Peter jumped to the ground and double-timed up the brushy slope to the faint twin lines of the ghost road, panicked rabbits bounding ahead of him in the grass. He sprinted toward the top of the rise, hoping the high ground would let him track the black truck’s path. What he saw confirmed his memory of the map. Perhaps five miles downstream, the distant details clear in the crisp, dry air, a long well-lit bridge rose above the braided river, connecting Nebraska to South Dakota.

The next downstream crossing point was thirty miles east, by Yankton. Upstream, to the west, there was no crossing until the hydro dam at Pickstown, at least forty miles.

The gathering dusk was in his favor. There were few cars visible, but they all had their headlamps on. In Peter’s experience, rural drivers tended to be more conscientious about this detail, especially on winding country roads where the center line was more of a suggestion and any added visibility could save your life.

After only a few moments, a fast, dark shape appeared from behind a headland, with two sets of lights in that distinctive high-low pattern. It followed the curve of the highway, then turned onto the bridge.

Peter didn’t need to see what happened next. He knew where the other man was going.

He put the river on his right and began to run again. Across the open ground to the east, toward the bridge.

The other two trucks, his own Chevy and the long gray pickup, were gone. The pregnant woman had told Peter that they would take her back to their home base. After that, Peter had to assume that the other men would cross the river and join the hunt.

14

Soon Peter was at the edge of a wide field that seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. He looked at the setting sun and figured the time around eight o’clock. Other than the river down below and a few distant stands of trees planted by the old-timers to shelter their farmsteads from the summer sun and winter wind, there was nothing but corn stubble as far as he could see. Welcome to South Dakota.

Past the last row of cut stalks, Peter’s feet found the smooth ground unbroken by the cultivator’s knife. He pushed his pace into an easy, ground-eating lope that he knew he could sustain for several hours without stopping. His legs felt strong and his breath came easily. In his eight years as a Recon Marine, between training and combat, he figured he’d covered at least twenty thousand miles on foot, most of those miles carrying sixty to a hundred pounds of weapons, armor, ammunition, and provisions.