“Easy, easy, easy,” Joe cooed to Toby, whose muscles were taut with tension. “Easy, easy, easy . . .” as the huge herd poured around them and kept going.

Behind him, the agents were having their own private rodeo. Their horses bolted, and soon there were more men on the ground than in the saddle. Underwood’s horse reared, but somehow he stayed on.

When the elk were gone, leaving the air heavy with their musky smell, Joe was still mounted. Agents moaned and cursed and writhed in the grass, and two of the horses ran behind the herd of elk in a panic, their stirrups flapping and striking their flanks as if to goad them on.

“Jesus Christ!” Underwood hollered. “What in the hell just happened?”

“Elk,” Joe said calmly.

“I know that! But what made them charge into us like that? We’ve lost most of our horses, and I’ve got injured agents on the ground.”

“Something spooked them,” Joe said, turning in his saddle to look west, the direction the elk had come.

There was a slight rose-colored tint to the sky that threw him off. Not only was the sun rising in the wrong direction, he thought, it was coming up an hour too early.

Then he smelled the smoke.

—

“ARE YOU TRYING to get us killed?” Underwood yelled into the satellite handset to Juan Julio Batista. “Why didn’t you fucking tell us the forest was on fire?”

Joe was still mounted, and he listened while leaning forward in his saddle with his arms crossed over the pommel. The agents who still had horses held them by the reins. The two without horses just stood there. One man said he thought his arm was broken and another said he couldn’t walk because of a sprained ankle.

“I don’t care,” Underwood bellowed at Batista. “This isn’t worth it. We might burn to death if we stay here, and I won’t waste the lives of these men. You need to send an evacuation chopper now. We’ll figure out where it can land and how to get to it.”

The agents were nodding and urging Underwood on.

“I don’t care if your ass is on the line,” Underwood shouted. “We’re not going to fry up here for you or anybody else.”

Underwood punched off, furious. He said, “The missile started the forest on fire, and it’s already out of control. The fire is spreading out to the east, north, and south.”

“We’re east,” one of the agents said.

“Not for fucking long,” Underwood said. “Those elk had the right idea. We’re evacuating. We’re going to go right back up that trail where we came from until we can get above the tree line. I’m hoping they’ll send a chopper to get us out of here before the whole fucking mountain goes up.”

“How fast is the fire moving?” someone asked.

“Fast,” Underwood said, and Joe noted the real panic in his voice.

“What about those of us who don’t have horses?” an agent asked.

Underwood extended his hand and let the agent double up on the back of his horse.

“If you don’t have a horse,” Underwood said to the other man on foot, “you’ll have to share.”

With that, he turned his horse and cantered through the trees up the trail. One of the mounted agents helped the crippled agent get behind him on his horse and the two of them followed the others.

The agents left weapons, gear bags, and body armor scattered on the ground.

Before they all vanished into the dark timber, Underwood returned and cocked his head at Joe.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Nope.”

“Then where are you going?”

“I’m going to go find Butch,” Joe said, and turned Toby south, toward Savage Run.

“Joe!” Underwood called. Joe turned around in his saddle just in time to catch the satellite phone Underwood had tossed through the air.

“Call in your position if you get in trouble,” Underwood said before he waved good-bye and rode away.

30

DAVE FARKUS COULD NOW SEE WHERE HE WAS running due to an unnatural, hellish light that filled the sky and illuminated the ground and penetrated the scrub trees they’d entered. The entire sky was fused orange and streaked with gray bands. Ash, like snow, filtered down through the air. He assumed it was dawn, but there was no way to tell because he couldn’t see the sun through the cover of smoke.

Butch Roberson no longer enforced the decorum he’d insisted on before the fire started and the three of them jogged abreast, zigzagging around trees and clumps of brush. Sweat poured down Farkus’s spine into his jeans, and his shirt clung to his back. It was worse for McLanahan, though, he noticed. McLanahan looked like he’d just stepped out of a shower fully clothed. His face was flushed red, and his breathing was ragged and forced.

Behind them was a roar of white noise. The temperature had risen, and it was getting warmer by the minute. The air itself was hot and acrid, and Farkus tried to filter it by holding his shirtsleeves up to his face while he ran.

His throat was raw from breathing in smoke-filled air, and his eyes watered. It was like standing in front of a campfire, filling his lungs with the smoke.

“Hold up,” Butch said, nearly out of breath himself. “Hold up.”

Farkus stopped and looked over to see Butch pulling a long knife out of a sheath and approaching him. Had he decided to do them in and proceed alone?

“Hold out your hands.”

Relieved, Farkus did as he was told.

Butch cut the zip ties free and turned to do the same for McLanahan, who now held his hands out.

Butch said, “You’re both free to go.”

“Go where?” McLanahan replied angrily.

“Anywhere you want.”

McLanahan gestured behind them. “There’s fire everywhere. Where do you expect us to go?”

“I’m sticking with you,” Farkus said to Butch. Butch nodded reluctantly.

He said, “I can’t guarantee your safety if you stay with me.”

“I’d rather take my chances with you than stay with Fatty.”

McLanahan reacted with anger and panic, and turned so he could look behind them, as if to find a path through the oncoming fire. He spat a curse and shook his head.

At that moment, less than a mile away, was a loud popping sound, followed by another.

“Is somebody shooting?” Farkus asked Butch.

“No,” Butch said, shaking his head. “Those are trees exploding. When the sap in the trees gets superheated, trees literally blow up.”

“Jesus,” Farkus said. “Exploding trees.”

“That’s going to be us if we don’t get moving,” McLanahan said. His eyes were wet and bloodshot, rimmed with red.

Butch unshouldered his pack and dug into it and emerged with a spare long-sleeved shirt. He used his knife to cut it into wide strips, then doused the strips with water from his Nalgene bottle.

“Tie these around your mouths,” he said. Then, to McLanahan: “Tie yours extra tight.”

“Are we still headed for the canyon?” Farkus asked as he covered his mouth with the cool, wet cloth and knotted it at the nape of his neck. It felt good.

Butch nodded. “I don’t think we have any choice but you can do whatever you want. I doubt the fire can jump the canyon, and I know Batista can’t. So if we can get there, we might have a chance to get out of this.”

Farkus nodded, ready to go.

“How in the hell are you going to get across?” McLanahan said.

Butch threaded his arms through his pack and buckled it back on.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he said.

“That’s bullshit,” McLanahan said. He looked over his shoulder at the oncoming fire. They couldn’t actually see leaping flames yet, but the air was getting hotter and exploding trees signaled the approach of the flames.

“I’m going to make my stand,” McLanahan said. “I’ll find a ditch, cover myself with dirt, and let it pass over the top of me.”