“Run!” Cole ordered.
For an instant she didn’t recognize his voice. There was a flatness in it that she had never heard before. She sensed motion to her left and turned her head.
“Damn it, run!”
Cole looked huge in the nebulous light. His hands and his body made sinuous, almost hypnotic motions as he waited for the men to attack him. With each continuous motion he shifted balance smoothly, always poised to attack or defend in any direction, never giving away his intentions. The knife he held had the dull shine of mercury. Slowly he backed away, trying to draw the men from Erin, who hadn’t gotten up.
The men rushed Cole in a ragged line.
Erin saw the sudden gleam of steel blades as two of the men drew knives. She tried to call out, to warn Cole, but there wasn’t any air left in her body. She fought against herself as she’d fought against the men, trying to drag air back into her lungs so that she could do more than lie helpless on the cold sand.
Cole watched the oncoming men, picking the order of his targets with the cool precision of a man who was used to being on the wrong end of the fighting odds. He had two advantages. The first was that he didn’t have to worry about injuring a friend by mistake. The second was that the men would expect him to defend himself rather than attack them.
The two men holding knives came eagerly forward, keeping just enough distance between them so that Cole could fight only one at a time. He’d already chosen his target—the bigger of the two, the man who moved and held himself like a fighter.
Cole feinted toward the smaller man, then pivoted and leaped toward the bigger one. Cole’s left hand slapped aside the knife. Simultaneously the edge of his right hand delivered a chopping blow to the man’s throat. The attacker went down, choking, a threat no more.
Using the momentum of his turn, Cole lashed out with a high, powerful kick to the smaller man’s head. There was a thick sound as he connected. The smaller attacker went facedown in the sand and stayed there.
One man remained standing. Two others had staggered back to their feet and were closing in again.
“Erin!” Cole said.
She tried to answer but couldn’t. She still couldn’t breathe, much less speak.
“Erin.”
Only silence answered.
Cole looked at the three attackers who were still standing. “You’re dead men.”
With an inarticulate sound one of the three reached inside his windbreaker and drew out a long, oddly shaped gun.
Swiftly Cole bent, straightened, and turned in a blur of motion, sending sand hurtling into the man’s eyes as the two unarmed men leaped forward. Cole rolled with the attack, taking the blows in order to get in close and finish off at least one of the attackers before the gunman got his vision back.
Erin struggled to her knees with wrenching sobs as breath slowly trickled into her lungs. She saw Cole go down beneath the two men and heard the man with the gun cursing in a heavy Cockney accent. He was on his knees, clawing at his eyes and swearing, temporarily blinded. She hadn’t the strength to stand, so she did the only thing she could. She crawled closer, gathered a double handful of sand and flung it in the man’s face.
His frantically moving fingers ground the new sand into his eyes. Screaming curses, he came to his feet, flailing around with the gun.
Even as Erin thought of making a grab for the gun she knew she was still too weak. She dug out more handfuls of sand and threw them into the man’s face. Grunts and curses came from the darkness beyond, followed by the unmistakable sound of a breaking bone. In the sudden silence the metallic click of the gun being cocked was like thunder.
“Get down!”
At Cole’s command Erin flattened out, rolled over and over, and then hugged the ground as the blinded man began firing wildly, shooting in the direction the sand had been coming from. She’d expected shattering noise from the gun. All that came were thick spitting sounds.
Cole had also thrown himself to one side, knowing that the next bullets would be aimed in the direction that his shout had come from. Instants later two bullets kicked sand where he’d been, proving that while the gunman was temporarily blind, he wasn’t deaf or stupid.
Erin lay utterly motionless, trying not to breathe, knowing that any sound she made would send a bullet in her direction. Because it was so quiet, she thought that Cole was also hiding by not moving. Then she caught a suggestion of motion from the corner of her eye. She turned her head very carefully. It took all her self-control not to cry out at what she saw.
Slowly, relentlessly, timing his movements so that they were covered by the faint lapping of the waves, Cole was easing closer to the gunman.
Fear washed coldly through Erin. If Cole made one mistake he would be shot down before he could do anything to prevent it. It was the same for her in this lethal game of blindman’s buff. Only if they were motionless would they be safe. Yet only if they moved could they ultimately survive.
The gunman wouldn’t stay blind for more than a few moments.
She dug her fingers further into the coarse sand, gathering grains to fling into the gunman’s eyes. She looked from the gunman to Cole, measuring the distance yet to be covered.
Cole’s head moved once in an emphatic negative gesture. He’d seen her hands clenching in the sand. He didn’t want her to move suddenly, calling down bullets on herself before she had any chance to get away.
Silently Cole slid closer to the gunman, who was between him and Erin. If Cole threw his knife or hit the attacker with a flying tackle, there was a very good chance that the man would topple, gun blazing, right onto Erin.
To prevent that Cole had to be within arm’s reach of the man, so close that the sound of the waves no longer offered any cover for his movements, so close he couldn’t even breathe without warning the gunman of his presence.
Erin’s hands closed in the sand with such force that her fingers ached. Slowly she began gathering herself with a series of small movements.
Cole’s heart hesitated, then slammed hard as more adrenaline pumped through him. If the gunman sensed Erin’s movement he would turn and shoot before Cole could do anything. If she would just lie still, she’d be safe. But she wasn’t lying still. She was trying to get close enough to fling more sand into the man’s eyes.
The gunman had his back partially to her, and his head was turning. He was poised to spin in any direction, his breathing ruthlessly controlled, listening like a cat at a mouse hole. The silenced gun wove from side to side, covering as wide a field of fire as possible.
Erin saw the glitter of moonlight in the man’s eyes as he turned toward the water. Cole was silhouetted against the pale gleam of the sea, a target too big to miss even with blurred vision.
She threw sand and rolled aside in the same violent motion.
The gunman spun toward her, firing before he could see a target. The bullet hit the sand, spraying grit. The gunman whirled back around toward the sea, warned of an attack more by instinct than by any noise Cole made. The gun spat again.
Cole grunted just before the base of his palm smashed against the man’s nose with a driving upward blow. The gunman’s head snapped backward, and blood poured blackly in the moonlight. The man crumpled without a sound to the sand.
“Erin! Are you all right?”
“Yes. Just shaken.”
“Watch the pathway we came down.”
Cole picked up the gun and checked the load with a few swift motions before he sheathed his knife. Methodically he began inspecting the other four men for signs of consciousness.
“Anyone coming?” he asked Erin as he bent over the first man and made a swift, hard motion with his right hand. The man didn’t move in response.
“No. W-what are you doing?”
“Making sure they’re not faking it.”
Cole’s method was ruthless and effective—stiffened fingers driven into the groin. No conscious man could take it without a reflexive whimper and a convulsive movement
to protect himself.
Numbly Erin watched. She was trembling in the aftermath of adrenaline, but she felt almost unnaturally calm. She’d been through sudden violence before, survived it, and adjusted to the reality that she would never again expect the world to be a safe place.
This time the violence had been much easier to bear. She’d managed to defend herself. She’d fought and she hadn’t even been injured. Her mind was safe, too. She no longer had any naïve belief in personal safety to be wrenched away by the attack. It was all old news. Later she might cry and shake, but not now. Now she was emotionally numb.
Surviving.
The fourth man groaned and curled up at Cole’s blow. Erin flinched.
“Still clear?” Cole asked her.
“Yes. Shouldn’t we get the police?”
“That would put us out of commission as effectively as these men tried to.”
Cole yanked the fourth man into a sitting position. “If you can hear me, open your eyes or you’ll get another shot to the balls.”
The man’s eyes opened.
“Who was the target, me or the girl?” Cole asked.
The man didn’t answer.
Cole’s hand moved once, hard. The man made an odd sound and jerked convulsively.
“Who was the target?” Cole repeated.
“You,” the man groaned.
Relief went through Cole. He couldn’t expect to protect Erin for long from outright assassination attempts. Mayhem was different. Especially if it was aimed at him.
He turned and threw the pistol into the sea. “A hit?”
The man made a hoarse sound. “Just a kneecapping.”
Erin’s breath came in harshly as she realized that the point of the attack had been to permanently maim Cole.
“Who hired you?” Cole asked.
“Don’t know.”
Cole believed him. It was typical of thugs not to know any more than the name of the target and how to get to him. Cole pressed his thumbs into the man’s neck until the carotid arteries closed down. Unconsciousness swiftly followed. Cole opened his hands, releasing the man.
“Anyone else coming?” Cole asked.
“No.”
“We’ll go up the other way just the same. There was somebody back on the first path, but he didn’t get in the fight.”
“Why?”
“He may be calling the cops. Let’s go.”
Cole got to his feet and bent to help Erin up. His normally smooth motions were marred by a slight hitch at every other step. She thought she saw the slick gleam of blood on the dark fabric above his left knee, on the inside of his thigh.
“Are you hurt?”
He grunted.
“Cole,” Erin said urgently.
“He didn’t kneecap me, thanks to you. I’ll only limp for a day or two instead of the rest of my life.”
“But—”
“Later. Shock is a good anesthetic, but it wears off fast. By then, I want us to be in a safe place.”
“Is there one?”
He turned away without answering, which told her more than she wanted to know.
18
Darwin
“I still think you should let me take you to a doctor,” Erin said unhappily.
Cole walked into the hotel room, saying nothing. His leg ached and was bleeding, but he knew the wound itself was little more than a burn. All he needed was some help cleaning and bandaging his thigh.
She shut and locked the door behind her. The hotel room was small and modestly furnished. Her old camera bag and new duffel were on the bed, as was Cole’s new duffel.
“Let me help you to…” Her glance went to his thigh. “My God!”
“Don’t go all soft and useless on me now,” he said. “It’s just blood.”
Moisture shone darkly against his slacks. If the cloth had been any color but black, he couldn’t have concealed the fact that he was wounded. As she watched in horror, a bright scarlet rivulet slid from beneath his cuff onto his shoe.
“Unless you’re planning to leave tracks all over the carpet, you’d better go into the bathroom,” she said in a voice that was too high and thin.
He walked unevenly to the bathroom, lowered the toilet lid, and sat down to remove his shoes and socks. Silently she sank to her knees in front of him, pushed his hands away, and began pulling off his shoes. Blood dripped onto her fingers. She made a low sound of distress and tried to work faster.
“Relax, honey,” he said. “It’s not serious.”
“Just a scratch, right?” she shot back, angry because he was hurt and there was nothing she could do to change that. “I’ve got news for you, big man. Scratches don’t bleed this much.”
“Blood isn’t spurting with each heartbeat, so the bullet didn’t get anything important. As for the mess—hell, it’s not like you don’t see blood regularly.”
“I only hunted whales once.”
“I was talking about your period.”
Erin gave Cole a glittering look. He smiled. She let out a pent-up breath and shook her head.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?” she asked, bending over his feet once more.
“Nope. Want to be the first?”
She made a sound that could have been exasperation or amusement, but her hands were much steadier now. Cole was right. She saw blood every month, like clockwork.
By the time Erin had his shoes and socks off, Cole had unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it beyond reach of the blood that was sticking to everything. With quick motions he unzipped his slacks and began removing them. At the scrape of cloth over the wound, his breath hissed between his teeth.
“You’re hurting yourself,” she said. “I’ll cut off the pant leg.”
“No. I don’t want to waste time shopping again. I’ll have to wear these pants on the airplane.”
She looked up. “Does that mean we’re going back to California?”
“No. We’re going to Derby. With luck, they’ll waste their time looking for us between Darwin and Abe’s station while we come in from the other side. Get a pillowcase, honey. I’ll rip it up for bandages.”
“I’ve got a first-aid kit in my camera bag.”
By the time she got back to the bathroom, Cole was standing in his jockey shorts, one hip propped against the washbasin as he tried to examine the red slash across his muscular inner thigh. To Erin’s adrenaline-heightened senses, the naked strength of his body was suddenly, violently attractive. She remembered the terrible feeling of rage and helplessness she’d known when she went down beneath the attackers. Then she’d heard Cole’s voice promising vengeance for her hurt, and she’d known—really known—that this time she wasn’t fighting alone. This time a man was going to use his strength to help her rather than to brutalize her.
Cole turned toward her. As he moved, light fell across him at a different angle, creating new shadows and highlights. For a crazy moment she wanted to grab her camera and catch the supple strength and masculine textures of his body. He was…beautiful.
The thought stunned her.
“Sit down,” she said huskily. “Let me help you.”
His eyes narrowed at the change in her voice, a softness where before there had been only the clipped irritation and anger of an adrenaline backlash. Now she was looking at him like she’d never seen him before, her extraordinary green eyes clear and wide, approving of him with an intensity that made his heart pound heavily.
Silently he sat down on the toilet seat.
She rinsed out a washcloth in cold water before she bent over him. The enforced intimacy of the contact made her feel weak. She tried to think of Cole as a man who needed help rather than as a powerful, nearly naked warrior whose thighs she was kneeling between. Then she saw his wound and forgot about what he was or wasn’t wearing.
“It always looks worse than it is,” Cole said, seeing the pallor of Erin’s cheeks.
“But the blood—”
“I saw your pictures o
f the whale hunt. You had to be ankle deep in blood to get those shots.”
She remembered shooting roll after roll of film and then being violently ill. Afterward she’d reloaded her camera and gone back to work.
“I threw up all over the place,” she said as she pressed a cold cloth against the wound, stopping the slow oozing of blood.
“You do and you clean it up, honey. Blackburn’s First Rule of Housekeeping.”
Glancing up, she saw his amused gray eyes and wondered how she had ever thought they were bleak or cold.
“Right,” she said. “No throwing up. Besides, you’re smaller than a whale. Barely.”
She caught the flash of his smile as she bent over him once more.
“Hurt?” she asked, increasing the pressure.
“What do you think?”
Her smile turned upside down. “It hurts.”
The back of his index finger brushed lightly down her cheek. “I’ve felt a lot worse.” His breath came in as she shifted the cloth. “I’ve felt better, too,” he admitted wryly. “Burns are the worst for pain.”
The pronounced tendency to tremble, which was the result of adrenaline and anxiety, faded from Erin’s hands as she worked. While Cole held the compress in place, she started cleaning up the muscular length of his leg.
“Well, no one can say you aren’t a red-blooded American male,” she muttered as she rinsed out the washcloth for the fifth time. “Hairy, too.”
He laughed.
She tried to smile, but it didn’t work. Soon she would have to clean the wound itself. No matter how gentle she was, it would hurt him.
“Just what I thought,” he said, lifting the compress to check. “Shallow and messy. No big deal.”
“How can you tell?” she asked through clenched teeth. “You can’t even see all of it.”
“I know how it feels when something cuts muscle and grates on bone. This didn’t. But if it bothers you that much, I’ll get in the shower and clean it up myself.”
She paused in the act of turning on the hot water in the sink and looked at Cole. The bathroom light poured over him, outlining every ridge of muscle, sinew, and bone. He literally filled the alcove where the toilet was.
Death is Forever Page 15
