arnold races around to my left, forcing me to veer right. When I start moving too far to the right, he whips around to the other side and corrects my direction again.

He’s herding me.

The obvious question, however, is where? And why?

I don’t have time to ponder the questions for too long. A red laser dot appears on a small tree just ahead me. The cough of suppressed gunfire erupts shortly after, sending a spray of splintered bark up in a puff of debris that flies into my eyes as I race past.

“Holy smokes!” I shout. “They’re shooting at me!”

My rational mind knows better. These guys are professionals. They’re armed with laser sights and are wearing night vision gear. If they wanted to shoot me, I’d be dead. That was merely a warning.

The helicopter zips overhead again, the loudspeaker crackling to life. “Dr. Barrows, please. For your own safety, stop running and come with us immediately.”

“Get. Bent.” I wheeze out the words while pushing myself faster and farther than I imagined possible. But the truth is, I’m running out of steam, and I know it. I’m in pretty good shape. I’m an outdoorsman. Very much at home in my surroundings. But I’m human too, and I highly doubt I’m in better shape than the stormtroopers chasing me. It’s only a matter of time now and the only fuel I have left is my all-consuming need to give the proverbial finger to these federal Bozos any way I can.

As fast as I’m running though, Arnold is outpacing me with little effort, still leading me in the direction he’s wanting me to go. Whether it’s because I trust the animal with my life or because I have no other place to run, I follow him as best I can, leaping over fallen logs and ducking under overturned trees when necessary. More muffled shots are fired behind me. I shield my eyes from the wooden chunks of nearby trees and palm fronds, trying not to slow down, but that’s my undoing. My eyes clenched tight, I can’t see the tree root jutting up from the damp soil. My foot catches it in mid-stride, and I tumble forward to the ground. By the time, I turn over, my four pursuers are standing over me, their guns trained at my head.

I raise my hands. My gun slips to the ground with a thud.

“Okay, okay,” I say, looking at each of them. They’re wearing black BDUs, flak vests with no insignias, and balaclava masks. Headgear with night vision specs adorn their foreheads. Three of them hold Heckler and Koch UMP-45 submachine guns with sound suppressors. I may not know much about advanced weaponry, but I’ve played my share of Call of Duty and recognize them instantly. The fourth man’s weapon is something different entirely. It’s a Belgium-made FN P90. A bit retro these days, but very Buck Rogers. And very lethal. I notice it doesn’t have a suppressor, though I’m not sure whether that should concern me right now. “I give up.”

The four men step toward me, cutting off all avenues of escape. A moment later, the black chopper is hovering over us again.

“Dr. Barrows,” says the masked man with the P90. “I’m placing you under arrest.” He motions with his gun. “Now stand up and turn around.”

“A-arrest?” I scramble to my feet, but I don’t turn around. “On what charge? I haven’t done anything illegal.”

As I stare the P90 man down, two of his goons let their weapons hang from straps around the shoulders, and grab me, bringing my arms behind my back. I try shrugging them off, but they’re faster. Stronger. They manage to get another hold on me and throw me face down in the damp soil. One of them drops, placing his knee in the small of my back, and pushing the air from my lungs. I cough, but still struggle against their grip as they secure my wrists with Zip-ties.

“You…can’t…do this!” I shout between wheezing breaths. “The kids. We’ve got to find those kids.”

P90 crouches and lifts his night vision visor for a better look at me. His silver-blue eyes are ice cold. Unfeeling. Empty. This is not a nice man.

“They’re no longer your concern, Dr. Barrows,” he says. “Right now, I’d be worrying more about what’s going to happen to you.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 8