They had made their decision, a choice whose consequences were obscured by the heat of the moment and the naïvete of youth, one that set them upon a trajectory whose culmination they could never have imagined. Once committed to it, however they moved forward with conviction, quickly and with purpose, for such was the only way they knew.

Rogers and Gunnar were in the GT-R again, the redhead complaining about Lee and how he had dragged them all into his deluded romantic fantasy. Gunnar wanted nothing to do with it, but now he was married to the situation through Harper’s actions. The guy was living out the plot of some old movie from a bygone era, where the anti-hero ends up saving the day. All he was really going to do, Gunnar said, was get them all killed.

They followed Brady’s pickup back to the state highway they had passed earlier and up the Yaak River to Seventeen Mile Creek, the bridge that crossed the river and along a winding forest road. The track was rough, and Gunnar complained with every bump. He trailed the truck through a tight mountain pass and over the narrow divide separating the Yaak watershed from another smaller one that also fed the Kootenai. They passed Kilbrennen Lake, once a popular fishing destination, when juice was cheap and easy to come by. The Forest Service had decades ago constructed a campground there, but the sites were devoid of campers. Automotive touring and car camping had long been cost prohibitive and visitors to the lake were now a rare event. The campground was more often occupied by squatters than recreationists. One such camp was left in disarray. Garbage was strewn upon the ground and ragged clothing hung from a clothesline strung between two trees. Rogers kept an eye trained on the camp as they rolled by.

From then on, they traveled in silence. Each man’s powers of reason had been overwhelmed, to the point that logic had ceased to exist altogether. At least what seemed logical, based on the set of assumptions they had operated under up until now. What they thought ought follow did not, and results they never would have expected occurred instead. It was as though they had crossed over into another dimension, where none of the previous rules applied and everything was unknown. Instinct was all that was left to them. Still, they were bound in this together, and they gathered strength from that resolve. This realm they had entered was defined by deeds and determination, a world beyond words. They did not speak, because there was nothing they could say that action had not already conveyed.

Rogers was more than a little surprised. No helicopter hovered overhead, no heavily armed roadblock waited in ambush beyond a blind corner of the gravel road. Their little convoy had added some distance to its journey by taking a spur route from the lake that looped towards town on one of a multitude of logging roads that ran through the forested mountains, and now they stood on a bench above town and looked down at where the path they traveled crossed the Kootenai River on a dilapidated steel span.

Where they were stopped was an overlook that afforded them an excellent vantage, and from there they surveyed the town. The westerly exposure of their position meant the sun flashing off the lens of their optics might give away their position, but Lee and Brady determined it was worth the risk. They had a good view of town from here, an ideal location from which to spy someone lying in wait for them. If there was, this would be their last chance to retreat. They needed intelligence; Lee argued. Good data on which to base their decisions. Besides, the odds of someone spotting them were slim at best.

The town of Troy was situated upon what once had been a miner’s plat on the bank of the Kootenai River. A bend northward and the confluence of two creeks combined to form an alluvial plain, a narrow flat along the western shore that afforded just enough room for a small village. Forested slopes rose immediately at its edge. The highway entered and exited by way of a steep grade at either end.

Looking down from their vantage above the town, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Rogers could see the bowling alley parking lot. It was empty, but that was not unusual. No vehicles traveled the highway, but that too was not particularly noteworthy. He checked his link. No signal. The clock read sixteen seventeen.

Again, he pressed the socket of his eye against the molded rubber eyepiece of Brady’s spotting scope. A bead of sweat rolled off his brow. Beside him Brady peered through the telescopic sight of his hunting rifle. Yargus pretended to pick off targets one by one as he saw them and made hushed little noises each time he did so. Lee stood behind them, looking through a pair of binoculars. Gunnar leaned against the back of his car, grudgingly guarding their rear. His AR-15 was held in a loose semblance of patrol position, muzzle down, plastic stock tucked beneath his right elbow, his hand wrapped around the pistol grip in a nonchalant fashion. Scott crouched in the middle of the road. He scratched in the dirt with a stick. Rogers stared through the scope for what seemed like an eternity. The bead of sweat that trickled down his temple became a regular flow. Finally, he pulled away and straightened. He stretched the muscles tightening in his neck with a roll of his head.

“You see that?” he asked Lee.

“Cop at the Lake Creek bridge? Gonna be tough gettin’ past that. Will have to cut through Garrisonville. There’s another one at the other end of town,” Lee replied. “See that crowd gathering there?”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” Rogers said.

“Cop at Lake Creek moving,” Brady said. Rogers pressed his eye against the cup once again and panned the scope to bring the machine into view.

The patrol car left its post and accelerated quickly through the center of town.

“No one at the old bridge,” he said. “Now is our shot.”