Chapter 3 - The Ridge Road
The hike back to the equipment shed felt like walking through a minefield. Every snap of a dry pine twig under our sneakers sounded like a gunshot in the still mountain air.
My ribs screamed with every step, and I could feel a dark bruise blossoming across my right side, but adrenaline kept my legs moving. Sophie stayed close to my hip, her hand locked tightly in mine, her breathing controlled and quiet.
When we finally rounded the weathered wooden corner of the old ore-processing shed, my silver SUV came into view, parked neatly behind a rusted grader.
I let out a long, shaky breath I didn't realize I’d been holding.
I fumbled in my pocket for the electronic key fob, pressed the unlock button, and heard the familiar, comforting chirp-chirp of the doors opening.
“Get in, sweetie,” I whispered, opening the passenger door and helping Sophie climb into the front seat. I buckled her in quickly, making sure her jacket was zipped up against the dropping alpine temperature.
I slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and jammed the key into the ignition.
The engine roared to life, the dashboard lights illuminating the cabin in a reassuring green glow. I immediately reached for the overhead console, flipping open the emergency panel housing the satellite SOS button.
I pressed it firmly.
The indicator light blinked red twice, then turned a steady amber.
“Satellite link connecting... Please wait,” the automated voice chimed from the dashboard speaker.
A moment later, a crisp, professional voice crackled through the comms. “Emergency Response Center, satellite channel 4. State your emergency.”
“This is Melissa Hale,” I said into the cabin mic, my voice shaking slightly but cutting through the tension with absolute clarity. “My daughter and I were pushed into an abandoned ventilation shaft in Silver Creek, Colorado, by my brother, Daniel Hale, and my father, Richard Hale. We are currently in our vehicle near the old ore shed on the outer ridge. They are still down in the valley near the tourist entrance. We need sheriff deputies and medical assistance immediately. My coordinates should be transmitting through the beacon.”
There was a fraction of a second pause on the line.
“Copy that, Ms. Hale. Emergency coordinates received. The Park County Sheriff’s Office has been dispatched to your location. Stay in a locked vehicle and keep clear of the suspects.”
“Understood. How long?”
“Units are twenty minutes out from the base of the ridge. Hold tight.”
The line clicked dead.
I let out a shuddering breath, dropping my forehead against the steering wheel for three seconds to steady my spinning thoughts. Twenty minutes. We just had to hold out for twenty minutes without my father or brother realizing we were alive and mobile.
I threw the SUV into reverse, turning the steering wheel sharply to maneuver around the old grader without turning on the headlights—which would instantly cast a beam across the valley and alert them to our position.
As I inched the vehicle backward down the narrow dirt track, my headlights briefly swept across the rear-view mirror.
My blood ran cold.
Coming around the bend of the access road, kicking up a thick cloud of white dust, was my father’s black Ford pickup.
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They hadn't been waiting by the truck. They had circled around the back ridge on the old logging trail, realizing that if we somehow survived the fall, our rental car was the only way off the mountain.
They were cutting off our exit.
