Left to Die

by Rita Herron

  The man could be some psycho who got off on sexual assault or torture...

  * * *

  JANE CURSED HERSELF for not being able to remember more details about the man who’d hurt her.

  “I’m going to photograph the scene, then bag the rope and rag,” Fletch said. “Hopefully the lab can retrieve your attacker’s DNA from them.”

  Jane ran her finger around her wrist where rope burns discolored her skin. In her mind, she pictured herself working the thick rope, slowly loosening the knots.

  Her fingers were aching, bloody, her nails ripping as she yanked the knot free. She had to hurry. He could come back any minute. She ripped the gag from her mouth, then tackled the rope around her ankles. The rope slipped, her nail breaking, and she cried out in frustration.

  Shh, she told herself. He might hear you.

  “Jane?”

  Fletch’s voice shattered the memory like glass breaking.

  “Are you ready to go, or do you need to rest?”

  A shudder coursed up her spine. She didn’t want to stay another minute in the place where she’d been held captive. Dried blood had crusted on one of the wooden boards where a loose nail stuck out. She must have used the nail to saw the ropes and cut them.

  Fletch pulled something from his pocket and tacked it on the bulletin board. An article about the Whistler Hospital fire. Then he wrote the words I’LL FIND YOU.

  So he had left the message she’d noticed before.

  His expression was grim. “I’ve been putting these in all of the shelters. If the arsonist is hiding along the trail, I want him to know I’m looking for him.”

  “I don’t blame you.” She tugged the cap over her ears and stepped from the lean-to. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Fletch stowed the baggie holding the rope and rag in his pack, then joined her outside. The wind had died down slightly, and icicles were starting to melt and drip from the tree branches.

  Jane forced herself to concentrate on the terrain as she followed Fletch down another steep hill. They wove between massive tree trunks and climbed over fallen limbs and branches.

  Another half mile, and they reached a sharp ridge overlooking a canyon with views of the snowcapped mountains. “This is beautiful,” she murmured.

  Fletch’s jaw tightened. “My father used to bring me and my brothers up here camping during the summer. He’s the one who first taught me wilderness survival.”

  “You must miss him a lot,” Jane murmured.

  “Every day,” Fletch admitted gruffly. “All the more reason to track down the person who set that fire and make them pay.”

  “You’ll find whoever it was,” Jane said. Fletch was the kind of man who did what he said. The kind of man a woman could count on.

  Had her husband been that kind of man?

  They hiked around a turn past a large boulder. The sound of brush bristling came from behind them. Someone was back there.

  Fletch motioned for her to take cover. She started toward the rocks, and Fletch snatched his gun from the waistband of his pants. Before he could pull it, a gunshot echoed and a bullet whizzed by her head.

  Jane ducked and Fletch pushed her forward. She hit the ground on her knees just as another gunshot rent the air.

  Fletch dove behind her with a grunt. A second later, she realized he’d been hit.

  Chapter Seven

  “You’re hurt,” Jane gasped as she crawled behind the boulder.

  “Just my leg. Stay down.” Fletch reached for his gun. He’d dropped it when he’d fallen and it had skidded into the bushes by a cluster of rocks.

  Another bullet pinged off the ground near them, and Fletch yanked his hand back. Blood was pooling in the snow like a red river. He looked slightly disoriented, the color draining from his face.

  Panic seized Jane. What if the bullet had struck an artery?

  Jane’s heart hammered. She was closer to the gun, so she rolled sideways to her stomach, dug her hand in to pull it from the weeds. Footsteps crunched the frozen ground behind her, and the man jumped her before she could snag it.

  She swung her elbow backward and jabbed him in the solar plexus. He cursed, slapped her across her temple and crawled on top of her. Jane bucked and fought him, shoving with all her might until she managed to push him off her. She crawled toward the gun, but he grabbed her by the neck and dug his fingers into her throat, choking her.

  She elbowed him again and used her foot to kick at his legs. Her nails dug into his hands as she struggled to pry his fingers from her throat. But he increased the pressure, and she saw stars.

  She refused to let this maniac kill her. Fletch needed her...

  Rage clawed at her, and she summoned all her strength and jerked the man’s hands from her neck. Fletch groaned. He tried to push himself to his knees but collapsed. He was weak, but he heaved for breath, and dragged himself toward her.

  Her attacker jerked her upright by the shoulders and slammed her back against the jagged rock. Pain ricocheted through her, and her head snapped forward.

  The world spun, and Fletch grabbed at the man. The man loosened his hold just enough to send a swift kick to Fletch’s wounded leg. Fletch bellowed in pain. Blood spewed, and he collapsed face down in the snow.

  Jane had to move quickly. She rolled sideways, snatched the gun from the bushes and raised it at the ready. Her hand was trembling, the world tilting at an angle. She blinked to focus and pressed her finger on the trigger.

  The shooter suddenly lunged toward her, raised his weapon and fired. But she was quicker. She rolled sideways to dodge the bullet, aimed Fletch’s gun straight at the bastard and released a round. The bullet pierced the shooter between the eyes. Brain matter and crimson red spewed from his head and spattered the white snow.

  His body flew backward, and he slipped over the mountain ledge and spiraled downward into the canyon below.

  * * *

  FLETCH STRUGGLED TO open his eyes.

  He heard a strangled sound and glanced around for Jane. She’d crawled to the edge of the ridge and was looking over. Dammit, was she shot?

  “Jane!” he called. Was she all right? He’d slipped in and out of consciousness while she fought the bastard.

  And she had fought.

  Questions mounted in Fletch’s mind as the last few minutes replayed in his head. She not only had fought, but her maneuvers looked practiced. Trained. She also knew how to handle a gun like a pro. Had she grown up with guns? Could she have served in the military? Or was she in law enforcement?

  “Jane?” Fletch called again.

  His voice must have finally registered, and she looked at him with a glazed expression. She lowered the gun by her side as she walked over to him and knelt.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded, eyes wild with shock. “He’s dead.”

  “Did you recognize him? Was he the man who hurt you?”

  “I...don’t know,” she said in a ragged whisper.

  Fletch lifted a weak hand and squeezed her arm. She was shaking from adrenaline. “You had no choice,” he said in case she was starting to experience guilt. “It was self-defense.”

  “I know.” Her breath rattled in the air. A moment later, she straightened, snapping out of the shock. “We need to take care of your injury.” She reset the safety on his gun and stowed it in his pack. Then she dug inside and found a first aid kit. She removed a bandage strip and tied it around his leg to stem the bleeding.

  “Let’s move you to a shelter so I can take a better look at your wound,” Jane said, all businesslike.

  She was right. Blood might draw a wild animal. “I’ll radio for help when we’re inside.” His strength was waning with the blood loss, but he was determined not to pass out again. At least not until they reached the shelter. She might be strong, but she couldn’t move
dead weight.

  She helped him to stand and slid her arm around his waist. His pride smarted, but he wasn’t stupid. They had to depend on each other for survival.

  He leaned on her as they trudged toward the shelter. “It’s about a half mile,” Fletch said as he pointed the way.

  “Can you make it?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Fletch ground his teeth against the pain as they hiked. One foot in front of the other.

  The pace was slower than before, and he kept an ear alert for another gunman.

  Jane lapsed into silence, a look of fierce concentration on her face. Her tenacity and courage were probably the reason she’d survived so far.

  Finally they managed to reach the shelter, and he stumbled inside. He detested being weak, and willed himself to remain alert in case the gunman had an accomplice.

  Jane clamped her lips together as she retrieved his emergency medical kit. She handed him his radio while she retrieved scissors. He connected the second go around.

  “Fletch. Headed down the mountain with Jane Doe. Ran into trouble. Gunman attacked. Took a bullet to the leg. Jane Doe is okay for the moment. Over.”

  “Damn, Fletch,” Todd said over the line. “How seriously are you injured?”

  “Some blood loss, but I’ll make it. The bullet didn’t hit a major artery. Over.”

  “We’ll send a med team to you ASAP. Unfortunately all teams are out on calls. This blizzard wreaked havoc on the trail. A group of teens were trapped north of Pigeon’s Peak, and we dispatched units there to dig them out. Small plane went down in the eastern area, so teams have been sent to rescue them. An avalanche west of Whistler caused multiple injuries and more victims are thought to be trapped.”

  Fletch bit the inside of his cheek. Jane was watching him with a worried expression as she cut away the leg of his jean where he’d taken the bullet. The fabric was soaked in blood, snow and dirt.

  “Inform Jacob about the gunman. His body is just south of Stone’s Ledge. Shot in self-defense.” He didn’t point out that Jane had done the shooting.

  “Copy that. Keep me posted,” Todd said. “If you need emergency airlift services, let me know.”

  “Will do.” Fletch disconnected and set the radio down while Jane examined his wound.

  He propped himself up on his elbows to give himself a better view. “How deep is it?”

  She twisted her mouth sideways. “Not too deep. Maybe a couple of inches.”

  “You need to remove the bullet,” Fletch said.

  Jane shook her head in denial. “I’m not a doctor. At least I don’t think I have medical training.”

  “You don’t need it.” Perspiration trickled down his neck. “But you heard my team. They can’t get to us yet. If we leave the bullet, there’s a chance of infection. Then I won’t be able to walk out of here.”

  Or walk again. He sure as hell didn’t want to lose his leg.

  Jane planted her hands on her knees and inhaled sharply. “Fletch, I...don’t know if I can do it.”

  Fletch bit back a moan of pain. “I saw the way you fought off that man,” Fletch said. “You handled yourself like a pro, Jane. You also knew how to shoot a gun.”

  Her face blanched as if he’d said something wrong.

  “It’s not a criticism,” he said. For God’s sake, he needed to soothe her nerves. She’d just been attacked and killed a man. Even a professional would be shaken.

  “If you can do that, you sure as hell can dig a little bullet out of my leg.”

  Emotions glittered in her eyes, then she lifted her chin. “All right. Just tell me what to do.”

  Fletch patted her hand, determined to keep her calm. For now he needed her help. Later, they’d talk about how she’d learned to fight and shoot.

  * * *

  JANE MENTALLY BRACED herself to remove the bullet. Fletch had saved her life twice now. How could she refuse his request?

  Yet the image of that man as she’d shot him haunted her. Who was he? Why had he tried to kill her?

  Would her memory return, or would she be forever lost in this suffocating emptiness?

  “Look in the first aid kit,” Fletch instructed. “There’s a knife and tweezers in there along with antiseptic wipes. There’s also a vial of alcohol to sterilize the knife with. And you can heat it over the fire.”

  Perspiration beaded on her skin as she removed the supplies and built a fire.

  “What about an anesthetic?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t have one.” He reached underneath his flannel shirt and ripped off the tail end of his T-shirt. “I’ll bite on this. Now make a small incision beside where the bullet is lodged, then use the tweezers to pull it out.”

  Jane wiped sweat from her forehead. He made it sound easy. And she had just killed a man. But he had been trying to kill her and Fletch. She’d acted in self-defense.

  Hurting Fletch was different. She didn’t want to cause him pain. He was strong, caring, protective. If he hadn’t saved her, she’d be dead.

  Fletch touched her hand. “Look at me, Jane.”

  Her breath caught at the tenderness in his eyes. “You can do this. Remember you’re helping me. It’ll be over in no time, then we can both rest.”

  The shooter’s face taunted Jane. Who the hell was that man? Did she know him?

  Fletch closed his eyes as if he was losing consciousness. “It’s time, Jane. Let’s get it over with.”

  He was right. No sense stalling. Besides, she wanted and needed Fletch to survive.

  She quickly sterilized the knife blade and tweezers. Then she cleaned the area around the wound, allowing her a clearer picture of what she was dealing with.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  He looked pale now, his complexion pasty. “Do it, Jane. You’ve got this.” He stuffed the T-shirt strip between his teeth and bit down.

  Focusing on the task, she gripped the knife and surveyed the opening where the bullet had pierced his thigh. Deciding that acting faster was better than drawing out the pain, she quickly pierced his skin with the knife. His body stiffened, his jaw tightening. She leaned closer and quickly dug around the bullet.

  He groaned, sweat beading on his skin, but she forced herself not to look at his face. Just do it, he’d said.

  And she did. She steadied her hand, then concentrated on extracting the bullet. Blood gushed from the area, and she wiped it away with another sterile wipe, then tugged on the bullet with the tweezers until it slipped free from where it was embedded. Her hand trembled as she dropped the bullet into a plastic bag she’d found in Fletch’s pack.

  Wiping perspiration from her forehead with the back of her arm, she cleaned the wound again and glanced at Fletch. He’d passed out during the extraction.

  She had to finish. She found thread and a needle in his bag, cleaned the wound again, then slowly stitched together his skin to close the opening. When she was finished, she dressed it with a gauze pad and wrapped it with tape to secure the bandage.

  Relieved that part was over, she sank back on her heels and inhaled several deep breaths. Fletch was unconscious now and needed rest before he could attempt to hike again. Maybe his team would finish their other missions and come after them.

  Until then, she’d take care of Fletch the same way he’d taken care of her.

  Afternoon came and went as Fletch slept. He shivered and moaned, a fever working through him. She mopped the sweat from his forehead with a cloth she found in his bag, wetting it with melting snow to cool his skin. She shook a couple of painkillers from the bottle in his bag and gave them to him.

  He slipped in and out of consciousness, occasionally whispering her name, and she stroked his arm to comfort him. “I’m here, Fletch.”

  “Gun,” he mumbled. “My gun.”

  “It’s in your bag.”


  “Keep it close,” he murmured. “Case you need it.”

  She tensed at the reminder. Fletch had protected her with his life.

  If someone else came after her, she’d protect them both.

  Night was setting in, and she finally succumbed to fatigue and stretched out beside Fletch. Knowing he was next to her gave her a sense of peace and safety, yet she kept guard in case of another attack.

  But then she dozed off and the nightmares came again. The blood... A woman’s face staring up at her in death. A man sprawled beside her, his chest gaping open with blood soaking his shirt.

  She rolled over, struggling to escape the nightmare. Not her parents this time. No...the face was a young woman, the man lying next to her with his hand stretched toward her as if together they’d found death.

  She jerked awake. Why did she keep seeing these dead people in her mind?

  Her parents’ murder, her husband’s...the man chasing her...the man she’d shot...

  Were they all connected?

  Chapter Eight

  Jane surveyed the woods from the shelter’s door. In the aftermath of the blizzard, the wind had died down and the forest seemed eerily quiet. Shadows seemed to move and slip away, the tall trees obliterating the moonlight.

  No more hiking until Fletch was better. He needed rest and time to regain his strength.

  She tacked the tarp over the opening, cocooning them into the small space and shielding them once again from the elements. Her stomach growled, a reminder they hadn’t eaten since morning, and she found some trail mix in his pack.

  She settled by the fire and allowed herself to eat a handful, saving some for Fletch when he woke. Occasionally he called out to his father as if he was reliving the past, then he’d open his eyes and look around in a daze.

  She understood that feeling. The past haunted him. It haunted her, as well. Except she’d lost most of it and she wanted it back.

  Jane cradled his hand in hers. “It’s night, Fletch. We’re safe here until morning.”

  He blinked as if confused, then recognition flickered in his eyes. “How long have I been out?”