Chapter 18 #3
“Here. This is the place.” Slash led the way out of the trees and stopped.
In the gray twilight, a mountain valley opened up, treeless, wide, and flat. Gin’s hopes slid down further into hell. The prisoners had said a helicopter would pick them up. This must be the site. As freezing wind whipped at her clothes and hair, she shivered from the cold. From the fear.
The rest of the inmates and Karen stopped next to Slash.
“Viper called it right—shouldn’t be any problem landing here.” The scar across Slash’s upper lip pulled his smile into a snarl. “Now we wait.”
“Let’s get our asses out of the wind. And out of sight.” Crack turned in a circle, stopping to slap Karen. “Don’t eyeball me, cunt.”
Flinching at her coworker’s low cry and hopeless weeping, Gin forced herself to stay put.
She’d tried to help Karen when the woman had refused to step onto the horrible broken bridge.
Crack and Stub had taken turns punching and kicking until both women were curled up and sobbing.
Then they’d shoved them onto the bridge, taking bets whether one would fall when they got to the parts with only cable and no planks.
She’d hated them so much right then.
She wanted them dead. Wanted Atticus to come and kill them for her. Wanted him to save her. Just…just wanted him. Where are you?
As a detective, he’d have been notified of the riot and escape by now, surely. He’d come after the escapees—and her. He wouldn’t stop. Would never give up on finding her.
No matter what the inmates did to her, even if they killed her, Atticus would find her. The certainty was a tiny trickle of warmth within her.
“There’s shelter over there.” Stub pointed.
A line of granite rocks looked like fifteen-foot fingers extending out of the ground. The curved tops were pink with the last of the setting sun.
“Let’s go.” Slash led the way.
Crack jerked the rope, and Gin staggered after him.
By the time they reached the edge of the meadow, Gin was shaking with the cold. The massive boulders, scattered here and there as if a giant had been playing marbles, loomed over them as the inmates dragged her and Karen deeper into their shelter.
When Crash dropped the rope attached to her wrists, Gin sagged against a huge boulder, grateful for the way it blocked the wind.
As the men tossed their packs onto the ground, Pit appeared with a load of branches from the trees.
“No fire,” Slash stated. The scant moonlight pooled in areas not shadowed by the boulders. “Pigs might continue with the helicopters.” He tossed his pack on the ground and pulled out a protein bar and water bottle. Whoever had prepared their backpacks had been a savvy camper.
Still shivering from both cold and fear, Gin watched. Her mouth was so parched she could hardly swallow. Everything on her body hurt from the blows and kicks, from falling, from branches tearing at her.
Slash turned and Gin tried—tried—not to cringe. But the expression on his face told her what was coming next.
“No one’s there,” Atticus said in a low murmur as he crouched inside the tree line to survey the dark clearing. Empty. His gut clenched.
He set his hand on the dog’s neck. When they’d intersected the Green Creek ravine trail, Trigger had caught Gin’s scent and taken off, almost out of sight before Atticus could call him back.
He and the dog had worked together, playing to their strengths.
When Trigger lost the scent in streams and rocky areas, Atticus had picked up the track in other ways.
As the sunlight dimmed, they’d relied more on Trigger. What if the dog had led them wrong?
Atticus scowled at the meadow. They’d tied the horses a quarter mile back to avoid the noise of saddle gear and hooves. But nothing was here. He’d been so certain…
Wyatt tugged on his mustache as he squinted at the dark landscape. “Crap,” he growled. “Should have gone the—”
“That’s a nasty wind.” Morgan’s voice was almost drowned out by the rustling trees. “They’re not stupid. They wouldn’t stand in a clearing and freeze their asses off.”
Jesus, Masterson was right. “Where would they go?” He eyed the increasing silver glow in the east. Hidden behind a high bank of clouds, the moon would be exposed in a few minutes. Once free of the clouds, it would shine down directly into the meadow.
Wyatt pointed left. “Weren’t there boulders over there, Morgan?”
“Quite a few. Good-sized ones.”
Squinting, Atticus edged out of the trees far enough to spot the tall shapes, like crouching ogres. “Let’s check it out. Quietly—they might be canny enough to post a guard.” He made his way through the forest, grateful he’d worn dark clothing.
A few minutes later, they reached their goal—several ten- to fifteen-foot “stones” at the base of a cliff. The closest was a massive boulder as high as a house.
Morgan’s hand closed on his arm. The man tilted his head. Below the howling of the wind, men’s voices could be heard.
They were in there. But was Gin still alive?
Trigger whined and pulled on the rope leash Atticus had constructed.
“Easy, boy,” Atticus whispered. Fuck, no way of telling where in the boulders the convicts had holed up. His team couldn’t sneak up on the bastards—not if they’d posted a guard. A straightforward assault would likely get the women killed.
Doing nothing wasn’t an option.
“Morgan, stay on the right flank and set up to cover the meadow.” Wyatt’s younger brother—by a year—had a wall covered in blue ribbons from shooting competitions.
And the rifle he’d brought would make any sniper proud.
“If we don’t get the women out, it’ll be up to you. Take out the copter if you need to.”
“Aye,” he muttered and faded into the forest.
Unusually enough for him, Wyatt waited quietly.
Atticus pointed to an angle off to the left. “Morgan covers the exit. You move in from the west. Give me about”—he eyed the house-sized boulder he’d chosen—“ten minutes.”
Wyatt followed his gaze. “You climbing that bastard?”
God, he didn’t want to do this. A sick feeling unfolded in his gut. “Not like you’re going to.” Neither Masterson was into rock climbing.
“You up to it?” Wyatt’s gaze was assessing before he nodded. “Yep, you can do this.”
Masterson wasn’t a bullshitter and his confidence was bracing.
“I can.” He had to. Because the biggest boulder was the one that would measurably block the wind—and that was the one they’d probably be camped behind.
If he could manage to scale the goddamn thing, he’d come out above them.
He handed Wyatt his rifle. “I can’t carry anything more than my automatic. ”
“Got it.” Wyatt hesitated. “You going to hold off if…”
If the women were getting raped? The knot in Atticus’s gut twisted. “We can’t move without a chance of taking them down before they can kill the women. Even if…” Gin, I’m sorry.
But she was a strong woman; stronger than any he’d known. Smart. She wouldn’t give up. He had to trust her to survive. Did she know he’d be coming for her?
At the foot of the boulder, he studied the rock for a long, long moment.
Half of climbing was setting out a mental map.
Fingers here, toes there, shift… The hardest spot would be the almost-smooth dome, which gleamed in the brightening moonlight.
It had less holds than the area where Bryan had slipped. Had fallen. Had died.
No. No flashbacks. He removed his boots. His socks. Adjusted his belt so the pistol holster and knife sheath lay against the hollow of his back. No chalk to dry his sweating palms. He exhaled, inhaled. Relaxed his abdomen. Repeated the sequence. Easy.
His gut stuck halfway to his heart as he started to climb. Moved up. Up. Up.
And then, a piece of splintered rock broke off. His foot slipped.
Jesus. His fingers went rigid, taking his weight as he struggled to find a foothold. Far, far below, the rock hit with a dull thump too much like the sound of Bryan’s landing and the hollow thud of his skull cracking on stone.
That sound… Death was different, more shocking, off the battlefield. Bryan was laughing one minute, screaming the next.
Stop it.
Gin needed him; he couldn’t think of anything except the mission. He remembered the homework exercises she’d assigned him, and he took a breath to center himself. I can do this. Got to rescue my counselor.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes. His toes curled into a tiny crack—barely enough support to relieve the pressure in his fingers. He ran his free hand over the rock, searching for his next hold.
A glance upward showed the silvery moon, the infinite stars in a black sky. “Pa always said—if not overused—an honest prayer would be heard in heaven.”
Well then… Shoving his face against the abrasive granite, he growled, “Listen up, you fucking angels. Yeah, I mean you, Bryan. Could use a little help here, you know.”
“Jesus, it’s still winter in this shithole area,” Crack said.
It was, Gin thought. The mixed granite and gravel under her hip was icy. But she wasn’t about to try to stand again—not after Pit had smacked her down the last time. Instead, she watched as Slash dug through his pack and found a down vest.
“A small fire wouldn’t be seen,” Crack continued. His tats formed full sleeves up his arms, turning them dark as he searched in another pack.
“No.” Slash pulled on his vest. He motioned to where Karen lay. Moonlight shone down into the rocks, highlighting her bruised and bloody face. “Go fuck your bitch; you’ll warm up quick enough.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
Karen whimpered, trying to scramble away.
Crack grabbed her leg. With her hands still tied in front of her, her struggles were useless.
Gin couldn’t save her. As frustrated tears prickled her eyes, she looked away…and saw Slash moving toward her.
Her stomach turned over.
“What about me an’ Pit?” Stub blocked his way. “You got to fuck that counselor already.”
Gin frowned. What counselor?