by A P Bateman
“This is Big Dave’s land,” said Beth. “He works the two mountains in rotation, but I don’t think he’s done much here yet. The trees are too big.”
“He owns land on both mountains?”
“Hazy lines of ownership. I don’t think anybody has complained.”
“You surprise me,” Stone replied. “They seem to take what they want.”
“Everything.”
The forest started to thin out once more. They had been climbing a while, leaving the plateau behind them. The trees were like spindles and the sides of the mountain gave way to shingle and scree, large out-crops of rock and huge boulders the size of SUV’s. The road became potholed and narrowed to a single track. Beth slowed the cruiser and Stone could see why. The asphalt ended up ahead, loose-looking chippings and earth took its place.
“The end of the road,” Stone commented ominously.
The air shook, the car rocked and the sound reverberated through the vehicle, through their bodies, leaving a chasm of emptiness inside. They were winded, robbed of breath. The shower of scree hit the windscreen, like a thousand shotguns releasing their lethal load. The glass cracked into spider webs.
And then came the rocks.
Pumpkin sized lumps of granite dropped all around them, landing solidly on the edge of the asphalt and on the soft earth ahead of them.
“Back up!” Stone shouted.
Beth rammed the selector into reverse and floored the accelerator. The big vehicle lurched backwards as a rock the size of a park bench took its place and sunk deeply into the road. They lurched from side to side, the power of the big V8 at full throttle too much to control in reverse gear and they veered off the road and the underside crunched loudly over rocks the size of the vehicle’s tyres. They were thrown high in the air and slammed down onto the road, the big car teetering on its nearside wheels, almost threatening to turn over. Beth took her foot off the gas and they shuddered to a halt.
The silence was unnerving, all encompassing, except for the distant echo of the explosion off the neighbouring mountains.
“What the hell?” Beth said shakily.
Stone got out, the .45 auto in his hand. He looked at the crater in the road ahead, deep enough to hide a semi and its trailer. He looked for movement in the rocks and saplings, the brush bushes and rotted fallen trees. He looked back at Beth, who stood by the hood of the cruiser, the shotgun in her hand which she held loosely pointed towards the ground. She was looking at the flat tyre on her side. She tutted loudly.
“Nobody knew we were coming,” Stone said. He walked to the crater, his eyes on the high ground either side. He looked back at Beth. “That was meant for us. A roadside IED.” He knew much about IED’s from his tours in Afghanistan. He had been this close to one before. The rest of his unit had not been so lucky.
“We didn’t hit it,” Beth replied. “And we’re not under attack now.”
“Which is what worries me. We drove over something that initiated the blast. But it was meant to scare us away. Not kill us, or we would have triggered it when we were right on top of it.”
“And that worries you, because?”
“Someone is playing a game. Someone has an agenda.”
“I’d be more worried if I’d driven over it…”
“You didn’t let anyone know we were coming up here?”
“Of course not!” Beth glared at him. “We decided to come here after we got rid of those two guys in the Yukon. You’ve been with me ever since!”
Stone didn’t answer. He looked at the high ground. If someone wanted them dead, then they had all the opportunity they needed. He and Beth were only equipped with pistols and the two shotguns and they were in problematic ground to defend. Neither weapon would have enough range. A single person with a rifle on the high ground would have every advantage over them.
“I don’t get it, that’s all,” Stone said as he turned and walked back to the car. “How would anyone know we were coming up here? And why wouldn’t they finish us when they had the chance?”
He got his answer when he saw the two approaching pickup trucks making their way cautiously towards them on the stretch of asphalt.
22
The lead truck stopped and waited. The second truck pulled past and drew to a halt at an angle, its hood covering the other vehicle. Four men filed out of the bed of each truck and took up position, each man carrying an automatic weapon at the ready. The drivers and front passengers got out, taking aim and cover behind their doors.
Twelve men, twelve rifles.
Stone looked at Beth. She shook her head. But there was more to it; her expression begging him not to do anything. Stone was no fool; he knew they were out-gunned. It was either time for a last stand, or time to hope for another chance of one. Both threw their weapons down together. They clattered on the dirt and rock debris and lay still with an ominous finality. Beth slowly took the Glock out of her holster and added it to the others making a pile.
The men filed off left and right with military precision. Over rehearsed, and a little wooden in Stone’s opinion. But they approached in two lines of four, each side of the road, with three to four paces between each man. They were out of the arc of fire from their four companions behind them, but presented a narrow profile if either Stone or Beth went gung-ho with a hidden weapon. The men kept their weapons shouldered. Stone had to concede they had nothing but the upper hand. He felt a wave of nausea pass over him, and a twisted feeling in his gut as he realised, truly, that this was the first time he’d ever felt helpless. Beaten. He’d taken Taliban prisoners like this after fierce battles, they must have felt the same way.
Two men neared. They kept their weapons trained on each of them. Stone could see they were AR-15 rifles and they looked new, fresh out of the box. There was grease in the groves of the magazines.
“On your knees!” The nearest man commanded. He waited as both of them did just that. “Hands on your heads, cross your ankles!” There was some authority in the man’s voice, like he was ex-military, perhaps a former NCO. “Move and you’re fucking dead!”
Stone watched as the rest of the men fanned out around them, their weapons still aiming threateningly at them. The man walked around, Stone heard him rest the weapon on the ground, then he was grabbed roughly and his hands were pulled behind his back. He felt the cable ties pull tightly on his wrists, then he was pushed forwards onto the ground. He’d been expecting this, and managed to tense his core just enough to keep his face from slamming onto the rock. He looked sideways as Beth was tethered and lifted up to her feet. She was walked to one of the trucks, followed by four gunmen, and lifted into the bed. Stone couldn’t see any more because at that moment he was set upon with multiple rifle butts and boots until he was dragged in the same direction. They lifted him and he dropped into the bed, but he managed to wriggle onto his side and get onto his knees, pushing his back against the cab as the men climbed in. He knew how to act in a situation like this, and lowered his eyes, groaning and wincing at every movement. Making himself seem no threat whatsoever to his captors. The groaning was not entirely part of his act, he had received a wicked beating and was battered and bruised, his ribs and kidneys feeling as if they were on fire from the kicking and bludgeoning.
He did not dare to make eye contact. The truck started up and pulled a three-point-turn then followed the lead truck. Stone hoped Beth was holding up. She had been a brilliant Secret Service agent in her day, she would know what to do, how to go with the situation until she could recognise an opening. He just hoped an opening would be there for them.
The convoy threaded its way through the narrow ribbon of asphalt and was soon into the thicker forest. The evil Disney wood of creepers and vines and fallen trees. Of thorns and fronds of impenetrable growth.
The truck swung a tight right. Stone had not remembered such a sharp corner on the journey up here. He chanced a look. He saw the lead truck continue on the road down the mountain. Beth was heading in another directi
on. But where were they taking him?
One of the men jabbed him in the stomach with the muzzle of his rifle and Stone gasped. “Eyes down, shithead!” The other men laughed. One was lighting up a cigarette and Stone could smell the cheap and pungent smoke as it wafted near him. He heard the unmistakable click of a Zippo lighter as it snapped shut. Maybe it had the same US Marine Corps emblem engraved as the one he had taken from his first captors. Maybe this had been a gift from Bart Conrad.
Stone stared at the floor. The road became narrower and soon thin branches were whipping at the men’s shoulders and scraping down the bodywork of the truck. The men adjusted their positions, hunching their shoulders and dipping their heads to avoid the branches.
The truck slowed, crawled along. There was a creaking sound. Stone chanced a look and saw that they had eased onto a wooden bridge. He could hear a rush of water below. The truck was moving at a walking pace, the wooden boards straining and protesting under the weight. The men seemed preoccupied looking at the drop. Stone raised his head and could see that the drop was considerable. At least forty feet, maybe even fifty. It was hard to judge in the dimming light. The water was faster moving to his right, and he could see why. A small waterfall dropped forty metres or so away from the bridge and the water slowed and deepened on the right. The water was clear, and even in the fading light, Stone could see the slower moving water was considerably deep. But it did not slow for long and he could see the river drop away in the distance. The water became rippled and white.
Once the truck was halfway across, the sound of falling water filled the canyon and it had the effect of wearing headphones, almost muting every other sound. Stone could hear the men talking about fishing. They were almost shouting to make themselves heard. One was recounting a trout fishing trip further upstream.
Stone thought about the trout. They had to be able to get up the waterfalls. The same as salmon leaping, swimming up to where they were born, so that they could spawn. Only to die afterwards and have their fry swim back downstream and begin the process all over again. Surely any waterfall along the river would not be too big? Where all that water was heading, the drop couldn’t be all that excessive, could it? Without further pondering, Stone was up and had his foot on the edge of the truck’s side between two of his captors. He leapt outwards, just clearing the rails of the wooden bridge and out into the fresh air. The drop was frighteningly long, his stomach rising towards his mouth. He kept his feet together, his legs outstretched, but ready to tuck into a ball as soon as he hit the water. Above him he could hear shouts. He knew those shouts would be replaced with gunfire as soon as he surfaced, so he had to put distance between them, and remain out of sight for as long as possible. The water bit him savagely, any hope of holding his breath seemed lost. Barely above freezing, faster moving than he’d thought and with a strong pull downwards. He broke the surface, fought for air, his tethered wrists making it impossible to remain afloat. He ducked down, kicked hard and allowed the current to take him.
Bullets struck the water around him, spiralling vortexes arcing through the water and dropping their lethal load to the riverbed. Again, Stone came up for air. He was panicked, treading water, fighting to get air into his lungs. He ducked again, swam deep to the bottom, where the true strength of the river met him, enveloped him and pulled him along, bouncing him on the hard rock until it pulled him over the falls.
23
Backstroke proved easier. Stone frog-kicked his legs, his head in the freezing water with his mouth and nose gulping down air as he sculled to the rocky shore. He’d been here before, a four-week detachment to the Navy SEALS. They liked to tie your wrists behind your back and throw you in the pool a lot. Especially as, like Stone, you were in the Army. Except pools were warmer and there had been safety divers on the bottom and nobody had been shooting at him back then. But it had taught him not to panic. And that may well have been enough for his brain to find the familiarity and supress the fear of drowning.
He staggered in the shallows, barely able to make his legs take his weight. He could not feel his limbs. He stumbled, falling onto the rocks, onto his battered ribs. When he fell a third time, he rolled over and stared up at the darkening sky, the clouds pulling into and dropping out of focus. He looked to the top of the waterfall, some seventy or eighty feet up, halfway to the top of the edifice of the granite cliff. The water cascaded to a boiling mass of foam at the bottom.
His eyes started to blur and he felt a wonderfully warm comfort envelop him, like a hug through a warm blanket. He closed his eyes, momentarily, he promised himself, then fell into a heavy sleep.
The man wore the uniform of the Airborne Rangers. He was in his forties and he had his grey hair shaved short. The top of his head was covered by the flat brimmed, western-style drill sergeant’s hat, but underneath Stone knew the hair was a military grade sixties flat-top. He was a hard, fit man and he jumped off the rock and crunched across the shingle of the beach to where Stone lay. His insignia bore that of Gunnery Sergeant. Under his olive drab shirt his white T-shirt was starched and ironed, the creases looked like they would cut.
“Well, one thing’s for sure you pathetic little son-of-bitch,” he growled. “You know fuck-all about trout fishing…” He smirked, stepped forwards and kicked Stone hard in the ribs. “You going to lay there and die shithead? Or are you going to fight?” He kicked again and Stone murmured. “Get up solider! Get up and keep moving! Get your worthless ass up and squared away!” He kicked again and Stone jolted out of his unconscious state and looked around.
He was alone, wet and cold. He was close to hypothermic. He rolled over onto his front and got up onto his knees. He swore he could feel the Gunnery Sergeant help him to his feet. He smiled, but as he took his first step he knew he was alone. But he was up and he was moving once more.
Stone got off the beach and into the cover of the trees. He rested against a moss-covered boulder that was the size of a bus, edged around and found a corner. He started to rub the cable ties on the rock, wincing as he occasionally caught flesh, the skin too cold to feel the abrasion until it was cutting too deep. After a few minutes the cable ties broke and his hands were free.
Bloody, grazed, but free.
He got undressed quickly, shivering. But that was good, because while he was shivering his body was still working. He wrapped his shirt around a thin sapling and twisted until all of the water ran out. The shirt was cold and damp, as were his trousers after he repeated the process, but he would soon warm. He did the same to his socks, then packed dry leaves into his boots and put them back on. He stuffed dry leaves under his shirt too, to create a layer of insulation, and tucked the tails into his trousers to seal in the heat which would soon generate. He dried his leather coat as best he could, but it was tough and resisted being twisted very far. He went through his pockets. He had the lighter he had taken out of the back of the Yukon, his wallet and his trusty lock knife. He had not been searched back on the mountain, merely trussed and beaten. He clung on to the fact that these men were amateurs. They had demonstrated good close quarter drills back when both he and Beth had been captured, but they were only as good as the people who trained them, and searching a prisoner thoroughly was essential. He flicked the lighter. It was a Zippo, so could have been fuelled with anything flammable, from petrol, lighter fluid, or white spirit, through to whisky. Naturally, it didn’t light. The full immersion in water would have that effect. But it sparked, and maybe that would be enough. He put it back into his pocket. He was shivering uncontrollably. He needed to warm himself, and in lieu of finding somewhere warm and cosy, he needed to put in some miles and bring his core temperature back up. He wasn’t entirely sure yet, but by the growth of the moss he ascertained north and from the direction they’d come across the river, he best guessed the direction of Abandon and started to run through the undergrowth.
The going was tough. Rocks from landslides through millennia, fallen rotting trees, new growth at various shapes and sizes, a
nd slopes of shale all stood before him and the twenty miles or so to Abandon. The sun was now down and the light was all but gone. He knew the moon phase and it would be another couple of hours before he had some light to aid his progress, but the cloud cover was light and he would have clear skies for most of the night. He was starting to warm, although his clothes were still damp. With the air temperature cooling and his body heat rising, he gently started to steam. This warmed him quicker as the moisture heated and created a thermal barrier. But if he stopped moving he would risk cooling too quickly.
He moved across a particularly loose section of shale, working his way towards a patch of solid-looking rock about twenty feet ahead of him. He could see the saplings growing in clusters along the slope. Lower down the trees were thicker and taller, mainly spruce, pine and birch. He did not want to drop down to these as they would be harder to navigate through, and the mountainside seemed to head downwards for a considerable distance. If he went too far he would have to work his way upwards with a brutally steep trek to the mountain which made up the majority of the Conrad brothers’ land and the same mountain that fringed Abandon. He estimated that he needed to skirt this slope for at least three miles before descending further.
Stone stopped in his tracks. A silhouette of a man stood clearly in front of him. The light of the moon, still not yet in sight but starting to work its way over the horizon, was just enough to outline his profile. Stone, with his body close to the slope, away from the moonrise hue, knew he would not be visible. He eased himself lower, estimated the man’s distance from him. He reckoned on fifty feet. He could see the weapon. Was it just an innocent hunter? Stone couldn’t see a telescopic sight on the frame of the firearm – no hunter would go out at night with iron sights. The man stretched, holding the weapon in one hand. Stone could make out the magazine, long and curved. Some hunters used military rifles, mainly for varmint and small game hunting or acting out their military fantasies, but this didn’t seem right. The man looked like a bored and undertrained sentry. His clothes didn’t look like that of a hunter either. Although Stone could not see the colour of the man’s clothing, the cut looked all wrong.
