Expect the Sunrise, Team Hope Series #3
By Susan May Warren
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Prologue
Stirling McRae should have known he couldn't escape his duty, even deep inside the forests of northeastern Alaska , a hundred miles from civilization.
No, it found him in the form of a grimy terrorist in an orange hunting vest and cap. Only, said terrorist hadn't a prayer of escaping the McRae brothers. At least that's what Mac told himself as another branch slapped him across the face and he plowed through a bramble of thistle berry.
So much for having some hang time with his brother. Brody would probably deck him the next time Mac suggested they go fishing together. He heard Brody behind him, thundering like a bulldozer through the forest, occasionally yelling his name.
Mac didn't stop. Couldn't. He'd been hunting Ari Al-Hasid and members of his cell for nearly three years. It seemed sheer dumb luck that he happened upon him now at the height of the summer pumping season and near one of the weakest points in the pipeline that was scheduled for replacement.
The river of black gold inside a forty-eight-inch wide, double-steel-walled pipe, referred to as the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System (TAPS) stretched eight hundred miles from the northern slope of Alaska to Valdez . Difficult to monitor, even harder to protect, it was one of the most vulnerable terrorist targets in all of America
A target that Hasid and his group had been plotting to attack for years, according to the maps and sketchy intel that littered Mac's office at the bureau.
Perhaps this wasn't dumb luck but good hunting. For months Mac had suspected that Hasid and his cell would launch their attack this summer. He just never expected it during his annual fishing trip with Brody.
Okay, maybe a little, which was why he guided Brody near a salmon stream that ran parallel to the pipeline. Just to follow his gut and keep an eye out, despite his boss's skepticism. After all, Bureau Chief Tanner Buchanan had ordered him out of the office . . . not out of his skin.
And bingo, just as they were motoring south toward a promising run of chinook salmon or arctic grayling, they startled Al-Hasid checking his weapon only thirty feet from the pipeline. He'd looked up, guilt on his face, and bolted.
Now Mac could barely make out Hasid's form, a sickly orange blur between a stand of bushy black spruce. If Mac caught him, he might be able to breathe a little deeper, sleep more than two or three hours at a stretch, and rip down one of the many mug shots and wanted posters clipped on the office bulletin board.
He needed to get out into the open and close the distance between them. But Hasid carried a .338 Winchester , a weapon that could blow a nice hole through a bear and lay waste to a man. Mac needed the trees for protection, even if they served to pick him off like a Lakers forward.
"I'll cut him off!" Brody yelled.
Mac glanced behind him, saw Brody heading for the clearing. His brother didn't know the first thing about suspect apprehension-ie, don't announce your intentions to the enemy. For the second time in ten minutes, he wondered if he should stop, call the sighting in, and let the on-duty heroes handle Al-Hasid.
No, not if it meant Al-Hasid escaped.
Mac parted the brush with his gloved hands.
A gunshot.
Mac froze. Not around the pipeline!
A scream rent the air.
He stopped, whirled, and felt his pulse in his throat when crows scattered into the sky.
Mac dived after Hasid, blood in his ears. More than fifty hunters had accidentally hit the pipeline over the years without puncturing it, but a shot from a .338 just might-
Another shot. It pinged against metal.
Mac ducked, plowing nearly headfirst into a tree. "Stop shooting!"
He crouched behind the larch and peered out, feeling sweat bead under his woolen cap. His feet felt clunky and chapped in his hiking boots; his body trembled under the layers of wool.
"Get away from me!" Hasid shouted into the trees. "I ain't done nothin'!" He sounded drunk, his accent slurred. No doubt Hasid had perfected redneck lingo after living in the country for the past ten years under an assumed name.
"Throw down your weapon! I'm a federal agent."
Nothing.
Mac peeked out, saw Hasid searching the forest. Peeling off his vest, Mac crept along a fallen log, then angled toward the terrorist. He schooled his breath and heard Hasid's labored breathing just ahead.
Hasid scanned the forest where Mac had been, then beyond toward the pipeline clearing. The sun glinted off the metal, rays of heat rippling the air surrounding it.
A branch cracked.
Mac stiffened. He glanced toward the sound, and his stomach dropped when he spotted Brody hunkered down, sneaking along the pipeline, peering into the forest.
Hasid raised his gun.
"No!" Mac launched himself at Hasid just as the gun reported. The recoil knocked him in the face even as he tackled Hasid.
The terrorist elbowed him, thrashing.
Mac hung on, fighting to clear his head. He tasted blood running from his mouth or maybe his nose. Hasid took out Mac's breath with a jab to the ribs.
The gun went off again.
Gulping for air, Mac grabbed the barrel and ripped it from Hasid's grip.
Hasid rolled to his knees and swung at Mac's face.
Mac dodged and muscled Hasid into a guillotine hold, one arm locked around his neck, squeezing off his blood supply to his brain. If Mac could hold him, in a moment Hasid would pass out. Mac wasn't a fan of UFC wrestling for nothing.
Hasid slapped at Mac's head, wringing his ears. Mac gritted his teeth and held on.
Hasid started wheezing. Still the man kicked, wasting the last of his energy on flimsy punches. He finally slumped atop Mac, his body heavy.
Mac let him go, checked his breathing, then whipped off his bootlace and tied the terrorist's hands. He heard rain begin to fall softly, wetting the leaves, the ground.
The sound filled Mac's ears even as he propped Hasid up, slapped at his face. He stood, dread pooling in his stomach as realization rushed him.
No, not rain.
He held out his hand, and the blood of the earth fell from the sky. One drop, two-black, thick, and sticky.
The pungent smell turned Mac's stomach as he tasted his worst fears. Running toward the clearing he saw the ground had already turned black and soggy. A geyser of oil plumed into the sky from a gash in the side of the pipeline.
He needed his radio.
He needed his four-wheeler.
He needed to get to the nearest pumping station and tell them to close the valves.
"Brody!" He turned as he yelled his brother's name, and the fact that Brody hadn't appeared to jump Hasid suddenly felt odd. . . . "Brody?" Oh, Lord, please-
His gaze caught on a shadow just inside the rim of forest.
Brody.
"No!" Mac nearly fell as he scrambled toward his brother. He hit his knees as he turned him over.
Brody groaned, blood-drenched hands pressed against his gut.
Oh. Oh. Mac's breaths thundered in his chest, panic shutting out every scrap of training. He pulled off his hat and pressed it against Brody's wound. "Why did you follow me?"
Brody closed his eyes, leaned back onto the ground. "I'm in a bit of a barnie here, Mac." His voice sounded strangely weak, and it took another swipe at Mac's calm.
"I gotta get you some help." Mac reached out awkwardly, not sure how he'd carry his younger brother now that the man had surpassed him in size. Like true Scots, they weren't small men, but Brody had taken from the McRae side, warriors down the line. His girth and muscle had made him the grappling champ of Deadhorse High.
Mac pulled Brody's arms over his shoulder. Oil rained down around him, and he fell trying to get Brody into his embrace.
Brody cried out in a burst of agony. "I can't. Go . . . go get the four-wheeler." His face had turned chalky white. "Go." He nearly pushed Mac.
Mac stumbled back, blinking at Brody. "Brody, I'm so-"
"Go!"
Aye. Mac raced back to their encampment. His breath turned to razors inside, but fear pressed him through the pain. He slipped once, then twice and fell face-first in the oil. He spit out a mouthful of filth as he scrambled to his feet.
Mac found the four-wheeler right where he'd sprung off it. In seconds he had it turned around and gunned it back toward Brody. He dug out his high-frequency two-way radio while he drove, now thankful he'd packed it, despite Brody's ribbing.
"Hello, anyone!" He couldn't remember the EMS channel or even pipeline security. He scanned the channels. "Hello? Please!"
"Pipeline Security here. Identify please. Over."
"Agent Stirling McRae, FBI. I have an injured camper just north of the Kanuti River . Need assistance. Out."
Crackle came over the line.
Mac slowed as he reached the oil-slicked area but plowed through, shielding his eyes as the oil rained from the sky. "Hello?"
"Roger that. We'll send assistance. Over."
"No! I'm coming to you." He braked and leaped off the ATV, stumbling toward Brody.
Thank the Lord, he was still breathing.
"Be advised that the nearest ranger station is at Cross Creek, seventeen clicks northwest of the line. Over."
Seventeen miles. Mac crouched beside Brody. Oil slicked his face, and his breathing seemed labored. Blood mingled with oil, and Mac hadn't the first clue how much blood Brody had lost. He'd never make seventeen miles.
"Negative. He'll never make it. We need an emergency extraction." He glanced at the plume of oil. "And be advised that there is a leak at my position."
Silence.
Mac could imagine the security agents spilling their coffee on their jumpsuits.
"Say again? Over."
"A leak. Terrorist shot the pipeline. But I need medical assistance."
"Give us your exact position. We'll find you. Out."
Mac glared at the two-way, wishing he could somehow reach through it to throttle the dobbers on the other end of the line. "Need medical-"
Overhead, he heard a buzz, a low hum that anyone who'd lived in the bush for longer than a week would know immediately.
A plane. A beautiful white-hulled bird with red stripes floating in the sky like a gift from heaven. Such a bird could land on the Dalton Highway , just a skip away.
If God was on his side, that beautiful little bird would already be turned to the Fairbanks Airport frequency, the same one he'd used during his flight training days.
"Hello? I'm talking to the plane flying over Cross Creek. Come in, please."
Static.
"Please! Come in."
"Sir, this channel is authorized by the FAA for air traffic control-"
"My brother's been shot!" Mac felt himself unraveling. "Please, will the plane overhead come in-?"
"This is November-two-three-seven-one-Lima, how can I help you?"
Yes, yes! "I have an injured man here. He's in bad shape. I need a life flight to Fairbanks . Please, can you land on the Dalton ? I'll meet you." He held the two-way against his forehead, trembling.
Static. Then, "That's a negative. November-two-three-seven-one-Lima is en route with another life flight. I'm sorry but I-"
"Please!"
The line went static. The plane came into view. He stared at it as it flew over, a long moment when his heart stopped beating and turned toa singular gripping pain in the center of his chest..
Then it vanished.
No. He felt sick, hollow. His knees buckled.
"Mac?" His brother opened his grease-covered eyes, reached out, and curled his fist weakly into Mac's jacket. "Get me outta here."
Mac nodded, grabbed Brody by the collar, and dragged him over the slick ground to the four-wheeler. He could still hear the sound of hope dying in the distance.
As he draped Brody over the back, wincing as he groaned, he made a promise.
If his brother died, Mac would never forgive that pilot.