the head before he died. Ain’t no communists left, ’cept for the Chinese. And this fella don’t look Oriental.”
“He wants to kill me and Woof.”
Mrs. Teller put her hand on Duncan’s head.
“Child, that ain’t gonna happen.”
Duncan saw what Bernie was doing and shrank away from the window.
“He’s starting the house on fire.”
“Looks like that’s what he’s aiming to do.”
Woof nudged up against Duncan, and he knelt down and hugged his dog, tight. He didn’t want Woof to be as scared as he was.
The room became orange, as the flames leapt from one window to the next. Duncan smelled smoke.
“I think,” Mrs. Teller said, “we had better get into the basement.”
The waterfall wasn’t any taller than five or six feet, but Fran felt like she’d been dropped from an airplane onto concrete. Though she’d tried to go over feetfirst, she’d gotten turned around and landed full force onto her chest. Every particle of oxygen in her lungs got expelled, and then the current pulled her under, dragging her this way and that way, and her diaphragm refused to follow orders and took in a big gulp of water.
Real panic trumped any psychosomatic panic attack she’d ever experienced. Fran had no time to contemplate her health, or her safety, or if she’d live or die. She didn’t think about Duncan or her husband. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes. She didn’t mourn the future she’d never have.
Her whole body and soul, every nerve, every pore, wanted only one thing—
She thrashed and kicked and strained and coughed, the blackness of unconsciousness mingling with the darkness of the surrounding night, and when she broke the surface gagging and coughing and vomiting water, her throat felt like it had been scoured with steel wool, and she was no longer cold and, strangely, no longer afraid.
The current slowed, and Fran floated on her back, taking in air, letting the burn in her lungs recede. She began to plan.
First she needed to get out of the river. The raw panic of almost drowning had kicked up her body temperature a few degrees, but it was falling again. Fran needed to warm up or she’d die.
Freeing her hands was also important. She tried to flex her fists but didn’t feel anything. The cold, and the loss of circulation, had made her arms numb.
Then she needed to find Duncan. She had no idea if Taylor was telling the truth, if they had Duncan, or if it was just something he said to hurt her. But she felt in her heart that Duncan was okay. And she intended to keep it that way.
Fran kicked slowly to shore. When she made it close enough, she stood on the river bottom, the sand sucking at her feet, and half walked/half slithered onto land.
Ahead, a small retaining hill paralleled the riverbank, protecting the road from floods. Fran began to climb. Her dripping body made the earth muddy, slippery. Dirt dug into her wounded foot, and rocks and branches tore at her knees as she crawled up the embankment, but she soldiered on, inch by inch, until she finally reached the top, her heart practically stopping when she saw the large man in the dark uniform standing on the road, staring at her.
Sheriff Streng liked Josh, and for a brief moment he considered eating the gun, which would give the younger man a chance to run, to get away, without the burden of dragging Streng along.
Streng dismissed the notion almost as quickly as it entered his head. While he didn’t consider himself beyond heroism or self-sacrifice, Streng knew that Josh had no knowledge of combat, no survival skills. As sad a shape as Streng was in, it would be better for both of them if he stayed alive a while longer. At least until they could find help.
Josh’s flashlight winked out five yards east. Streng held his breath, listened to the firefighter climb a tree. Good. Even well-trained soldiers sometimes forgot to look up, especially when facing an inferior enemy. Santiago and Ajax were incredibly well trained, but they also seemed cocky.
Who were they? Streng knew they must be connected to the helicopter crash. He needed to ask Josh about it, see if they could figure out where these guys came from. They wanted Wiley, and Streng knew there could be only one reason someone would bother tracking down that old bastard.
They knew. Somehow they knew.
On one hand, Streng shouldn’t have had any problem giving Wiley up. He owed him nothing. And Wiley could take care of himself.
But even though he hadn’t spoken to him in thirty years, blood was blood. Streng couldn’t forgive Wiley. But he couldn’t let anything happen to him, either.
Streng held the pistol in a two-handed grip, pointing at the ground, and waited for the bad men to come.
It didn’t take long. As predicted, Ajax came into the clearing with the subtlety of a rampaging bull. He paused, stared directly at Streng, and then ran straight at him.
Streng held his ground, trying to listen for the sneak attack, checking his peripheral vision. There. On the left. Santiago, crouched next to a bush. Unfortunately, Josh’s tree was in the opposite direction. Streng would have to lure them over.
Streng ran right, yelling, “Leave me alone, you bastards!” so Josh would know it was him. Then he stopped, turned, and fired twice at Ajax.
The muzzle flash showed Santiago was closer than he’d guessed, practically on top of him. Josh must have seen it, too, because he dropped on Santiago like an avalanche, smashing the man into the ground.
Streng went to him, grabbing at clothing and flailing limbs, trying to put a bullet into Santiago’s head.
And then, suddenly, he was no longer on his feet.
Ajax had grabbed Streng’s gun arm, his massive fingers encircling his entire biceps. He lifted him up like he was a child. Streng’s legs kicked feebly, and he lashed out with his left hand, trying to scratch out the giant’s eyes. His fingers met flesh, and two of them disappeared inside a massive nostril. Streng pulled, and something tore.
Ajax bellowed, and then Streng was airborne, branches and leaves whipping at his face.
He blacked out when he hit the tree.
Josh stretched his arm back and brought it down like he was throwing a punch, jabbing the knife into Santiago’s neck with everything he had.
The dark, and Santiago struggling against him, made Josh miss. Instead, the knife blade connected with the man’s breastbone. It felt like stabbing cement. Josh’s wrist twisted, and the blade snapped off.
Santiago grabbed the back of Josh’s head, wrapped his fingers in his hair, and yanked him to the side. Josh rolled, and then the monster was on top of him.
“I am going to hurt you,” Santiago said. Though Josh’s heart hammered like an Olympic sprinter’s, Santiago didn’t even seem out of breath.
Josh tried to bring up a leg, but Santiago pinned them down with his own. He placed his left hand on Santiago’s chest, pushing against it, but he might have been pushing against a wall. The man didn’t budge.
Josh felt Santiago’s hand travel down his side, over his belly, creeping lower and lower until he cupped Josh’s testicles.
Josh tried to jackknife into a sitting position, but Santiago held him immobile. Though they seemed to be the same body weight, the soldier was disproportionably strong.
Santiago brought his face to within an inch of Josh’s. “I’ll pop them like grapes.”
If asked which was worse, a tooth drilled without anesthetic or getting kicked in the balls, any man would choose the former. Knowing that the pain was coming terrified Josh to a degree he didn’t know was possible. He put even more effort into his shove, bucked and turned, and then remembered that he still held the Swiss Army Explorer in his right hand. Streng had been right; Josh had owned it since Boy Scouts. He’d used it so many times it
