Mountain Witness

by LENA DIAZ,

  Before she could think of another argument, he dropped down, hanging from the crossbar by his knees and swung the belt toward her. She grabbed it on the first try and quickly shoved her arm through the loop like he’d told her.

  The belt was taut between them, pulling them toward each other, her left wrist looped in one end, his left looped in the other.

  “Is your hand tight?” he called out. “So tight it feels like it’s cutting off the circulation?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I probably should loosen—”

  The belt jerked and she was falling through the air. She would have screamed, but she slammed against Chris so hard the breath was knocked out of her. He grabbed her with both arms and shoved her up toward the beam, grunting at the effort as he hung upside down.

  She gasped and scrambled onto the wood, grabbing another piece perpendicular to the one she was on and clinging to it for dear life. The belt slackened on her wrist. Chris had pulled his hand out of the other end. Then he swung himself up beside her and grinned like a little boy at Christmas after getting a new bat and ball.

  “That was cool, wasn’t it?”

  “Cool?” she muttered. “We could have died. That was the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  His eyes widened as he looked past her.

  She whirled around to see a man bent over the top of the balcony, holding the biggest, scariest-looking gun she’d ever seen. And he was pointing it at her and Chris.

  “Hang on,” she heard Chris yell as automatic gunfire exploded all around them.

  She grabbed for the crossbar.

  And missed.

  Suddenly she was free-falling into open air.

  * * *

  CHRIS LEAPED AFTER JULIE, twisting in midair, firing his pistol toward the gunman on the balcony. The rocky side of the mountain rushed up to meet them. He twisted again, jerking the end of the belt as hard as he could. She screamed and fell against his chest. He grabbed her just as his back slammed against the rocky side of the mountain.

  Red-hot fire scraped across his back in the places unprotected by the duffel bag as they half skidded, half fell down the steep face. He used every ounce of his strength to try to keep Julie on top of him to protect her from the rocks, while scrabbling with his boots to try to slow them down.

  “Chris!”

  Julie’s choked-out scream of warning had him twisting again to see a tree rushing up to meet them. He jerked sideways, rolling to avoid the deadly obstacle. A garbled yell told him she’d been scraped hard. Again and again, he twisted, jerked, shuffled his arms and feet, fighting against physics and the forces of nature to try to protect his precious burden.

  Finally the rolling and twisting slowed. Their shoes slammed against the earth, pulling them both up short. They flopped end over end, like rag dolls, into the tree line. The sudden cessation of sound and movement did nothing to stop the world from spinning. Chris squeezed his eyes shut, willing the dizziness to go away.

  A pained moan had him opening his eyes. He was flat on his back and what was left of the duffel. Julie was clutched in his arms, her hair a tangled mess of leaves and twigs. She moaned again, and he forced himself to roll over, hissing in a breath at the throbbing fire his back and side had become.

  He laid her down on the grass and smoothed her hair. A tiny line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were closed.

  “Julie, can you hear me, sweetheart? Julie?”

  Crack!

  The ground kicked up beside him in a puff of green and brown.

  He jerked back, looking up toward the house, high upon the mountainside above them. A lone gunman stood on the balcony, leaning over the railing, calmly aiming a rifle.

  Chris swore and scooped Julie into his arms. He dove behind a tree as more rifle fire cracked around them. On hands and knees, he shuffled deeper into cover until he was certain they were protected. Then he carefully laid her down once again.

  He tried to wake her up, but she didn’t respond other than to moan in pain if he moved her.

  Please, God. Don’t let her die. Please.

  He pressed his hand against her chest, judging her breathing. It was steady, strong. A check of her pulse reassured him it, too, was strong. Then why wasn’t she awake? He ran his fingers through her horribly tangled hair, feeling for bumps. When he touched behind her right ear, she gasped and arched away from him.

  He almost cried in relief.

  That little arch of her back told him at least she wasn’t paralyzed.

  Thank you, God.

  His hand came away bloody. He leaned down, clamping his jaw shut to keep from crying out himself. His back was on fire, mostly on his left side. But he’d worry about that later.

  Bending over her, he pulled her hair away from her neck. The cut on her scalp wasn’t deep, but it was ragged and bleeding heavily, as head wounds usually did. He worked the duffel bag off his back and dropped it beside them on the ground. When he saw the first-aid kit in the bottom, he couldn’t help smiling. He owed Max big-time for packing the duffel, and doing it right.

  A few minutes later, he had Julie’s head wound packed and bandaged. The bleeding already appeared to be slowing down from the pressure of the wrap. He continued searching for other injuries. Her side had been badly scraped, probably from when he’d had to roll to avoid the tree. Nothing much he could do about that except to spray it with antibiotics for now. Like a burn, if he tried to cover it up, it would just lead to infection.

  A sharp intake of breath had his gaze shooting to Julie’s face. Her eyes were open.

  He let out a shaky laugh as he leaned over her.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Chris.”

  “That’s my name. What’s your name?” he asked again.

  She shook her head, then pointed. “Chris, my God. Your side.”

  He frowned and looked down.

  A piece of tree branch the diameter of a quarter had impaled him, from back to front, and was sticking out of his left side.

  “Guess that explains why my back’s on fire.” He tried to laugh, but of course as soon as he saw the wound, it started throbbing and burning far worse than it had before.

  “Tell me your name,” he insisted yet again. He held up three fingers. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Julie and three. I’m fine. You’re the one who’s hurt.” She started to get up, then groaned and lay back down. “The whole world is spinning.”

  “Concussion. We need to get you to a doctor.”

  She kept her eyes closed and sat up, then slowly opened them again. “It’s better. What in the world happened? We fell over the cliff?”

  “More like you fell and I dove.” He’d probably aged thirty years watching Julie fall off that crossbar and fly down the mountain. If he’d jumped even a half second later he doubted he’d have reached her in time to cushion her fall when she hit the highest swell of ground. If the mountain had been any steeper, neither of them would have survived.

  “Can you stand?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  Together they pushed and pulled until they were both on their feet.

  Julie started laughing. “If I look half as bad as you do we won’t have to worry about the wildlife out here. They’ll run away as soon as they see us.”

  He grabbed the duffel, and half the contents fell out. The material had been shredded. Since he’d lost his pistol in the fall, he was relieved to see one in what remained of the bag. Unfortunately, the extra magazines were scattered somewhere on the mountain.

  He holstered his gun and checked Julie’s pocket where he’d put his backup gun. Amazingly, the gun was still there. It would have been perfect if there was a knife in the duffel, but the two knives he’d seen in
it earlier had escaped somewhere during their wild ride.

  Looking at the sun, he tried to get his bearings. “We’ll head that way.” He pointed to his left. “That’s east. It should lead to the nearest road. But we’ll have to be as quiet as possible and keep a lookout the whole way.”

  “Why? It’s not like the gunmen are going to leap off the balcony and try to free-fall down the mountain like we did. There’s no way they’ll catch up to us.”

  “There was only one gunman on the balcony—Henson. Bolton is still out there somewhere. And if I were him, I’d be heading down the mountain road right now to cut us off.”

  “Then shouldn’t we go west or north or something, anywhere but east?”

  “If you didn’t have a concussion, I didn’t have a tree in my back, and we had supplies to last a week or two, absolutely. East is our only option. It’s just a few miles. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  She was worried about him.

  The injury in Chris’s side looked excruciating. How was he even walking, let alone stepping over the downed trees in their path and keeping his balance on the uneven ground?

  After a terse argument about not having time to tend to his wound, Chris had finally given in and let her do what she could in sixty seconds, no more. She’d sprayed it with the antibiotic he’d used on her earlier, then stuffed some gauze around the piece of branch where it protruded both in back and front.

  He’d stood stiffly, barely moving through her ministrations, and then he’d gone about three shades paler. His eyes had been glazed with pain by the time she’d stopped. Even with the packing, he was bleeding steadily.

  “We should stop. You’re losing too much blood.”

  He shook his head and plodded on, occasionally looking up when the sky could be seen through the thick canopy overhead. The man was incredibly stubborn and amazing and wonderful. And it was tearing her heart into pieces watching him, knowing he would die before he’d give up, all because he wanted her to be safe.

  Tears clouded her vision, but she briskly wiped them away. He’d told her she was strong and brave. She was neither of those things, but for him, she was damn well going to pretend. He didn’t need one more thing to worry about, like trying to console her. Somehow she had to hold everything inside and protect him.

  The weight of his backup gun, now strapped on her ankle courtesy of Chris’s ankle holster, wasn’t very reassuring. How was she supposed to protect Chris in a gunfight, against a man who killed for a living? Somehow, she’d have to figure it out though. Because Chris was getting weaker and weaker. No way was he going to be able to protect himself if the gunman caught up to them.

  He wobbled, falling against a tree. She reached for him, but he shook her off, straightened and started forward again. How long could he keep this up? How long could he survive? And where the heck was their backup?

  Chris’s phone hadn’t survived the fall down the mountain. But he’d spoken to Max right before Henson and Bolton had arrived. She and Chris were heading toward the same road that Chris had told Max they’d go to, albeit on foot instead of by car. Still, if the SWAT team cared about their friend and fellow officer, they should bring the cavalry up the mountain to find him. So where were they?

  A small cracking noise sounded from somewhere up ahead.

  Chris froze, reaching out his right hand to stop her. But she’d already stopped. They both stood as still as possible, breathing through their mouths to make as little noise as they could, waiting, watching, listening.

  There. Another crack, slightly to the right, like someone’s shoe crunching a dead, dry leaf or a twig.

  He looked down, then to their left, motioning for her to follow. She walked where he walked, careful not to stray from the path. The woods, this mountain, was his domain. But she was learning fast, emulating him, doing whatever it took to survive.

  They stopped behind two thick trees, peering through the crack between them toward the sounds they’d heard. Chris slowly raised his pistol, leveling it in the opening, sighting his target.

  A deer stepped out from the bushes.

  Julie laughed and relaxed against the tree.

  Chris frowned but kept his pistol trained, not moving.

  Julie turned back toward the deer.

  A dark shadow moved behind the bushes.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Chris fired six or seven times before he stopped.

  Julie held her hand over her mouth, frozen in place. A man staggered out onto the path, both hands red with blood as he held his stomach.

  It was Henson.

  “Help me.” His plea was barely above a whisper. Then he dropped like a rock to the ground.

  Chris grabbed Julie when she would have run to the other man.

  “Don’t. There’s nothing you can do for him. And there’s still one more gunman out there. Henson was on the balcony. He’s the one who fired at us. If he found us, then the other guy has to be out here somewhere, too. And he’s stalking us right now.” He looked up at the sky. “Five, ten more minutes and we’ll be at the road. If my team isn’t already looking for us, we’ll flag someone down. We’re going to make it, Julie. Trust me.”

  He looked so haggard, so drawn, his complexion ashen. She wanted to weep. Instead, she smiled.

  “I do. You’ll take care of me. You always do.” She looped her arm through his as if in comradery, when, really, she was just trying to hold him up.

  His pistol was in his hand. She hop-skipped a few steps so she could grab hers from her ankle holster without stopping. Together, they headed deeper into the woods, side by side.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  Chris shoved her to the ground and dove on top of her. Bark and leaves exploded around them. Deafening automatic gunfire chewed into the trees near where they’d been standing.

  Julie tried to bring her gun up, but his weight was pressing her wrist hard against the ground and she could barely move.

  He fired toward the trees where the gunfire was coming from until his gun clicked. Out of bullets. He threw the gun to the ground. Then he was on his knees, lifting her, half-dragging her behind a tree.

  Bullets sprayed the forest floor and the bark on the tree where he’d pulled her.

  Then, suddenly, they stopped. Everything went quiet.

  Chris was on his knees in front of her, his chest heaving with each breath he took. Blood coursed down his side, coating his arms, his hands. Julie was backed against the tree, holding the little ankle gun in her hands.

  Crunching noises sounded to their left, their right. Was there more than one shooter now? And then the noise sounded directly behind Chris.

  He stiffened.

  Julie’s breath froze in her lungs as Bolton stepped out from between the trees. The gun he held looked heavy, lethal, horrifying. It was a machine gun or something like that. All she knew for sure was that it was aimed at Chris’s back.

  “What do I do?” she whispered.

  He gave her a half smile. “Live,” he whispered. “Just live.” He grabbed her gun and twisted around, using his body to shield her as he fired at Bolton.

  Bam! Bam!

  Boom!

  The gunman blinked in shock, blood pouring from a hole at the base of his throat. Then he slowly crumpled to the ground.

  Suddenly the woods filled with people: Randy, dressed in his SWAT gear, bending down to check the Bolton’s pulse, shaking his head. Donna, also in SWAT gear, directing several state police, pointing back toward the path where the other gunman had gone down. Colby, staring in shock at Chris’s side. And, finally, Max, dropping onto his knees beside Chris, who wasn’t moving as Julie clutched him against her.

  “Mrs. Webb, Julie, you have to let him go now.” Max’s voice was kind, gentle, like Chris’s. “Let him go, so we can he
lp him.”

  She looked at the precious man in her arms. His eyes were closed. Blood covered his back and made her arms sticky where she held him.

  “Medic,” Max yelled, as if they were in the middle of a combat zone.

  Maybe they were.

  Two EMTs rushed through the trees with a gurney.

  “Julie. Let them help him,” Max said. “You have to let him go.”

  His words seemed to reach her through a fog of pain and grief.

  “Julie? Julie, are you okay?”

  Max’s voice had changed. He swore and again yelled, “Medic.”

  Julie surrendered to the darkness around her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Julie couldn’t believe that a month had passed since the shooting. And she also couldn’t believe that she was once again sitting in the interview room at the Destiny Police Department, alone, waiting for others to join her.

  She rubbed her left shoulder, trying to ease the ache where Bolton’s bullet had passed through Chris’s torso and buried itself in her upper arm. Both Chris and Max had shot Bolton. And since both of their bullets caused fatal injuries, they argued all the time over who should get the credit.

  She smiled, glad to be alive, glad that Chris was alive. They were both still stiff and sore but would heal completely with time. She’d been released from the hospital a few days after admittance. But she’d still stayed, sleeping on a cot in Chris’s room. Not that the two of them had any privacy.

  Chief Thornton had assigned Detective Colby Vale to shadow her every move. He was essentially her bodyguard until they figured out who was trying to kill her. Thankfully, Colby was outside in the squad room right now, instead of in the interrogation room with her.

  Chris had been released from the hospital yesterday. The skin on his back had been flayed away during their terrifying tumble down the mountain. He’d undergone several skin grafts. But at least he was up and walking, and finally allowed to leave the hospital.