“Nobody move!”
About fifty yards away, from behind a low clump of brush, a man in lightweight camouflage dress, like the kind worn by soldiers in Iraq, stood up. He held an assault rifle up to his shoulder as he started forward. “Drop the phones. All of you. Hands above your heads. Keep ’em where I can see them.”
We looked at each other, stunned into silence.
BLAM! This time the bullet hit no more than two feet to the left of Dad.
“Come on, people! We’re not playing games here.” He was walking swiftly now, cutting the distance between us rapidly. He looked like something out of a special-ops movie—the military dress, a waist belt with ammunition pouches, a holstered pistol, and a hunting knife in its sheath. I squinted more closely. And gloves. Weird. He was wearing gloves. Not the kind you wore when driving four-wheelers or playing sports. These were more like ski gloves. Double weird. The temperature out here was over a hundred degrees now.
He stopped about thirty feet away. “You, little girl!” he shouted. “Drop your purse on the road and step away from it. If you so much as twitch, you’re a dead woman.”
Make up your mind. Am I a little girl or a woman? But even as that totally irrelevant thought came, I realized something else. His accent was distinctly British, and I recognized him from the houseboat.
“Set the radio and the phones down in the road. If you are carrying a weapon of any kind, do the same with it.”
We had only brought two radios, the one Dad had and the one we had left with Rick. But Dad had his hunting knife on his belt, as always. Keeping his hands in sight, he slowly removed all three items and dropped them on the ground.
Grandpère kept both of his hands high. “I carry nothing,” he called.
“Get in single file. Stay at least five feet apart and start walking slowly toward me.” He moved farther off the road as he said that so he could keep us all clearly in sight. Then he unclipped a handheld radio from his belt and spoke into it. “Cover me, Geoffrey. I’m going to get the pouch.”
“Copy that. I’ve got your back.”
My heart sank. Up on the crest of the hill, about a hundred yards away, another man appeared. Same kind of special-ops look.
“Keep moving,” our captor barked as we approached him. “All the way up the road to where my associate is waiting. Don’t stop.”
It was an unnecessary command. As we filed past him, I glanced quickly back and saw that the man was stuffing the radio and knife into Le Gardien. But he held the pouch out at arm’s length, as if it were some rabid dog that might bite him. I also saw that he still had those silly gloves on.
Were the gloves for the pouch? Did he think they would somehow protect him from its powers? I laughed bitterly. Don’t worry, Mr. Special Ops. Right now, the pouch is as dangerous as a wet mop. And why was that? Why hadn’t Le Gardien told me to back off when I first got this stupid idea to check out Crosby Canyon? Why hadn’t I sensed the presence of evil as I had that day near Robbers Roost? Why hadn’t I felt the uneasiness before it was too late to get away? Why had the pouch remained silent until the very last moment?
Why? Why? Why? The questions just kept hammering at me.
And for that matter, why hadn’t Grandpère felt anything? He was my failsafe, my backup guy. The steady one. The wise one.
My thoughts were interrupted as Grandpère spoke right behind me. In our little single-file line, Dad was in the lead, Grandpère in the rear. “Danni,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him, “don’t look back. Keep your head to the front.”
I stiffened, my eyes fixed straight ahead. I could hear that our guy had fallen in behind us, staying back far enough that we couldn’t try anything. “Okay,” I murmured.
“These men may be of greater danger to us than El Cobra was.”
“So why didn’t the pouch—”
“Just listen!” he hissed.
That shocked me. I don’t think he had ever spoken to me that sharply before.
“Le Gardien is not the problem here, Danni. You are the keeper of the pouch. You have the gift. This is not a child’s game any longer. You must step up.”
The rebuke was like a lance in the back. There it was again. The reminder that little-girl time was over. Don’t you understand? I don’t know what to do. I don’t have the pouch. He does.
It was as if Grandpère were hearing my every thought. There was more rebuke in his voice. “That kind of thinking only diminishes you, Danni. Don’t you see it? These guys are only the footmen. What are you going to do when the chariots arrive?”
Oh, really? The bitterness was bile in my mouth. You’re really going to throw that quote at me right now?
I quickly glanced around, wanting him to see how deeply he had hurt me. But I saw our captor moving up quickly. “No talking,” he barked. “Step it up. We don’t have all day here.”
I turned back, feeling more bleak and more hopeless and more abandoned than I had at any time during our days with El Cobra.
Behind me, the man spoke into his radio again. “I’ve got the pouch, Geoffrey. It’s secure.”
My head came up. So the pouch had become an objective now? First El Cobra, now these guys. But even as that thought came, another really strange thing happened. Our guard pronounced the guy’s name as Jeffrey, but somehow I knew in my head that if the other guy was British too, the spelling of the name would likely be Geoffrey. I gave a low grunt of disgust. How very helpful. Thank you, Nanny, for the spelling lesson. If you’re done with that, how about having a rattlesnake jump out of the bushes and strike him down? Or, better yet, why aren’t you turning this guy’s rifle red-hot and—
And then came understanding. I couldn’t remember if this man had been one of those at Cathedral Valley or not. But even if he wasn’t, word of Doc’s pistol instantly turning red-hot would be known to the whole gang. That explained the gloves.
If that insight was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t even come close. So, head down, I plodded on, trying to ignore the pain and the shame and see if I could somehow turn off the blame game going on inside my head.
As we reached the top of the hill, the man called Geoffrey stood like a stone pillar, rifle trained on us. He too wore gloves. They made him look ridiculous, but not any less threatening. I saw that, in addition to all his other gear, he had a satellite phone on his belt. He jerked his head toward the truck. “Take them over there, Malcolm. Cuff them. Keep them separated from the two kids. Call Jean-Claude on the radio and tell him to come on in.”
“Right.” Malcolm turned to us. “You heard the man. Move!”
So it was Malcolm, was it? And Geoffrey spoke with an English accent too. The tiny details continued to register. As we started away, I saw Geoffrey pull the satellite phone off his belt and start punching numbers.
Pushing all that aside, I looked around anxiously. The truck had pulled off the road about twenty yards away, out of sight of the main road below. Then I saw Rick and Cody sitting on the ground a little behind the truck. They looked like they were okay. The important thing was that Nanny was functioning again, even though our captor had it slung over his shoulder several feet away. Which was a huge relief.
Not Nanny. Le Gardien. Will you never learn? And of course the pouch was functioning. The problem here was not Le Gardien. It was my nanny attitude. Maybe it had been functioning all along, and I was the one who couldn’t hear it because I was moping around like some bubbleheaded teenager. Grandpère was right. The problem was not my age. It was my maturity. So grow up. When the third man shows up, what then? Take us out and shoot us? Drive us into the desert and leave us to die? Come on, Danni. The footmen are here.
Malcolm took his radio off his belt. “Jean-Claude? Do you read me?”
The radio crackled instantly. “Copy that. What’s going on? I heard rifle fire.”
“We’ve got the
m. Everything’s under control here. Come on in.”
“Ten-four. Be there in about ten minutes.”
So our third guy was out on watch somewhere. That made sense. How else did they know we were here? It wasn’t like the five of us were kicking up this huge plume of dust. And then another piece of trivial information clicked in my head. This must be the Belgian. Most of Belgium spoke French, and Jean-Claude was definitely a French name. Not that it mattered a lot. Except that ...
My thoughts turned back again to Geoffrey and the satellite phone. If he wasn’t calling the third member of their team, then who was he calling? Not El Cobra or any of his gang. Not unless they had phone privileges in the jail. Does it really matter? My inner voice was mocking. Maybe he’s ordering pizza. Come on, Danni, focus.
Malcolm moved in beside me. “What are you muttering to yourself about?”
“Nothing,” I murmured. I lowered my head, staring at the ground, not daring to look at him. By this time, we were nearly to the truck, and I pulled myself back to our current circumstances. Rick and Cody were seated on the ground behind the truck, as I had guessed. Their hands were behind their backs, and I assumed they had been either handcuffed or tied up. They looked pretty miserable, and yet both also looked defiant.
Dad saw them too and increased his pace. “Cody? Rick? Are you all right?”
Malcolm leaped in front of Dad, shoving the muzzle of the rifle right into his face. “They’re fine. Now get back. Move over there.” He pointed to an open, mostly rocky area. “Sit down on the ground. Stay at least ten feet apart.” He gave us each a hard look. “We have instructions not to hurt you. Unless you give us trouble.” He leaned in and sneered at me. “And frankly, after what happened at the houseboat, I would very much like to hurt you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I said pleasantly, without thinking. I was suddenly shocked at how brazen it sounded. But to my huge relief, he only threw back his head and laughed.
As I sat down, feeling the heat of the rocks burning through my shorts, I saw Rick watching me. I gave him a wan smile. He smiled back, and though he never spoke a word, that look gave me a huge boost. He might be in cuffs, but he wasn’t quitting yet. Two weeks ago I had seen what this guy was made of, and it was a huge comfort to me now to have him close by.
Malcolm walked over to the truck and emptied the pouch of our stuff. He then took Dad’s belt with the radio and knife and tossed them through the open window onto the front seat. Then, stuffing the pouch in his belt, he moved back a step or two and started fishing around for something in the back of the truck. When he straightened, he had three pairs of nylon handcuffs.
Great. Another set for my growing collection of memorabilia.
“Malcolm?”
We all turned. Geoffrey, who still stood near the road, was motioning for his companion to come back up and join him.
“Be right there,” Malcolm called back. “I still need to cuff them.”
“Now, Malcolm!” Geoffrey snapped.
With a shrug, he turned and went over to join his companion. But he positioned himself so that as they talked, we were in his direct line of sight. And he kept his rifle up. Geoffrey, on the other hand, turned his back on us and began speaking in a low voice.
“All right. Here’s the deal. Change of plans. We’re being pulled out.”
“About time. How soon?”
“Now. The plane will be waiting for us as agreed. But we’ve got to get moving.”
I realized with a start that I was hearing every word they spoke, as if I were standing right there with them. I glanced at Dad and Grandpère. Dad was tracing patterns in the sand with the heel of his hiking boot. Grandpère had his arms folded on his knees, and his head was down. Neither gave any sign that they were hearing what I was hearing.
“What about them?” Malcolm gestured toward us. I held my breath for a moment, straining to hear what Geoffrey’s answer to that would be.
“The instructions haven’t changed. They are not to be hurt unless they pose a direct threat. He made that very clear.”
Huge relief flooded through me. So Grandpère was right. Whoever this “he” was, I was grateful to him at that moment.
“So what do we with them?”
“We’re taking them with us.”
No! Any gratitude instantly disappeared.
“I’ll wait here for Jean-Claude and get them secured. You go down to their boat. Take it out far enough so it won’t be visible, then open the drain plugs so it will sink.”
Geoffrey turned and looked at us. “Who has the keys to the boat?”
Dad raised his hand and, without waiting to be told, he fished the keys out of his pocket and tossed them a few feet away. Malcolm trotted over, picked them up, and then returned to huddle with Geoffrey, who was talking again even as he came back. He pointed down the hill toward the lake. “Head straight down from here. It will save you half a mile or more if you don’t take the road. We’ll come down and pick you up there. Just hurry up and get it done. I don’t want to be sitting on that beach waiting for you.”
Malcolm slung the rifle over his shoulder, then removed his gloves. Once that was done, he pulled Le Gardien out of his belt and handed it across to Geoffrey. “Whatever you do, keep it away from the girl.”
“Yes, Mommy,” Geoffrey sneered. “I’ll look both ways while crossing the street, too.”
I turned my head as I felt something hit my shoulder. Grandpère still had his head down, but even as I watched, he picked up another small stone and flipped it at me.
“Are you hearing what they’re saying?” he whispered.
I nodded. “Every word. Are you?”
“No.”
“Neither am I,” Dad said.
I glanced quickly at our two captors, then looked away again. They were standing toe to toe now, speaking in angry whispers. Quietly and urgently, I summarized their plan as quickly and concisely as I could.
“You have to stop them, Danni,” Dad said before I had finished. “Once they put the cuffs on us, or put us in the truck, our chances of escape drop to about zero. And remember, we’ve got Mom and Don waiting for us at Rainbow Bridge. If we don’t show up, they’ll go back to the houseboat, thinking we’re just late. It could be hours before they sound an alarm.”
Oh, man. I had totally forgotten about Mom. “But how?” I cried. “They have the pouch. There’s no way I can get it without—”
Grandpère flipped another rock. It hit me on the cheek, stinging the flesh. I jumped a little. “Ow!”
“Hey!” Malcolm shouted. “No talking over there.”
Grandpère’s eyes were boring into mine. “Stop telling us what you can’t do, Danni.” And then, to my surprise, before I could answer, he got to his feet.
Malcolm gave a shout and started toward us, his rifle coming up. “Sit down, old man,” he shouted. “Sit down or I’ll put a bullet through your leg.”
Geoffrey was right behind him. He grabbed Malcolm’s arm and jerked him around. “I’ll handle this. Get down there and sink that boat. We’ll be there in no more than a quarter of an hour.”
Malcolm was watching me, his eyes dark and angry. But finally, muttering something under his breath, he handed the cuffs to his partner, turned on his heel, and started down the hill. As he did so, Geoffrey chambered a round into the rifle, took quick aim, and fired. We all instinctively jumped, but he wasn’t aiming at us. The bullet kicked up sand a few feet away from Cody. “Sit down, Grandpa, or your grandson dies.”
CHAPTER 12
Regardless of who it was who had told Geoffrey we were not to be hurt, at that moment, I could see it in his eyes. He not only was ready to hurt us—he wanted to.
In addition to that fact, several things registered in my head all at the same time. Malcolm had whirled around at the sound of the rifle and was coming back. Ge
offrey screamed at him to get down to the lake and sink the boat. The third man had also come into sight down below. He was crossing the wash not far from where we had hidden and coming up the road in our direction at a fast trot. Most of all, I saw Geoffrey coming toward us in long strides, his eyes murderous. Grandpère stood there, regal as a king. And now I feared for Cody’s life.
I leaped to my feet, holding my hands high above my head. “Stop where you are!” I shouted. “You are in grave danger.”
Grave danger? The voice in my head was filled with derision. From what? The terrible look in your eye?
But to my surprise, what I had said was so totally unexpected, Geoffrey’s stride faltered for a moment. Then he laughed raucously, raising one hand and fluttering his fingers. “Oooh,” he cried, “please don’t curse me, O wicked witch.”
With absolutely no idea of what I was doing—I mean, totally no idea at all—I raised my right hand and pointed it at him, my fingers splayed out and pointed at his heart. It was just what you saw witches do in the movies. “Stop or die!” I yelled.
That actually brought him to a halt, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. Then he raised the rifle, aiming at my chest. “You are starting to really irritate me.”
“If you take another step, you will deeply regret it.”
Oh, really? What will you do, Danni? Spit in his face? Cripple him with the old evil eye?
“One. Two.” His voice was low and menacing. “When I say ‘five,’ you die. Three.”
Then another image clicked in my brain. I was looking at the pouch on his shoulder. I pointed my right hand at it, concentrating every ounce of willpower, every thought, every wish I had in me and aiming them at the pouch. Come to me, Le Gardien. Come now.
I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping it would fly from his body and I would snatch it out of midair. That didn’t happen. But I was right in one way. The pouch did keep coming toward me because Geoffrey started forward again, rifle steady against his shoulder, one eye closed as he sighted on my chest. “Four.” His face was a mask of fury. “I’m not bluffing, girlie. Sit down now or die.”
To Run With the Swift Page 17