Chapter Seven
The tree was positioned perfectly for an ambush, lying in the arc of a narrow, uphill curve with thick woods on either side. Keeping low and using the car as a shield, Patrick examined the snow around them for tracks, but found only the prints of squirrels and birds. He froze and strained his ears, listening, but heard only the pinging of the cooling engine and his own labored breathing.
Slowly, he made his way along the tree to the trunk, and felt some of the tension ease out of him when he saw the bare roots stretching toward the sky. This tree hadn’t been cut, as he’d first suspected, but had fallen, toppling over in a storm, or from the weight of snow and age.
He holstered his weapon and balanced on the tree trunk to peer over the branches at the road beyond. The snow on that side looked much deeper, the route barely discernible. The tree had probably been here awhile. He jumped down and tramped back toward the car.
Stacy climbed out of the passenger side and met him halfway. “What were you looking at up ahead?” she asked. “What did you see?”
“Looks like the tree blew over in the last storm. The road’s completely blocked. We’ll have to turn around and go back the way we came.”
“Couldn’t we move the tree or something?”
“Even if we could, the road up ahead hasn’t been plowed. We’d never make it through.”
“I can’t believe we’ve wasted so much time coming all this way only to have to backtrack,” she said.
“Me, too. But it can’t be helped. And maybe doing so convinced the kidnappers that we’ve given up.”
“How could anyone believe a mother would ever give up looking for her child?”
“Maybe they don’t have children.” He reached for the door handle as the glass in the door shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
“Get down!” he shouted, as he dived beneath the car. The sharp report of gunfire echoed through the canyon, the sound folding in on itself until the crescendo crackled like thunder. Bullets slammed into the side and top of the vehicle, rocking it from side to side and shattering the front windshield and mirrors.
“Stacy!” He turned his head, searching for her, but nothing moved in the limited area he was able to see from his place beneath the car. He slid sideways on his stomach, gravel digging into his elbows and knees. The silence following the gunfire pressed down on him, the only sounds the pinging of the cooling engine and the scrape of his body as he dragged it across the gravel.
He emerged on the opposite side of the car, using the vehicle as a shield between himself and the shooter. “Stacy?” he called again.
“Over here.”
He followed her voice to a narrow space between two boulders on the side of the road, but when he started toward her, another barrage of gunfire sent him diving for the cover of the vehicle.
“Patrick?” Her voice rose in alarm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. What are we going to do?”
He levered himself up just enough to peer over the hood of the car at the opposite side of the canyon. Nothing stirred in the red-and-gold rock cliffs, but the shots had definitely come from that direction. But where, exactly?
He slipped out of his coat, then searched the side of the road until he found a broken tree branch. He draped the coat over the branch and raised it up above the hood of the car. Shots erupted from an outcropping of rock opposite. Was it his imagination, or were these shots from a lower trajectory than the previous barrage? Was the gunman working his way down to them? Or was he simply moving in closer for a better chance to pick them off?
He glanced back over his shoulder toward the niche where Stacy sheltered. He couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t risk crossing the open space between her and the car. “Stacy, can you hear me?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to try to climb up and come in behind the shooter. But I need you to distract him while I get away.”
“How can I do that?”
“I’m going to give you my gun and I want you to shoot up at the canyon wall—just enough to draw their fire. While they’re focused on you, I’ll get on the other side of the fallen tree and start up the canyon on the other side. I should be far enough down there that they won’t be able to see me.”
“I don’t think we should split up,” she said. “What if they do see you and shoot you?”
“I won’t let that happen. If I don’t try this, they’ll just keep us pinned down here until dark, then they’ll move in and pick us off.”
Silence. Had he frightened her so much she was unable to speak?
“All right,” she said after a long moment. “Tell me what to do.”
“When I tell you, move as fast as you can to my side. Stay low.”
“All right.”
He sighted in on the rock outcropping and steadied his pistol on the hood of the car. “Now!” he called, and squeezed off three quick shots.
Stacy hurtled out of her hiding place and dived into the snow beside him as another hail of bullets shook the car.
Patrick helped her to sit up. Blood streaked her face. “You’re hurt,” he said.
She shook her head. “Just some broken glass that nicked my cheek. I’m fine. Now tell me what to do.”
He fit a fresh magazine to the weapon and handed it to her. “See that rock outcropping up there—the one where there’s a slash of almost purple-colored stone, sort of shaped like an arrowhead?”
She nodded. “I see it.”
“When I give the word, start shooting at that outcropping. Just hold down the trigger and empty the magazine at that spot.”
“You can’t go up there without a gun.”
“I have another.” He slid the SIG Sauer from the ankle holster and checked the load. “I’m going to leave you with an extra magazine.” He didn’t explain she was to use the other bullets if their assailants slipped past him and came after her; she was smart enough to figure that out on her own.
She clutched the gun in both hands, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground. “Be careful,” she said.
“I will.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment—she felt so small and fragile, yet she had more strength than some men he’d known. “Are you ready?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
He nodded and she took aim and began firing, splinters of rock exploding from the stone outcropping, the report of gunfire obliterating all other sound.
He ran, keeping low and moving in a zigzag pattern they’d drilled into him during training. The movement was supposed to make him a more difficult target to hit, but he doubted a spray of automatic weapons fire would miss. But his plan to focus the assailant’s attention on Stacy seemed to have worked; he made it to the tree unharmed and dived over the trunk, landing in thick, soft snow on the other side.
Post holing through knee-deep drifts, he powered his way to the opposite bank and began making his way up the rocky slope. Ice, snow and loose rock made the climb difficult; for every foot he gained, he slid back six inches. The cold left his hands numb and penetrated his thin clothes until he shook from a bone-deep chill. Rocks tore at his clothing, cutting his skin, but he ignored the pain, pushing on.
When he judged himself to be a little above the outcropping where he’d spotted the shooter he began working his way sideways, scrambling over scrubby trees that clung to the side of the canyon, slipping in slush and loose gravel. Below, all was silent; even the echo of the gunfire had faded away.
His path intersected a narrow game trail, the hoofprints of deer clearly outlined in the snow along with the ridged soles of a man’s hiking boots. Patrick examined the imprint; it was fresh and sharp, and similar prints led down the slope. The shooter had come this way to set up his post among the rocks.
He moved more slowly now, as soundlessly as possible, his pistol drawn and ready to fire. Soon he could look down into the niche formed by the outcropping of rock, a space just wide enough for a single man to crouch.
But the niche was empty. The snow around it was littered with spent bullet casings, the metal jackets glinting in the snow.
Patrick dropped into the niche and looked around. A search revealed an empty chip bag and sandwich wrapper, and the deep impression where someone had sat, possibly for a long time. Had someone staked out this area, just in case they’d decided to come this way? The idea that whoever was behind the kidnapping would have gone to such trouble—invested the manpower to cover even this remote route—disturbed him. Why was one little boy worth so much trouble and expense?
Whoever had been here wasn’t here now. They’d either anticipated his arrival and made their getaway while they had the chance—or they’d taken advantage of his absence to descend to the road, and Stacy. He’d heard no shots, but there were other ways of killing a person. The image of Stacy at the hotel, a knife to her throat, flashed through his mind, and a wave of sickness shook him.
“Stacy!” he shouted.
Stacy! echoed back to him from the canyon walls.
Half climbing, half sliding, he made his way down the side of the canyon. He tried to stay in cover, behind trees or boulders, but as he descended, no one shouted at him or fired at him or tried in any way to stop him. This indication that he was alone spurred him to move almost recklessly, stumbling down the steep embankment toward the car.
“Stacy!” he shouted again as he ran toward the vehicle. No answer came.
The car sagged in the roadway with three flat tires. Most of the windows were shattered, and bullet holes riddled the body. Patrick registered the damage as he made his way around the wreck, but there was no sign of Stacy. She wasn’t underneath or inside, or back in the niche between the rocks where she’d initially sought shelter.
He examined the snow beside the car, but his own movements earlier had trampled it into slush. On his knees now, he studied the ground for the waffle-soled tread of the hiking boot he’d seen in the tracks on the opposite side of the canyon. He found a partial print that might have been a match, but he couldn’t be sure. He started to stand, but a glint of something bright in the gravel caught his attention. He leaned forward and plucked a thin gold earring from the mud. His blood turned to ice as he recognized one of the hammered hoops Stacy had worn. She’d lost it here in the mud, in a struggle he hadn’t been around to protect her from.
* * *
“NO! LET ME GO!” Stacy tried to vent her rage on the man who held her in his unyielding grip, but he muffled her shouts with the sleeve of his jacket, shoving the fabric into her mouth until she was almost choking on the taste of dusty tweed. Thus silenced, she fought all the harder, kicking and scratching, but her struggles did nothing to slow his progress as he dragged her down the canyon. A second man trailed after them, an automatic weapon cradled in his arms as he scanned the embankments on either side of them.
Her heel connected hard with her captor’s shin and he grunted and shifted his hold enough to uncover her mouth once more. “Let me go!” she screamed again.
The man with the gun was on her in two strides, punching her hard on the side of the face so that her vision blurred and her ears rang. “Shut up!” he commanded.
She blinked and his face returned to focus—a hard, lean face, skin stretched tight over wide cheekbones and a square jaw. His eyes were so pale they were almost colorless, like ice chips set in his face, and his expression was just as cold. It was a face she’d seen before, but the knowledge only confused her. This man had worked for Sam; she was sure of it. So why did he want to hurt her now?
He leaned close to speak to her, his breath smelling of stale coffee and cigarettes. “You make any more noise and I’ll cut your tongue out.” As if to demonstrate, he pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “What do you want with me?” she whispered.
His gaze swept over her, stripping her, reducing her to an object, not a person. “I want a lot of things,” he said. “The question is, which do I want first?”
The man who was holding her laughed at this—an unpleasant, awful laugh without mirth.
The pale-eyed man touched the blade of the knife to her throat, to the soft space over her vocal cords. He made a flicking motion and she felt a stinging pain, then the trickle of blood against her skin. “Do you think you’ll be more cooperative if I cut you first?” he asked.
She stared at him, terror rendering her speechless. “I think I’ll have to cut you,” he said. “For a start.”
She stared into his eyes and saw her own death there—a slow, painful death. She had no idea why these men had taken her, but she knew she couldn’t stay with them. She had to get away.
She closed her eyes and made herself go limp, pretending to faint. The bigger man who carried her laughed. “You scared her senseless,” he crowed.
“She’ll be easier to carry that way,” the pale-eyed man said. “Hurry up. We’re still a ways from the car.”
“What about that marshal?” the big guy said.
“Someone will deal with him later. He won’t get far with his car disabled.”
The big man shifted her over his shoulder, carrying her with her head hanging down his back, one hand grasping her bottom obscenely. She kept her eyes shut and tried to review her options, but she didn’t seem to have any. Except she believed she had to get away from them before they reached the car. Once inside a vehicle she would truly be at their mercy. They could knife her or shoot her or do whatever they wanted within the prison of a car. At least out here in the open she had a hope of outrunning them.
That was her first move, then. She had to find a way to make the big guy put her down before they reached the car. As soon as he lowered her to the ground, she’d take off running and take her chances. But what would make him want to put her down? She could be sick on him—except she’d never been able to throw up easily. Even when she was ill and emptying her stomach would have made her feel so much better, her body refused to vomit. Morning sickness for her had been constant nausea with little relief.
Being sick wasn’t an option, so what did that leave?
It left her with no pride and no shame. In the battle between momentary embarrassment and saving her own life, she chose life. Taking a deep breath, she tensed her muscles. Here goes....
“What the hell!” The big man howled and loosened his hold on her.
“What is it?” the pale-eyed man said.
“She pissed on me!” The big man slung her to the ground. As soon as she was free of his grasp, she sprang to her feet and ran toward the cover of a copse of trees. The air around her exploded with gunfire. Bullets ricocheted off rocks and thudded into the dirt at her feet, but she refused to slow. Better to die in a hail of bullets than be cut to death by a knife.
She reached the trees and pushed into a deeper thicket, barbed vines cutting into her hands and face. She prayed she wouldn’t be trapped in the underbrush, where Pale Eyes and his companion could easily pick her off. If she could push on through to more open ground she’d have a better chance of getting away, since the underbrush would slow the two big men even further.
What she would do then, she didn’t know. Even if she could get back to the car, it wasn’t drivable. Pale Eyes and his buddy had descended on her maybe fifteen minutes after Patrick had left her. Did this mean they’d met him on their way down and killed him? She had heard no shots, but Pale Eyes could have used his knife. She hoped somehow Patrick had survived, that he hadn’t given his life in order to protect her.
Whatever had happened to him, though, she was on her own now. She was stranded in the wilderness, with no weapon, no transportation and not even a coat to keep her warm.
The idea that she might die of the cold after dodging bullets all afternoon brought tears to her eyes, but she pushed them away. She wasn’t going to give up. Not when Carlo was waiting for her to come to him.
After what seemed like half an hour but was probably only a few minutes, she emerged into a clearing of tall grass and scattered boulders. She crouched behind one of the larger boulders, trying to catch her breath and listening for sounds of pursuit. But she heard nothing—no gunfire, no crashing through the underbrush, no running footsteps or shouts. Nothing but the rasp of her own breathing and the thud of her own heart.
“Stacy!”
Her name, shouted in the ringing silence, would have been startling enough, but the realization of who was calling for her made her jump up and push her way back through the underbrush toward the sound.
“Stacy!” Patrick shouted again. “It’s all right. You can come out.”
She emerged from the trees and stood on the side of the gravel road, looking back the way she’d come, at the two figures slumped in the gravel, at Patrick’s feet. He held Pale Eyes’s automatic weapon in one hand and his own pistol in the other. In the fading light she couldn’t read the expression on his face, but the relief in his voice was clear as he called to her. “Stacy! Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.” She began walking toward him. She was bleeding and wet and cold, and beginning to shake from the strain of it all. But she was alive, and Patrick hadn’t given up on her. They were going to find Carlo. They were going to find her son, or die trying.