on the other side of the walk bridge.
Then nothing. Miles counted to fifty, listening to sounds of frantic running, his own heart seeming to pound hard enough to crack bone. He dragged Wallace’s body behind the boulder, raised the dead man’s head.
It didn’t get shot off. He eased Wallace to the ground.
Dodd lay in a dead sprawl, eyes open, his chest punctured by two rounds.
Miles grabbed Celeste. ‘Come on.’
‘We have to go…’ Nathan said.
‘Stay with your boss,’ Miles spat.
‘No, Miles, please… don’t leave me.’ Nathan pointed at Groote, who risked a dash, running toward Dodd’s body. ‘He’ll kill me…’
‘Come on, Nathan, it’s okay,’ Celeste said. But Miles watched Groote stop, search Dodd’s body…
A gun. Dodd must have a gun.
But what Groote was pulling from Dodd’s pocket was a cell phone.
‘Groote-’ Celeste started.
‘He knows where my kid is, he called someone to move her, I got to have his call log, I got to find her,’ Groote screamed. But he stuck his hand back in Dodd’s jacket.
Gun, Miles thought. He knocked Groote down with a hard fist to the nose – the weak point – and Groote brayed in pain. Miles wrenched the gun free and he and Celeste and Nathan ran, Miles sure another bullet would zoom from the sniper’s gun. But no more shots. The sniper was gone. Or simply waiting for them to reach the parking lot.
‘My kid! Where’s my kid? Nathan! Where’s my kid?’ Groote roared behind them.
They hurried down the now-empty path toward the parking lot, past cowering hikers, one of them screaming futilely into a cell phone, useless in the confines of the valley. The recent rainfall hadn’t drained well from the parking lot and they raced through ankle-high water toward Blaine’s car.
Miles started the car, peeled it out of the parking lot, revved onto the road. ‘Get down, both of you,’ he said; they were in the backseat. One road out; he spun out onto it, heading south, the way they’d come.
He tried to think. The gunshots had come from across the road, close to the river, where there was a stopping point to admire the grandeur of the sheer rock face of El Capitan.
Sorenson. He’d gotten Wallace to get Dodd running to Fish Camp, probably planning to eliminate them both. And then Miles and company and Groote were pulled into the trap as well.
A motorcycle wheeled up behind them and the back windshield exploded.
FORTY-SEVEN
To Miles’s left rose mountain; to his right the land fell away to valley, either precipitous rocky drops or rolling meadows down to the Merced River. The road was two lanes, one each way, and now cars on the opposite side veered to the shoulder as Miles swerved to shake the cyclist. No cars ahead of him; Miles floored the accelerator. The shooter on the motorcycle stayed close.
Miles saw the man’s face in the rearview – not Sorenson, not a face he recognized. Raising a heavy pistol again.
‘Stay down!’ he screamed at Celeste and Nathan.
He had nowhere to go. Mountain on one side, air on the other. He couldn’t shake the guy.
Then he saw a black Lincoln Navigator, powering up fast behind the motorcycle. Groote at the wheel.
The cyclist fired again and Miles heard the bullet thwock into the back of the passenger seat. And then in the rearview – he saw Groote nudge the Navigator into the motorcycle, hard. The cyclist fought to steady himself, swiveled his aim back toward Groote, and blasted at the Navigator. Missed. Groote didn’t retreat.
As Miles hit the next curve, Groote rammed the Navigator hard into the bike, the cyclist getting airborne and landing on Miles’s trunk. He scrabbled for a one-handed grip, sliding toward the frame of the back windshield.
The cycle smashed into a guardrail, somersaulted, and soared out into empty air. Groote’s Navigator kissed the railing, sparks flying, as he fought for control.
Miles wrenched the car hard to the left, screeching into the oncoming lane, veering back just in time to avoid a honking pickup truck, trying to throw the cyclist clear. He glanced in the rearview. The cyclist had managed to get a hold with his gloved hand on the lip of the shattered back window. Nathan pounded his fist down on the man’s grip and Miles saw the cyclist’s gun swerve and take aim.
Not at Nathan or Celeste. Him. Kill him and the chase is over.
Groote thundered up fast behind them.
The cyclist fired, Miles’s window shattered, and in the rearview he saw Nathan fighting with the cyclist, struggling for control of the gun. Celeste looped her blanket over the shooter’s head, tried to pull him off- balance.
Then two shots boomed, in fast succession, and the cyclist screamed. A tire blew and Miles fought the wheel to keep the car from sliding into the opposite lane or into the railing and the sky beyond.
Suddenly Miles saw a sign: service area to the left. He swung hard into oncoming traffic, driving on a rim, and into a flat parking area; Groote’s Navigator followed.
Nathan dragged the cyclist into the car, started pummeling him with his fists.
Celeste tumbled out of the car, falling on her back onto the pavement. Groote’s car screeched up close to her. Miles got his gun, leveled it at Groote.
‘Truce!’ Groote yelled. ‘I saved your life, man! Truce! Don’t shoot me!’ And Groote dropped his gun to the pavement.
Nathan dragged the cyclist out of the car, sitting on him, and Miles could see the two shots Groote had made – neat bullet holes in the cyclist’s right hip and leg.
‘I saved you,’ Groote repeated.
‘After you’ve tried to kill us.’
‘I thought you had Frost. My job is to get it back. But I didn’t kill Allison, you know Sorenson did, and Dodd – he has my daughter. I don’t know how to find her without him – without people who know him, know his operation. Please. Please, Miles. I’ve got to find Sorenson. Please tell me what you know. Please. My kid. I have nothing without my kid…’ And Groote stopped. Beneath the razor slashes, the broken nose, the bruised face, Miles saw the real pain in the man’s eyes. ‘I have information you need to stop Sorenson. I’ll share if Nathan or this bastard’ – he gestured at the cyclist – ‘can tell me where my kid is.’
Miles kept the gun on him, went to the cyclist. Celeste steered Nathan back against the car. ‘Let him talk to us, Nathan!’
‘Nathan,’ Miles said. ‘Total honesty. Do you know where Dodd put Groote’s daughter?’
Nathan shook his head. ‘No. I don’t.’
‘You can’t trust Groote,’ Celeste said.
Miles knelt by the cyclist, pulled the helmet free. ‘You. Where’s Sorenson?’
The cyclist closed his eyes.
‘Where do we find Sorenson? Where do we find the rest of Dodd’s people?’
‘Dodd doesn’t – have any more – people. Not in the – field.’ The cyclist coughed blood. ‘Why he didn’t have… protection.’
‘You can’t help Sorenson now. Where’s he at?’ Groote said. He picked up his gun and put it squarely on the man’s forehead. He started counting down: ‘Five. Four.’
‘Austin. He’s in Austin, Texas.’
‘Where in Austin?’
‘I don’t know… I just know Austin.’
‘Is this where the auction is?’ Groote asked.
‘Auction?’ Miles said. ‘What auction?’
The cyclist ignored Miles and nodded at Groote.
‘Do you know where my daughter is?’ Groote asked.
