You Only Die Twice

Chapter THIRTY-EIGHT





Cheryl Dunning knew three things.

She needed to take off her belt and wrap it around her upper thigh to stop the flow of blood.

She needed to be aware of the man who chased her earlier. Somehow, in spite of everything happening to her now with this other man, she had to listen for him, because he was still out there and he would come for her. In fact, he probably was coming for her now.

And more than anything, she needed to get out of here as quickly as possible before it was too late.

The pain in her leg was excruciating, but she moved through it. With trembling hands, she removed her belt from the waist of her jeans, tightened it around her thigh, buckled the clasp and stood.

Tried to stand.

The pain was too much. Her leg was too weak. The bullet hadn’t gone through bone, which was a blessing, but it tore through muscle, crippling it, which almost was as bad, but not as insurmountable. She thought there was no way she was going to be able to stand―let alone run through the woods―when in front of her on the ground, the man who wanted her dead was starting to regain consciousness.

She watched him lift his head and saw exactly what she’d done to his face. Blood leeched out of his mouth and spooled onto the forest floor in thick ribbons of reddish drool. His jaw worked from side to side, he opened it wide as if to see if he even could, and then he closed it and started to spit out the teeth she’d ruined.

Sluggishly, he turned his head toward her and she also saw that she’d broken his nose. It was mashed to his left and a rush of blood flowed from it. He tried to say something, and failed. She looked around for his gun, but couldn’t see it. Was it beneath him? Of course, it was. Was he aware of it? Right now, in his state, that was doubtful.

But he’ll know soon enough.

She reached for the tree behind her, felt her hand stick to it, and she thought, sap. But unlike her arm, there was no time to pull down her pants and coat the wound with it. He was coming around. She watched him shake his head in an effort to clear it. Framed by the fire closing in on them and, in a few instances, raining down on them, he looked like a beast being risen from hell.

Move, she thought. Move...

She braced her back against the tree, put her hands down on either side of her in an effort to hoist herself up, and when she did, her right hand fell on top of another rock. For a moment, she stopped in disbelief. Then she pulled the rock free from the earth, looked down at it, and was disappointed that it was smaller than the first one. It was a smooth piece of granite covered in muck, about the size of a jumbo-sized egg and it would be difficult to hit him with it because of its smaller size. She needed something bigger. She looked around, but didn’t see anything of greater substance.

And then she looked up as he started to rock to his knees.

“F*cking bitch,” he said, swaying toward her and then sharply away from her as his legs hitched beneath him. “You f*cking bitch. You’ll die for that. You’ll f*cking die.”

She looked down and saw the gun, which is just where she knew it would be. On the ground. He’d been lying on it. Had he seen it yet? Didn’t matter. With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she pushed herself up the tree, using it for support, and bit down hard on the searing pain in her leg as she did so. It was enough to make her want to scream again, but she couldn’t let the other man know where they were, so she stuffed the scream deep inside her and used the pain and her will to live as fuel.

She wanted that gun. There was one way to get it.

She cocked her hand over her head, took aim, and flung the rock out of her hand.