Walkaway - Prologue

October 27, 2007.
Boundary Waters Canoe Area, Minnesota/Ontario Border

Around the bend, the river narrowed. There, the water moved fast before flowing into a deep gorge of rapids. Mike Montane paddled hard, roughly a canoe length from the Canadian shoreline. Two other canoes followed, shadowed as dark reflections in the rainy afternoon mist, barely within sight. Adrenaline pounded through his body. Sweat dripped from the long sleeves of his concealed wetsuit onto his cold, bare hands.

The river turned. It was time.

With one sweeping stroke, Mike heaved his canoe sideways against the choppy current so the others could see its full length.

Now!

Placing two fingers under his tongue, his whistle pierced across the water. At the same moment, he stood in the canoe and thrust his paddle in the air. The others stopped paddling and peered through the haze. He pointed the blade toward the Minnesota shoreline and signaled them to look. Four heads turned, and Mike imagined the strain in their eyes as they refocused on him, then back to the empty shore.

Still pointing, he deliberately stepped onto the back edge of the canoe. Water poured over the side. Seeming to struggle for balance, he flailed his free arm, then grabbed all the air his lungs could hold, pitched his paddle chaotically into the sky, and fell backward into the icy river.

The arctic water wrapped its grip around him. It burned his face, like fire engulfing a match. Cold bore into the thin wetsuit with penetrating stabs of pain. But he had no time for pain.

He swam underwater as far as his breath could take him, knowing the others would be racing to his rescue. His lungs exploded as he pushed himself, eyes wide open - one, two, three strokes beyond his desperate need for air.

Bubbles burst through the water as his lips strained for the surface. He gasped and dove again. A few more strokes and he'd be past the bend.

The drag of his fully clothed body fought against his pulling arms. His feet splayed against the soles of his boots trying to turn anchors into fins. Fear of being caught controlled every nerve, forcing him to push. Push. His hand hit a rock, then silt - he was near the shore.

Heaving chunks of air, he scrambled, almost fell onto the rocky shoreline, somehow wary not to break any branches, overturn any stones, or leave any trace except the water trail that would soon blend into the already-wet rocks. Bending low, trying to stay invisible among the giant boulders, Mike sprinted silently. He needed to make it over a small hill about forty yards from shore to an area overgrown with thick brush amidst the twisted trunks of fallen trees. There, in the man-sized briar patch, he'd vanish like a deer in the woods.

Anxiety overpowered him. It wasn't the fear of a hunted animal. Rather, it was the calculated, self-imposed terror of being caught. His beating heart tried to betray him while every pulse throbbed inside his throat. He crouched motionless in a hollow of torn roots and wet leaves. Shutting his eyes, every sense, every cell of his body focused in order to listen.

By now the others rounded the bend. He heard them yell against the howling October wind. They hollered loud. Again and again he heard his name in panicked cries. They felt close. Too close. He dropped flat to the ground except for his heaving chest, unwilling, unable to look.

Mike knew they'd be scared. Temperatures hovered barely above freezing. Water this cold could kill in minutes. Worse still, they were alone, at least two days from the nearest road and well beyond the reach of any cell phone. He was their leader, the one who had brought them to this lonely place. No one else had a map to guide them home.

As they approached his overturned canoe, he heard Kelly's voice scream above the rest. His wife shouted in anguish, each time louder, more fierce than the last. "Mike! Mike!!! Mike!!!!!"

Despite years of premeditation, he wanted to cry out. But seasons of pent-up wrath held his tongue in numbed resolve. Fury transformed itself into resolute silence as his lips mutely mouthed the words that tore through his heart. I'm here . . . I'm sorry . . . I love you.

As their search moved down river, their yelling slowly faded, while his anger simmered into silent rage. He wanted to look, to see where they were, but his own heavy burdens forced him to the ground.

Time passed. Despite the wet cold gnawing through his muscles, he remained motionless. He knew the forensic detectives from Platinum Insurance would come back to the woods - probably with helicopters and an army of people. All to look for him. Their own private investigators would overturn stones to prove he wasn't dead.

But they would find nothing. No body. No clues. Nothing.

Nothing but speculation that a former Platinum agent might have tried to commit life insurance fraud.

No one else could be a part of this deception. His wife had to know he was dead to have the strength to battle the monsters who had destroyed his life and taken his soul. Mike had counted the cost, and had given back the change.

In the end, he'd show Platinum. And he'd get their money, too. His body grew static and numb to pain as he waged war with his enemies. And waited.

Waited.

Waited for the others to give up.

He pressed himself into the bitter wet ground for hours. All the while a cold wind sliced through the damp wool clothes he wore on top of his eighth-inch wetsuit. Shaking cold, throbbing nerves ravaged through his body. When he finally had the courage to move, his rigid muscles trembled in shock. Slowly, silently, Mike peered over a fallen log, then froze. There, so close, a silver-skinned Alumacraft canoe had been left behind.

Without moving his head, his eyes slowly scanned. Back and forth. No one. The others were gone. He assumed they had left the canoe along with his pack and extra gear to lighten their load for the long trek to find help. It would all remain untouched by him.

Crouching low to the ground, he inspected every twig, piece of grass, and clump of dirt to be sure he'd left no trace, then silently tiptoed toward the water. When he got to the river's edge, he gazed across to the Minnesota shore.

Still wet and fiercely cold, he made a final check of his wetsuit, adjusted the zipper buoyancy belt filled with soft weight, and stepped back into the frigid water. A lot of work lay ahead.

Just then, the sun pierced through the clouds.