Out of the Wild: A Wilderness Survival Thriller Read online

  It wasn’t that he was money-hungry, or seeking fame, what use would that be to him now? No, it was more than that. It was the one thing that he and Kara had in common, the one thing they’d bonded over when she was young. Maybe that’s why he did it. It was his last connection to the past, to what remained.

  He stopped reading and looked up, thoughtful, considering where the years had gone.

  While Kara had grown into a beautiful and bright woman, their relationship had become strained, of course, no fault of hers. She had tried. Some days he wished he could go back, make better choices, be a better man. Henry let out a tired breath as he shifted his focus back to the book to avoid dwelling on regret.

  Although time had robbed him of the treasures of his youth, his pursuit of the elusive hadn’t ended. He liked to believe it’s what kept him young, full of the same adventurous spirit and vitality that had brought him to Alaska as a daring young pilot.

  Some might have called him an armchair treasure hunter but that wouldn’t have been accurate. A seeker of truth, perhaps?

  When he wasn’t managing a company that carted tourists back and forth from remote lodges or delivering supplies, medicine, and cargo to over seventy communities, he had his head buried in old maps or was found to be thumbing through weathered books, researching cryptography, browsing news archives and mapping out what he believed was the location of gold — a large cache brought up to Alaska by one Sir Francis Drake.

  For years, rumors had swirled and been fiercely debated, but despite all the naysayers, one theory had held: Drake’s gold had been discovered by a group of prospectors in the 1900s. How they found it was still a mystery. What happened after? Well, depending on who you spoke with, different stories emerged.

  The most credible one was that liquor and loose lips had a played a role, a dangerous concoction especially in the presence of the greedy looking for an easy payday. Allegedly, one such person had overheard — Mad Trapper Johnson — a man that had gone down in infamy for various reasons only to die and leave behind his own trail of mystery.

  Was he responsible for the prospectors’ deaths?

  Did he find the gold? Was there even any truth to the tale of Drake’s journey north?

  Henry paused, rubbing his salt-and-pepper chin, three weeks of growth.

  From article to article, book to book, interview to interview, he’d pored over the notes trying to find the commonalities, build a timeline and pin down a search location.

  He’d heard it all.

  It was enclosed inside a mine.

  Buried beneath a cabin.

  Hidden behind a waterfall.

  When he got lost in his research or forgot, which was becoming more frequent, he returned to the start.

  Stick to the basics, he told himself. It’s all there. Found between the lines.

  Henry scanned his hand over a book from the 1900s, then clicked play on a video and began listening to two block-headed, stuffy-nosed know-it-alls hash it out and argue.

  While die-hard scholars were divided, one tale they accepted was that Drake never came close to Alaska, but had returned to England’s Plymouth harbor in September 1580 after voyaging around the globe.

  However, a brash line of thinking had found its way in, creating a new narrative — one in which Drake never set foot in California but sailed further north in search of the Northwest Passage and a territory to claim for England.

  An account that was collaborated by map makers, journals, and Alaskan prospectors.

  Henry stopped and glanced up at a photo near his table, the last snapshot of better days, him with Kara in front of a Piper PA-18 Super Cub. It was taken on her twelfth birthday, a day that saw them head out to search the backcountry. Her excitement back then, her smile. It was something else. He didn’t care if they didn’t find anything, it was just being with her, seeing her come alive, that made him feel alive.

  He smiled and looked down.

  The truth was that a small group still believed the gold was out there hidden somewhere between the boundary lines of Alaska and Yukon Territory. Most said it was a pursuit for the insane, like searching for a needle in a haystack — and they were right. Finding it would be near impossible in an area that was larger than Texas, California and Montana combined.

  But he wasn’t giving up.

  It was a mystery that haunted some and had led to the deaths of many, but it was one mystery he felt he was close to solving.

  He glanced at the clock and realized he was running behind.

  After closing the book in front of him, he got up and collected his jacket and a leather satchel that he slung over his head, and headed out.

  Shaw’s Flightseeing Tours and Air Charters was located in Ted Stevens International Airport, a good twenty-minute drive from his home on Cormorant Cove. He’d started the business back when he was only nineteen, an aspiring, cocky pilot from Chicago who had moved to Alaska with nothing more than a backpack and six hundred bucks in his pocket.

  Under the guidance of an old-time bush pilot, he’d purchased his first plane and within two years had gotten busy. He went on to build a much in demand aviation company catering to locals and tourists alike, with eighteen planes and thirty-two pilots.

  Gunning the engine on his black and red 1978 Chevy truck, he made it in under fifteen minutes. Henry swerved outside the small office and large hangars where there was a fleet of fire-engine red bush planes — Cessnas, de Havilland Otters, Super Cubs, Air Vans, and Beavers. Outside, talking with one of the pilots, was Frank Anderson, his longtime friend, business partner, accountant, director of maintenance, or as he liked to say — jack of all trades.

  Frank glanced his way as Henry muttered something about the traffic being bad.

  “Henry, what are you doing here?”

  “Work, what do you think?”

  “But it’s Friday. You take a three-day weekend.”

  He stopped walking and glanced at his watch then back at his truck.

  Frank placed a hand on his arm. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” he replied. He cleared his throat and quickly shifted gears to avoid embarrassment. “I’d just remembered I forgot some paperwork. I’m…” He trailed off as he went inside the office and collected some random folder that he didn’t need but would suffice to explain away his odd behavior.

  2

  Los Angeles, California

  It was a nightmare. The traffic on the 110 freeway into downtown was almost bumper-to-bumper. The Los Angeles skyline was obscured by smog, thick, heavy and suffocating. Kara Shaw slammed a fist against the horn, joining the chorus of frustrated commuters as some asshole with an expensive car swerved into a gap that no one in their right mind would have attempted unless they were a moron. The locals had little interest in the needs of others. They were part of the rat race, the climb to the top, the top of where? She was beginning to question it all.

  The driver of the flashy Porsche 911 flipped the middle finger at her just before swerving into another spot as if he was playing a game of Frogger. Horns honked again, and she stabbed hers for good measure. There was nothing to be gained from it, but it offered a sweet release to the building pressure.

  Her eyes darted to the time. It might as well have flashed back the words:

  YOU’RE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT

  That morning she was supposed to be pitching a brand idea for a prospective client, a client that would cement a long-term business relationship, and offer her a foot in the door for a promotion as creative director of the agency.

  Since college, she’d had her eyes set on working for one of the best in the city. She had this ideal in her head of the way things would be: a thriving career, respect from her peers, and one day settling down to have kids in a modest home somewhere along the Pacific Coast Highway.

  Yeah — that bubble had burst a long time ago. She was still snowed under by college debt from obtaining her masters, living out of a one-bedroom apartment, an
d elbowing her way through a sea of sharks. The sharks being anyone willing to throw her under the bus to get where they were going, even if it was just one step ahead of her. A bit like the asshole in the Porsche.

  Closing in on thirty, her biological clock was ticking strong and she wasn’t getting any younger, but this was what it all came down to — putting in the hours, sacrificing weekends, and enduring the daily commute. Wasn’t it?

  “Come on!” she bellowed then sighed.

  If the traffic didn’t move soon she was seriously considering abandoning her vehicle and double-timing it on foot. What a sight that would be.

  Now if this had been Alaska, she could have hopped in one of her father’s bush planes and made it there in a quarter of the time. It seemed almost ironic. Only 20 percent of Alaska was accessible by road, leaving bush planes and boats as the main means of transportation, whereas California had roads for miles and an endless choice of intersections and exits, and here she was going nowhere.

  She squinted. Either the contact in her right eye had shifted or an eyelash had gone into it. Flipping down the visor, she tried to get a better look only to have an angry driver behind her honk his horn because the traffic had rolled forward one inch.

  “All right. All right!”

  Biting down on her lower lip, she placed a call to Roger Manning, her boss, the quintessential bane of her existence. She didn’t want to make the call as she knew what he’d say but she had little choice.

  “Kara, where the hell are you?” he spoke in a hushed tone, leading her to believe the client was already there. No doubt Roger was feigning a smile, pretending he was ordering an oversized chai tea latte.

  “And good morning to you.”

  “Remember what I said about ten minutes early is on time, and on time is ten minutes late?”

  “I’m stuck in traffic, Roger. I’m nearly there.”

  “So is Christmas.”

  She ground her teeth and clenched the steering wheel tighter.

  “Just work your magic. Give them more donuts, coffee, complimentary Botox.”

  “Hilarious. If I give them any more caffeine, they’re liable to have a coronary. Just get here fast.”

  He hung up on her just as she was about to say one more thing.

  She clenched her jaw and eased off the gas. Her tired old sedan, that she’d snagged a year ago from some dubious lot, crawled forward.

  Her eyes were fixed on the vehicles ahead — peering through one window into the next — when wisps of smoke from the corner of the hood caught her attention. For a second, she thought it was exhaust fumes coming from the bozo beside her who had decked out his gaudy-looking car like he’d seen too many episodes of Pimp My Ride. It wasn’t.

  “No, no, no!”

  Her eyes flitted to the temp gauge on the dashboard that had risen into the danger zone. “Oh, you can’t do this now. Not now, baby!” At times she would speak to her car lovingly, and pat the dashboard as if it understood her, like the way someone might gently tap the side of a flashlight that was about ready to give up the ghost. “Come on. Don’t die on me now. You’ve got this.”

  As smoke thickened, she edged her way off the road, squeezing into gaps when those who were observant enough realized the problem. Others just honked their horns, thinking she was being as obnoxious as the asshole who had done the same to her. Making her way over to the hard shoulder, she killed the engine, if it could be killed any more than it already was. It was as dead as a dodo bird. Kara got out and used a rag to avoid burning her fingers as she popped the hood. She stepped back several feet, raising her forearm as a plume of hot smoke billowed out.

  “This can’t be happening,” she said, running a hand through her long, wavy black hair and looking around for a lifeline. A few drivers honked their horns and smiled, one guy even wolf-whistled but most simply pretended she didn’t exist. She blew out her cheeks as she called for a tow truck then sat on the concrete median, waiting on Roger’s angry call.

  Her late arrival at Artesian Advertising, a glass tower located in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, was to be expected. Humiliating. As she exited the elevator and shuffled down an aisle of blank gray cubicles — copywriters, designers, and interns looked up from their screens, eyes boring into her. They weren’t judging her, hell, they didn’t even know her. The entire firm was one big circus, a revolving door of failed dreams. Getting to know people required time, time they didn’t have. Allowing employees to mingle, learn each other’s ugly secrets, that only presented problems. Roger was like Julius Caesar thinking that everyone was out to stab him.

  He wouldn’t inform them of her mistake. No, he had more common sense than that. His ego wouldn’t allow it. Announcing a giant cock-up like this would have been seen as a sign of weakness on his part, an inability to choose someone of competence, a declaration that he wasn’t fit to be at the helm of this ship. Still, just because he wouldn’t have opened his mouth, it didn’t mean others hadn’t.

  She set her bag, coat, and briefcase down at her desk, straightened out her white blouse, and smoothed her black pencil skirt, before mustering the courage to enter the lion’s den. Kara knocked on the office door, the only office that had blinds. Everyone else fell under his watchful eye. “Come in,” he responded.

  Entering, she nearly bumped into Dawson Wright. Dawson was an up-and-coming adman with the Midas touch, at least he liked to say so, spouting off clients he’d worked with in the past, all Fortune 500 companies, the cream of the crop. He too had been eyeing the position of creative director. “Kara,” he said with a nod.

  “Dawson.” She gave a thin smile as he stepped around her with a smirk.

  “Close the door behind you,” Roger said.

  Roger wore a permanent frown. He took a sip of his coffee from a mug with the words YOU’RE A WINNER! etched into it. He was wearing a pin-striped blue and white shirt with burgundy suspenders attached to dark pants. His suspenders complimented his tie.

  At fifty-four, he still had a full head of swept-back dark hair and looked much younger. He notched it up to his weekly cryotherapy sessions but she knew he’d gone under the knife. There were few in the firm that hadn’t.

  On his desk in front of him were a spinning globe, his laptop, a gold pen, and a Newton’s cradle that he was in the habit of triggering when he wanted to have a conversation. He said it helped him think, she found it off-putting. Off to the right were several framed advertising awards that he made sure to point out any chance he got. Taking up a large portion of the wall to her right was some obscure painting that needed three people to explain its meaning but only one to express its worth.

  He rose from his desk and made his way over to a small putting green mat where he took a golf club and proceeded to line up a shot. He shuffled and took his time as if he was part of the PGA Tour. Of course, he nailed it in one. He flashed his pearly whites and arrogantly sniffed hard as he lined up behind another ball.

  “How’s the car?”

  “Dead,” she replied.

  The ball went into the hole without him looking.

  He made a clicking sound with his lips. “That’s too bad.”

  “Look, Roger, I’m sorry about this morning. I hope the client understood.”

  He waved her off. “Oh, they understood. Don’t you worry. I took care of it.”

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. Her last conversation hadn’t gone well but she’d suggested telling the client that the agency would offer a discount for waiting a day longer — reassuring them that it would be worth the wait. Roger downed three more balls before he set the club down and motioned for her to take a seat. He made his way around and sank into his oversized black leather chair like he was the king of California. “What are you driving nowadays?”

  “Just a sedan. A Chrysler.”

  “That explains a lot. Piece of crap. Here, I’ll give you the name of my salesman.” He fished out a card from his wallet and handing it to her. She glanced at the company —
Mercedes. “He’ll take care of you.”

  “Right,” she clutched it, wadding it up in her hand. As if she could ever afford that. He knew it too. He drummed his hands on his desk in front of him and stretched out his arms before interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Speaking of a piece of crap, you remember that agency off Jefferson? Run by that sleazeball, Vern San… Vern Sandbar or…”

  “Sanders,” she corrected him.

  He clicked his fingers and stabbed one at her. “That’s it, that finger-lickin' chicken moron. Well, it seems he bit the big one two days ago and curled over in his sleep. Of course, I was quick to send my condolences and offer our services to his wife who was more than willing to offer his clients to us.”

  Kara squinted in disbelief. “Don’t you think that was a little hasty?”

  He leaned forward, a smile spreading. “Kara. This business is about speed, if you don’t get in fast, someone else will. Don’t forget that. It’s not personal, just business. Besides, everyone knows that gold digger was just there for the money.” He sniffed again and explained how the agency would benefit. According to Roger, Sander's fourth wife was half his age and only knew two things — tanning and taking Instagram shots. He pulled out his phone and showed her the latest one, some busty, provocative pose with her tongue sticking out.

  “What I would do for an hour with that,” he said.

  Kara quickly brought the topic back on point.

  “So when will the client hear the pitch again?”

  Still distracted as he swiped through shots, Roger lifted his eyes. “What?”

  “You changed the date, right? With the client this morning.”