by Meg Gardiner
“I know cell towers are far between,” he said. “And reception’s spotty in the mountains. They should have found a landline and phoned ten minutes ago. They need to know I won’t accept sloppy work. Phone them.”
Sabine didn’t sigh or pout. He gave her points for that. She took her sleek little phone and punched Friedrich’s number with her French-manicured nail.
She put the phone to her ear and pinned her eyes on Haugen. She was wearing blue contacts, another part of her light disguise. With the blond wig, the startling aqua jumped out at him. Ran. Yes, with the disguise, she looked fully the Norse goddess. She could steal just about anything.
She could stand to lose fifteen pounds, but after this weekend, he would send her to a spa. Then she should be just about right.
After a moment she said, “Out of range.”
The car bounced and took a turn hard. Stringer was pushing it.
“Stay under the speed limit,” Haugen said. To Sabine: “Try again.”
Sabine handed him the phone. “Hear for yourself.”
As she stretched, her top gapped open and showed the tattoo.
Haugen felt the skin around his temples shrink. “Cover that up.”
She continued to lean forward, phone extended. He could hear Von’s number ring. She didn’t shift or make the slightest move to cover the tattoo. As she inhaled, her breast swelled and so did the snake, a sea serpent, the World Serpent of Norse mythology, blue like the veins of her breast, flowing beneath the pale white skin, so rich and fearsome. The serpent’s forked tongue protruded, flicking toward her unseen nipple. The sight repelled him.
He grabbed the phone from her. “Button your shirt or put on a jacket. Don’t breach security, even in the vehicle.”
She leaned back, taking her time, and glanced out the windows at the endless plains and empty farm fields and scrub pine. Then she smiled, as if she were humoring him, and buttoned her top.
Haugen put the phone to his ear. Von’s number was ringing. But he wasn’t picking up.
Sabine put her foot up on the center console. “We need to be within two miles to use the walkie-talkies.”
“I know.”
Why didn’t Von pick up? Haugen slammed the phone shut. He nodded out the windshield and said to Stringer, “Step on it.”
15
In the sloppy rock and grit on the side of the gorge, the cell phone rang. Von could hear it clearly. But he couldn’t find it.
It was Haugen, he knew. Haugen, calling because he had missed his check-in. Each ring sounded angrier than the last.
Huffing, he said to the mountain air, “I’m here, asshole.”
He was stuck halfway down the side of the steep gorge, midway between the gravel logging road and the riverbed below. The Hummer had catapulted him free when it flipped. That had saved him. He couldn’t believe he was alive, but he would take the luck.
Below him, dirt and vegetation were scraped away as though a crazed bulldozer had charged downhill at an angle. He hurt all over. He was covered with dust and scratched to bits and thought his arm might be busted. Maybe his eye socket too—things looked kind of crooked—and his head was screaming.
He glanced up. The hillside, this evil gorge, looked nearly vertical. He grabbed hold of a root that had been half pulled from the hillside by some protruding edge of the limo, and he leaned forward to look down.
He saw the Hummer.
It was—oh, man—it was probably four hundred feet below him, upside down on top of rocks at the edge of the river, tires pointed at the sky like a fat dead turtle.
He saw Friedrich.
Or the smashed shell that was left of Friedrich.
Royally screwed. No kidding. Friedrich, Friedrich—“Why’d you swerve?”
All he’d done was kick Friedrich accidentally, and the idiot lost control of the Hummer. That’s what he’d tell Haugen. It was Friedrich’s fault.
He heard voices. He heard a girl crying. So—they weren’t all dead.
He wiped his nose. He had to salvage this. He couldn’t let the kids get away.
His phone stopped ringing.
“Crap.”
He needed the phone to ring so he could find it.
And he needed his gun to ring so he could find it.
He pulled himself to his knees. His head pounded like a frying pan was hitting it. He looked downhill. He should go down there. The weapons were down there. Friedrich wasn’t using them. Nobody was guarding the hostages.
Then he took another look at the gorge. No way could he possibly climb down. The hillside was too steep and slick.
But he could climb up. He could scramble back to the logging road. And on the way, he could find his phone and his gun. And Haugen would be coming along. Haugen, and nobody else—this road was virtually deserted three hundred sixty days a year.
He would climb up to the road and flag down Haugen and Sabine and Stringer. The kids weren’t going anywhere. It had been Friedrich’s fault. Haugen would have to blame Friedrich.
His head was bleeding. He scrounged in his pocket for a handkerchief to stanch it and found the Glock.
The day might not be a total loss after all.
He could punish those numskulls in the Hummer, those college kids and the man in the USF T-shirt who had attacked him. They would pay.
He began to climb.
16
“Once more.”
On the count of three, Gabe and Kyle kicked at the long window along the side of the Hummer. This time, with a squeezing, crunching sound, the entire thing popped out of the frame and fell to the rocks on the riverbank.
Gabe checked outside. “It’s safe to climb out.”
Jo caught his eye. The unspoken message passed between them: triage. They needed to assess the group for injuries. Slowly, careful to avoid placing her hands in broken glass, she belly-crawled across the wrecked Hummer. Her heart was slowing. She blinked dust from her eyes.
She reached Autumn. “You okay?”
Autumn had unhooked herself from the seat belt and now huddled, in a fetal position, against the wall of the Hummer. Her eyes were vividly alert.
Jo put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
Autumn stared at her like a doe facing a wall of flame. Jo put her hands on either side of the girl’s face. “Answer me.”
“I’m okay,” she said.
Jo nodded. “Good. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Autumn seemed all right: conscious, symmetrically mobile, oriented times three. Dustin’s face was covered with dirt and debris and smeared with blood from abrasions to his scalp, but he was alert and had no obvious neurological deficits. Gabe had found a flashlight and was shining it in his eyes, checking his pupils for signs of head injury.
“You’re all right.” Gabe nodded at the window he and Kyle had kicked out. “Slide through there. Then stay put. I mean it.”
Dustin nodded at the floor, avoiding Gabe’s eye, and crawled toward the window.
Jo nudged Autumn after him. “You too.”
Autumn didn’t budge. Dustin held out a hand. “Come on.”
Autumn gave him a coruscating glare. His expression wavered. Pale, he turned away and slithered out the window frame.
Peyton’s moaning had become sporadic, though still loud. Gabe said, “Your collarbone’s broken.”
Lark lay on her stomach, looking around helplessly, patting the debris-strewn roof of the limo. “My glasses. I can’t find them.”
Autumn turned from the window and scurried toward her. “They have to be here.”
Aside from the lost glasses, Lark looked all right for the moment. Jo turned to Noah.
He was propped against the back of the upside-down driver’s compartment, covered in dust and glass, soaked with blood, mute.
She crab-crawled to his side. “You there?”
He didn’t move, but a wave of pain seemed to roll through him. His gaze slid toward her. “Let’s not take that ride again.”
Jo tri
ed to smile. She took his pulse. It was strong and going like a racehorse. “Where’s the pain?”
“Everywhere. From the chest down.”
“Chest pain?” she said.
He blinked, indicating no. “Shoulder hurts like a son of a bitch.”
She saw a bloody hole in his T-shirt. He had been shot.
Triage divided casualties into four categories: green, minor injuries; yellow, non-life-threatening injuries; black, dead or near dead; and red, life-threatening injuries—those who could be saved but were at risk of death if they didn’t get immediate transport for treatment.
Noah was a red tag.
Jo had experience in emergency medicine, but as a forensic psychiatrist she dealt primarily with history—with people whose lives were already over. Facing a crisis case, out of the blue, was always a moment when her chest caught.
She flicked her head, beckoning Gabe. He crawled over. He was filthy and bleeding and his gaze was black. But his voice was as soothing as a cool drink of water.
“Let’s take a look at you,” he said to Noah.
The young man was pale but alert. “You guys EMTs?”
“I’m a pararescueman, and Dr. Beckett is an MD.”
Noah’s eyes widened. “My lucky day.”
“You are definitely a glass-half-full guy.”
Noah’s hands were cold. Concerned about shock, Jo called to Autumn to find him some water to drink and looked around for something to put beneath his feet. She wanted to raise his legs to improve blood flow to his brain.
“Let’s get a look,” Gabe said.
Blood soaked Noah’s shoulder and darkened the filthy surface beneath him. Gingerly Gabe tore open the young man’s sopping shirt to see the wound.
The round had hit him at an oblique angle. Jo could see only a small entry wound. It looked garish, but it wasn’t throbbing with blood. The bleeding was significant, but not arterial.
She heard a gasp. Lark knelt at the window, poised to crawl out onto the rocks, staring at Noah. She was frozen, her knuckles pale on the window frame.
Gabe palpated Noah’s chest and bent low to see his side and back. “No exit wound. Bullet’s still in there. Buddy, you’re going to have a souvenir.” He took Noah’s right hand. “Squeeze.”
Gritting his teeth, Noah gripped Gabe’s hand. “Ow.”
Appreciation flickered in Gabe’s eyes. Ow was a major understatement.
“I think the bullet’s lodged in the pectoral muscle, under the distal end of the clavicle. We can pack the wound and immobilize his arm and shoulder. Stopping the bleeding’s our main priority.”
“Got it,” Jo said.
Lark crawled over to them. “Noah.” Her voice broke. Then she gathered it back. “What can I do?”
Jo fought the impulse to tell her, Nothing. Autumn crawled up behind Lark and reached an arm around her shoulder. She handed Jo a water bottle. Their faces were stark.
“See if there’s a first-aid kit,” Jo said.
“Okay.” Lark scuttled backward. She grabbed Autumn and said, “Come on.”
Autumn, her voice low, said, “We’ll find your glasses. They have to be here.”
Jo needed a sterile dressing, but unless a first-aid kit turned up, she had zero hope she was going to get it. Her hands were grungy. She wiped them on her jeans.
She tore a strip off her own shirt, the bottom layer of her mountain-ready clothing, and right now the cleanest, least dusty and muddy and germ-ridden item she could find. She folded it and put pressure on the gunshot wound.
Gabe continued checking Noah for other injuries. When he touched the young man’s lower right leg, Noah cried out. It was an animal yell, almost feral.
“Careful.” Noah gasped. “Jesus, just—careful. Don’t touch my leg.”
“Gotcha.” Gabe glanced at Jo. “We need to find my knife.”
Jo could barely squeeze into the crushed driver’s compartment. It was a mess, filled with dirt and debris, and the driver’s headrest was dark red with blood. Jo blinked dust from her eyes and tucked her hands inside her cuffs and swept her arms through the wreckage.
The buck knife was jammed between the dash and the crumpled windshield. She dug it out.
“Here.”
She handed the knife to Gabe and kept looking around. She found his carabiner key chain with the Swiss Army knife. She wriggled back into the passenger compartment.
Gabe unfolded the buck knife and sliced open Noah’s jeans. Jo saw what was causing Noah such incredible pain.
Jo had a practiced, dispassionate “therapist” face. And she had a bedside manner—calm and focused and attentive. Right then, she fought to hold her blankest, most neutral expression. Fortunately, Gabe had far more experience at dealing with traumatic injury. He barely paused, and his voice remained laid-back and authoritative.
“Your leg’s broken, buddy,” he said. “But you’d probably guessed.”
Noah lifted his head. Jo waited for him to scream, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t pass out. But his eyes swam and he pressed his lips together.
He had an open fracture of both bones in the lower leg. His tibia and fibula had snapped and protruded through a tear in his skin.
He let his head fall back. “Who’d believe . . . getting shot isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me today?”
His assessment wasn’t far-off. Through pure luck, the gunshot wound looked like an injury they could stabilize. But the fracture could prove deadly.
Gabe and Jo stared silently at the wound. Then he glanced at her, a look that confirmed her fears: They couldn’t count on transporting Noah to a hospital in the next couple of hours. They would need to reduce the fracture—to try to realign the bones. Leaving it open would be a nightmare of pain and an invitation to horrific infection. Moreover, bones aren’t meant to be exposed. Left in the open air, they can dry out. They can die. Jo didn’t want Noah to face undergoing bone grafts or, worse, losing the leg. They needed to set the fracture—and quickly—before muscle spasms set in and degraded their ability to manipulate the leg.
But setting the fracture was itself dangerous and tricky. They would need to be extremely careful. Raw, sharp bones, maneuvered even by trained professionals, could inadvertently slice into nerves or an artery.
And the wrecked, dirty interior of the flame-party-mobile was not a sterile environment.
Before Jo could speak, she heard shouting.
“Oh my God.”
Peyton had crawled to the window. Halfway out, she had stopped, staring in shock at Friedrich’s body.
“He’s dead. Oh God.”
Kyle Ritter dropped into view. “Be quiet.”
“He’s dead.”
“And his partner’s out there. You want him to draw a bead on us thanks to your slack-jawed shouting?”
Peyton squeezed her eyes shut. Kyle and Dustin maneuvered her through the window, watchful of her cracked clavicle. She sat down hard, pressed a fist to her mouth and cried quietly, rocking back and forth.
Kyle watched for a moment and, satisfied that she wouldn’t start shouting again, walked toward the hood of the Hummer. He dropped to his hands and knees. Warily he edged forward, skirting Friedrich’s body, and tried to peer underneath the vehicle.
“What are you doing?” Autumn said.
“He had a gun. We need it.”
Kyle continued his search, rooting beneath rocks, scooping dirt from under the hood of the Hummer. “How about a little help? Anybody?”
Autumn didn’t move. She stared at the corpse as if hypnotized.
“Autumn,” Jo said. “Get something to cover him up with.”
Autumn just stared at her. Jo’s words barely seemed to register. Autumn wasn’t in shock physically, but emotionally, she was numb.
“Go on,” Jo said. “It’s appropriate.”
Autumn didn’t acknowledge her, but grabbed a hoodie and crawled through the window. She dropped it across Friedrich’s face.
“Lark
, any sign of a first-aid kit?” Jo said.
From the back of the vehicle, Lark said, “Still looking.”
Gabe made a hitchhiking thumb over his shoulder, asking to talk to Jo privately. Which was ridiculous in the confines of the Hummer, but they moved a few feet away and spoke in murmurs.
“We can reduce the fracture, but stabilizing him here is going to be a bitch,” Gabe said.
“I’ll try to prep as clean an environment as possible.”
With Jo, Gabe dropped the affable no-worries façade. “His injuries are not the main issue. The situation is the main issue.”
“I know.”
She glanced out the window. The walls of the gorge rose above them in a V. They were eroded and bulging with rocks and overhangs and crags. The October sun had already dropped below the western lip of the gorge, brushing the pines along the ridgeline with orange light. At the bottom, near the granite-lined riverbank, they were in shadow. The temperature had dropped noticeably. And the sky above, while still blue, was crowded with cumulus clouds.
The only way to help Noah was to get him to a hospital. The only way to help the rest of the group was to get them back to civilization, under police protection.
Gabe’s face was grave. “If we don’t get out of here in the next few hours, none of these kids may survive.”
17
Halfway up the slope, Von found the AK-47. He grabbed it like it was the best, coldest, life-giving bottle of whiskey the world and hugged it to his chest. Every inch of him seemed to ache, a throbbing, nagging complaint that said, Those little shits did this to you.
He wouldn’t let them get away with it.
He had to fix this before Haugen got there. If he didn’t repair this disaster, Haugen might decide that he was disposable.
Like the body in the Hummer’s luggage compartment. And that kid Grier.
He sat down on the crumbling dirt and caught his breath and gave the rifle a once-over. It had taken the same decision he had, when the Hummer began its dive: I’m outta here. It was his friend. And friends stuck together. Friends stuck up for each other.
He checked the action and made sure that dirt hadn’t clogged any of the gun’s mechanisms. Then he stood and leaned out to look down.
