Cross Hairs by Jack Patterson

Cal revved the engine and shoved it in the opposite direction, hoping to gain a few more valuable seconds for their getaway.
    They ran to the edge of the bank. Kelly gasped.
    “I don’t think I can do this, Cal.”
    “Don’t think about how far across it is right now. Just jump. Come on.”
    Cal backed up a few steps for a running start and leaped, landing on the other side of the bank with relative ease.
    The engines buzzed louder with each passing second.
    “Come on, Kelly. Trust me. You can do this.”
    Kelly tossed her backpack over to Cal and backed up a few steps. Cal looked east through the woods and saw the gunmen within about five seconds of reaching the woods. Kelly took off running.
    As Kelly reached the lip of the bank, she stepped too far out on the edge. The loose dirt gave way and Kelly went feet first into the creek.
    The small splash she made in the ankle-deep water was inaudible to the gunmen, who were still on their motorcycles and combing the area where Cal had shoved the bike. They never heard her or her colorful language.
    “Come on, Kelly. Give me your hand,” Cal said barely above a whisper.
    Kelly sloshed across the creek toward Cal’s outstretched hand. Cal could only monitor her progress with his peripheral vision as he never lost sight of the gunmen. He had to save Kelly but he also had to tell this story, one no one would ever hear about it if they were murdered in the woods. If Statenville treated their deaths like they had the deaths of the three teenagers, nobody would ever care about how these two reporters died—nor would anyone ever discover the truth. There would be no TV news special to answer the unexplainable disappearance of two up-and-coming journalists.
    Cal heard the men yelling at one another. Their bikes idled as they fanned out and searched on foot. They still failed to look in the direction of the creek.
    “Hurry up, Kelly!”
    For Cal, each second lasted as long as a day of typing obituaries.
    Kelly finally made it to Cal. She grabbed his hand tightly as he hoisted her slender frame up an additional three feet and onto the other bank.
    “Go, go, go,” Cal said, shoving Kelly underneath the fence.
    Cal continued to keep watch as she crawled onto Cloverdale Industries property. Once she was through, Cal began slithering backward under the fence. The gunmen then turned off their bikes but continued to search in other directions.
    As Cal began to get up, Kelly delivered a swift kick to his leg. “You forgot my bag!” she whispered.
    While Cal preferred to escape with his life first in order to tell the story, he figured no one would believe him if he didn’t have proof. He shimmied about halfway through before using his long arms to reach for Kelly’s camera bag and pull it back with him.
    As Cal was pulling the bag underneath the fence, one of the bag’s elastic strings caught on the fence and caused the fence to clang as the string snapped free. The noise didn’t go unnoticed.
    “Over there!” one of the gunmen shouted.
    “Go, Kelly, go!”
    Cloverdale Industries maintained pristine landscaping. For this successful multi-level marketing company, no expense was too great to project the appearance of wealth. After all, that was the lure of drawing people in to sell their products. Sell enough organic detergent, cleaners and liquid magnesium to your friends and you too can live in the lap of luxury . That nauseating idea permeated Statenville, but it served Cal and Kelly at the moment.
    The southwest corner of the property contained about an acre of densely wooded area thanks to a heavy irrigation effort by Cloverdale. It provided ample cover for Cal and Kelly.
    “When we get to the edge of these woods, we’ve got to sprint as fast as we can to the corner of the loading dock,” Cal instructed. This wasn’t his first time on the property. Cal covered Cloverdale Industries on a regular basis and was always making trips to the corporate headquarters to get the