'Count of three,' said Broadbent.
'I'll pop her! I will!'
'One.'
'I swear, I'll blow out her brains! I'll do it!'
Knowing he couldn't get off two shots, he whipped around, going for Broad-bent first, and fired wildly but practically into his face, and the man went down; he aimed to follow up with another shot, but the bitch dealt him a stunning kick to the groin, so hard that his hand spasmed and the pistol went off, and it felt as if something had jerked his leg hard, followed by a numbness-and a gush of crimson on the sand.
'My leg!' he shrieked, dropping the gun and tearing at his pants, feeling madly for the wound. 'My leg!' The blood was jetting out, his blood, and so much of it! 'I'm bleeding to death!'
The woman stepped back, covering him with his own Clock. He knew immediately from the way she held the weapon she knew how to use it.
'No! Wait! Please!'
She didn't fire.
There was no need. The blood-geysering out of his severed femoral artery- inundated his pant leg.
She shoved the gun in her belt and hastened to kneel over Broadbent, shot on the ground. Maddox watched her, overwhelmed with relief that she hadn't killed him. He felt tears of gratitude running down his cheeks, but then he began to feel dizzy and the canyon walls started to move around. He tried to rise but he was so weak he couldn't even raise his head, sinking back to the sand under an irresistible weakness, almost as if someone were holding him down.
'My leg . ..' he croaked. He wanted to see it but he couldn't, he was too weak, all he could see now was the flat blue sky overhead. A remoteness crept into his head, as if he had become smoke and was rising, expanding, dissipating into nothing.
And then he was nothing.
3
WYMAN FORD HALTED next to a pillar of rock and listened. He had heard the shots quite distinctly, three bursts from an automatic weapon, quite possibly an Ml6, followed by a two deeper-sounding shots from what was probably a large-caliber handgun. The sounds seemed to have come from the very far end of Devil's Graveyard, perhaps a mile to the northeast, across what looked like some hellacious country.
He waited, listening for more reports, but after those few quick bursts of shooting all was quiet.
Ford moved deeper into the shadows. Something extraordinary was going on. If there was anything his CIA training had taught him, it was that the guy with the better information survived. Forget the weapons, the commando training, the high-tech gear. Engagements were won, first and foremost, with information. And that was precisely what he lacked.
Ford hefted his canteen, sloshed the water around, uncapped it, and took a small sip. He was down to about half a liter and the nearest reliable source was twenty miles away. He had no business doing anything but going straight for water. Still, the shots had been close and it would be a matter of twenty minutes to hike to the head of the valley where they had come from.
He turned back, determined to find out what was going on. He headed across Devil's Graveyard, toward the mouth of a canyon at the northeast side, passing through an area of low sand dunes. He climbed over a series of flat rocks, crossed some ash hills, dropped down to a dry wash, and continued on.
The far end of Devil's Graveyard was even stranger than he had imagined. The canyon walls on either side stepped back as the sandstone alternated with
shale and volcanic tuff. Dead-end side canyons branched out, many containing clusters of bald domes of rock and pockets of badlands. It was a complicated and confusing country. Somewhere in this very area was the dinosaur fossil.
He shook his head. What a fool he was, still thinking about finding the dinosaur. He'd be lucky to get out of there alive.
4
TOM OPENED HIS eyes to find Sally bent over him, her blond hair spilling over his face, the smell of her hair in his nostrils. She was dabbing his head with a torn piece of cloth.
'Sally? Are you all right?'
'I'm fine. You, on the other hand, got creased by a bullet.' She tried to smile but her voice was shaky. 'Knocked you out for a moment.'
'What about him?'
'Dead-I think.'
Tom relaxed. 'How long was I-?'
'Just a few seconds. God, Tom, I thought-' She stopped. 'A quarter of an inch to the right and .. . never mind. You're damned lucky.'
Tom tried to raise himself up and winced, his head throbbing.
Sally eased him back down. 'I'm not finished. It's a crease, maybe a concussion, but it didn't crack the bone. It's that hard head of yours.' She finished tying a strip of blue silk around his head. 'I think Valentino ought to go into the designer bandage business. You look ravishing.'
Tom tried to smile, winced.
'Too tight?'
'Not at all.'
'By the way, I owe you thanks. You made good use of that unloaded pistol.'
He reached out and took her hand.
'Help me sit up. My head seems to be clearing.'
She raised him into a sitting position, then helped him to his feet. He staggered but the dizziness cleared quickly. 'You sure you're okay?' she asked.
'I'm a lot more worried about you than me.'
'I have an idea: you do my worrying, I'll do yours.'
Tom steadied himself, trying to ignore his thirst. His eye fell on the man lying in the sand-the scumbag who had kidnapped, then tried to rape and murder his wife. He lay on his back shirtless, arms by his side, almost as if he'd gone to sleep. Both legs stuck straight out, but the jeans covering his right leg sported a large hole and were soaked black with blood. Underneath, a large puddle sank into the sand.
He knelt. The man had a hollow, thin face, unshaven, his black hair streaked with dust. His mouth was relaxed, almost smiling, his head tilted back, exposing an ugly Adam's apple covered with stubble. A trace of spittle had escaped from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were slits-almost closed, but not quite. His torso had the pumped-up look of a con.
Tom felt his neck for a pulse and was shocked to find it.
'Is he dead?' Sally asked.
'No.'
'What do we do?'
Tom tried to tear away the soggy pant leg, but the jeans were too tough. He removed a buck knife from the man's belt, slit up the pant leg, and spread the material apart. The leg and groin were a god-awful mess and he had nothing to wipe away the excess blood to see clearly. The bullet had exited behind the knee, tearing off almost the entire back of it. Blood was still feebly pulsing out.
'Looks like the bullet hit the femoral artery.'
Sally looked away.
'Help me pull him into the shade against this rock.'
They propped him up. Tom cut a shirttail off and fashioned it into a loose tourniquet, tightening it just enough to stem the flow of blood. He rummaged around in the man's pockets and, extracted his wallet. He opened it, pulled out an Ohio driver's license with a photo of the man, cocky look in his eyes, arrogant, lopsided smile-a real psychopath.
'Jimson A. Maddox,' he read out loud. He searched the wallet, pulling out a thick wad of cash, credit cards, and receipts. A soiled business card stopped him:
IAIN CORVUS, D. PHIL. OXON. F.R.P.S. Assistant Curator
