Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(94)

But Morgan was already on it. “I’m stealing your bootlaces.”

She arced two branches over them, forming a fir tree lean-to that blocked the wind. She tied them in place with his laces.

In twenty minutes, they had enough flames to warm their hands over. Lance added some twigs and coaxed the flames higher. Then he grudgingly spread the emergency blanket over the sheriff.

Huddled around their tiny fire, they ate the sheriff’s power bars and drank melted snow. Lance leaned back against the tree, pain and exhaustion finally besting him now that the acute danger had been neutralized. He balanced the AR-15 across his thighs, the muzzle aimed in the sheriff’s direction. Morgan had King’s service revolver in her hand and the extra handgun in her pocket. She leaned on his shoulder. Twenty feet outside their small shelter, the sheriff didn’t move.



The sound of a snapping twig startled Lance. Pain sliced through his ribs, stealing his breath. He must have fallen asleep.

Something rustled the foliage, farther away this time.

Lance lifted the rifle in his lap, scanning the clearing, looking for the sheriff. But another rustle in the distance told him King was running away.

Next to him, Morgan came awake in an instant. She mouthed, “What is it?”

He whispered, “King is gone.”

A little while later, voices floated through the trees from the direction opposite where King had run.

Ten minutes passed before Mac and Sharp walked into the clearing in backpacks and hiking gear.

Relief swept through Lance, warming him as much as the fire had.

Morgan stumbled to her feet, and Mac caught her in a hug.

Sharp dropped to one knee next to Lance. “Are you alive?”

“Yes.” Lance struggled to sit up. The sky was lighter. Was it close to dawn? “How did you find us?”

“Hold on, let me give the rescue party our coordinates.” Sharp spoke into his radio. After he lowered it, he jerked a thumb toward Mac. “That guy is freaky good in the woods. He tracks like one of the K-9s.”

“We didn’t wait for the official rescue party to get it together,” Mac said. “The two of us could move faster anyway.”

Sharp set his backpack on the ground and opened it. “But they aren’t far behind us. We’ll have you both out of here in no time. Since you’re not dying, we won’t call for a helicopter. Mac is trying to figure out the closest spot we can rendezvous with a four-wheeler.”

Lance straightened. Pain in his side nearly split him in half. “King got away. It must have been just before you arrived. He was handcuffed around that tree. I must have dozed off.” Lance wanted to kick himself.

“Passed out is probably a more accurate description,” Sharp said. “You’re in rough shape.”

Mac was crouching where King’s prone body should have been. Mac stood and scanned the ground. “He went north. We can catch him if we move now.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t kill him.” Sharp handed Lance a bag of trail mix.

Lance ate a handful of raisins and nuts. “I wanted to.”

And if he had, he wouldn’t be worried about the sheriff getting away right now.

“I’ll bet you did.” Sharp handed him a bottle of water and patted his shoulder. “You did good. Everything is going to be all right. We’ll find him.”

“You’ll wait for the police to catch him, right?” On the other side of the fire, Morgan sat on a rock. She smiled at him through the smoke.

“Right,” Sharp grumbled.

Lance leaned back against the tree. He knew who had killed his father, and the sheriff couldn’t possibly get far. He and Morgan were alive and together. Everything would be all right, as long as he had her.





Chapter Fifty An hour later, Sharp hiked through the forest behind four state troopers. He could see why Mac Barrett was an asset to his search and rescue team. He loped along the trail in an effortless gait, tracking the sheriff like a frigging golden retriever.

The trail led into a clearing. A cabin sat in the center of the open space. Fresh tracks in the snow led to the front door. King was inside. They all knew it. Tension connected the team members like an invisible current.

The troopers fanned out, motioning for Sharp and Mac to fall behind them.

Grudgingly, they did.

But not far.

One trooper scouted ahead. Crouching beneath a window, he took a selfie stick and his cell phone from his pocket. Raising the phone just above the windowsill, he used his camera to spy inside. He lowered the phone and crept back to the group. “He’s standing in the middle of the room. He’s armed and injured.”

“Think we have any chance of talking him into laying down his weapon and coming outside?” the leader asked.

All the men shared a there’s no way in hell that would ever happen look.

“Then let’s go get him.” The leader motioned toward the cabin.

The troopers flanked the entrance. With no warning knock, they breached the door, sweeping through the doorway. Boots thudded on wood as they shouted commands.

“Police!”

“Let me see your hands!”

“Drop the weapon!”

Sharp angled himself so he could see through the doorway.

The sheriff stood in the center of the main room. His face was blotched, his nose was twice its normal size, and his eyes were bloodshot. In one hand, he pointed a handgun toward the floor. He cradled his other, swollen hand against his body.