Page 13 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

13.

As he rolled to the ground, out of the path of the short shovel, a host of his father’s rules came to Colter Shaw’s mind.

Never strike with your fist if there’s a risk of hitting bone; use your palm, elbows and knees.

Never back yourself into a corner.

And of course the most important rule of them all:

Never fight unless you have no other choice.

His present situation was a prime example of the last rule. Not fighting wasn’t an option; for some reason the assailant—big and ruddy and bearded, with soupy hazel eyes—was clearly dedicated to stoving in Shaw’s skull. The man’s facial and head hair were red and unkempt. He was dressed in a quilted camo outdoors vest and a green plaid shirt, which was stretched taut at the belly by a roll of flesh. Jeans and ankle boots made up the rest of the recluse/mountain man look.

“What are you doing?” Shaw asked impatiently.

Another lunge.

Shaw dodged. He foresaw a possible move from the man, but chose not to engage. It would have been risky, given the man’s bearlike bulk and strength.

The assailant muttered: “Son of a bitch.”

Another chance—a takedown tackle. But again Shaw waited.

Never act prematurely when you’re being attacked. Assess.

He did this now, noting that while the man might have had other weapons, none were visible—and therefore could not be easily accessed.

Then, scanning the ground. No vines or rocks or branches to trip over.

And no one else seemed to be present.

Never assume assailants are acting alone.

Part of assessment in combat was always to determine why one was being attacked. That could decide the response. But as to this question: no damn idea. He called again. “Who are you? What’s this about?”

“Shut up, asshole.”

All right. Time to move things along. There was a family to save.

Another swing, and now Shaw dodged but remained in position, and parried with an open palm to the ear—a very painful blow that can deafen if done right.

The man grunted and winced. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” he said, and moved in again.

Shaw feinted forward, then when the tool swung, he dodged back and grabbed the handle. Bear—a good nickname, why not?—was expecting him to try to pull it away and leaned back ready for a tug-of-war. But Shaw did the opposite, pushing it hard in the man’s direction, throwing him completely off balance.

Bear had to turn to stay upright, which gave Shaw a chance to plant his sole behind the man’s knee, pushing hard. Bear went down on his back, but before Shaw could move in and get his wrist in a come-along—or, safer and more satisfying, simply break a bone or two—he rolled away surprisingly quickly. And leapt to his feet. He was in good shape for a man in his forties and overweight.

They circled for a moment.

Shaw tried again. Sounding almost comically reasonable, he gauged. “I’m serious. You going to tell me?”

Bear leered. This probably had some effect on tipsy or intimidated opponents. But to Shaw it revealed both that the man had no strategy and that he was growing uneasy, pulling out his psychological warfare chops, meager as they were.

The man tossed the shovel far away—played for drama, and a very stupid idea.

Never give up a weapon.

Then he came in fast. Shaw took a glancing blow to the cheek, the man’s knuckles landing near a scar left by a far more competent combatant.

The slug gave him the chance to clutch his face and groan, bending over. The script called for an “Oh, shit,” which he muttered convincingly, and he spat, as if he’d lost a tooth. And when the overconfident man charged at him, Shaw stood and delivered an open-palm blow to his unprotected nose. He felt a snap and stepped back from the gusher of blood. The curiously high-pitched howl was loud.

Snorting and wiping blood, enraged, Bear got ready for another charge.

The poor man didn’t have the benefit of Ashton Shaw’s rule:

Never fight from anger.

Shaw was looking around the area. The shovel was out of sight but he noted a branch about two inches in diameter, the size of a good cudgel, protruding from a tangle of brush.

He looked back to Bear, who noticed it too.

A beat during which neither man moved.

Suddenly Shaw took a few steps toward the branch. But the attacker lunged forward, driving Shaw back, and he leapt to where the weapon awaited.

He grabbed it.

But it didn’t move; its other end was stuck in the brush—as Shaw had noticed, and he’d decided to use its immobility as part of his tactic.

Bear had expected to rip it free, but pulling tugged his body forward, off balance.

Shaw’s father never taught the children any Asian martial arts. It took too much time to master—and was not always helpful in street fights, since opponents rarely play by the same rules. So he instructed them in grappling—a form of wrestling. (In the latter sport, Shaw himself nearly went to the Olympics. He scored points mostly from his lightning takedowns, though he was known to be a talented “rider” too, controlling the opponent and keeping him from escaping, which also added to your score.)

Shaw now moved in fast and caught him again in the back of his knee. This time he had leverage and the blow was harder.

Bear teetered—and Shaw executed a classic takedown, slamming the man onto his back. He rolled him over and gripped his right wrist in a come-along hold.

Bear struggled to escape but found himself trapped. This was a new experience, Shaw could tell. Bear most likely picked opponents who under weighed him and were easily intimidated.

Weight, of course, was only one factor in hand-to-hand combat. Leverage and surprise—and a working knowledge of human anatomy—counted more. For him to try to move now would result in broken bones.

“You’re dead,” Bear said.

How many times had Shaw heard that expression or a variation of it?

And yet here he still was.

On occasion, like now, Shaw was tempted to share that observation. Or quip: “You had your chance. Didn’t work.” But a rule he himself had coined came to mind.

Never banter.

A careful frisk revealed no weapons.

But curiously Bear also didn’t have on him a wallet or any identification. Money, yes—five hundred or so in rumpled bills—but nothing else. Not even car keys, and this was a place where no one was without a vehicle. Odd too: Shaw smelled aftershave that he happened to recognize as expensive, not of the drugstore variety.

“Now. You’re going to tell me. What’s this all about?”

A little more pressure.

And a resulting groan. “You going to fucking torture me?” A scowl. As if Shaw were the bad guy.

“I don’t have time for this,” Shaw said in a matter-of-fact voice. “If you don’t talk to me, yes, I will break the wrist—and that’s a long recovery time.”

Yet more pressure.

“Ah, all right. You’re trespassing.”

Was he joking? “Twenty-five feet in woods, on land that’s not posted? I want the truth.”

“It’s private property. And we don’t want you here. Trespassing’s a crime.”

“So is assault with a deadly weapon and battery. I need a better—”

Shaw’s phone dinged.

Bear took this as a welcome distraction he might use to escape. But Shaw instinctively tightened his grip. “Settle.”

“Ah,” he groaned in pain. “You’re in so much trouble…”

Fishing out his phone. Reviewing the screen.

The drone had made another sighting. About two miles south.

He looked down at his captive.

Shaw was without zip ties. He often carried them but hadn’t thought they’d be necessary on a search-and-rescue job.

In his pocket was his locking knife. He might have sliced the man’s jeans into strips and tied him to a tree for Tolifson and TC McGuire. But this was no time to play cop.

He would have to let the matter go. He released his grip and lifted his phone to take Bear’s picture, but realizing what was coming, the man leapt to his feet and sprinted away fast.

Was he in a facial recognition criminal database?

That too was curious.

Even if he was not, Shaw’s private eye in D.C., Mack McKenzie, had access to some of the best facial rec databases in the world, and she could get him an answer within an hour. But the missing family was his priority and he let Bear vanish.

Shaw fired up the bike and shot back onto Route 13.

In just a few minutes he was at the site where the red dot told him the nimble algorithm had identified what might be an SUV in the water.

The visual image suggested the vehicle was just underwater, like the refrigerator he’d spotted.

He leaned forward and twisted the throttle for the final sprint, glancing into the river at his left.

There!

He could see it from the road.

Sixty seconds later, backpack resting heavy on his right shoulder, he was climbing down the hill toward a faint shiny patch in the river about five feet from shore. The Never Summer was much wider here and the current was moving more slowly.

He strode to the edge.

Paused and stared down.

And found himself shaking his head.

As he wondered how two household appliances—this one a Kenmore dryer—had managed to end up in the waterway.

A white pickup approached and parked. Climbing out was a man with short dark hair and mustache. He wore a navy windbreaker and orange safety vest emblazoned with the letters HFD.

Shaw climbed to meet him.

“Mr. Shaw?”

A nod.

“Tomas Martinez.” He seemed to note there was nothing urgent about Shaw’s behavior and lifted an eyebrow.

“Appliances.”

Martinez’s face fell. A sigh. “Where do you think they are, sir?”

“Stuck somewhere the drone couldn’t see it. A cave maybe. I saw a lot of them.”

“That’s right, and some are definitely deep enough to hide a car, even an SUV. Old mines too.” He sighed again. “And if they got washed into one of them, we’ll never find ’em.”

Shaw typed commands to untether the drone from the float, and sent the UAV back north, toward Hinowah, to continue searching in case it had missed the vehicle on the way down. It would eventually land beside the Winnebago—or ditch in the river if the batteries didn’t hold.

Martinez asked, “I’m wondering if we should move from rescue to recovery at this point. I mean it’s been a few hours.”

The pivot point where you admitted the objects of your search were dead and the mission became one of finding their bodies.

“No,” Colter Shaw said with hesitation. “Not yet.”