by Alicia Scott
She was the worm, stuck halfway out of the ground.
“Move, dammit! Move, Jack, or I will kill you myself. You stubborn, stubborn…”
She ran out of air and words. She slapped him instead. Hard. His eyes, glazed and oxygen starved, fluttered open. “Come on, Jack. Move. Move. You promised. You promised.”
And in the dark tunnel, Jack moved. He weakly pushed her forward and whispered, “Go, Josie. Go!”
“Damn you!”
She was crying. She didn’t feel the tears. She wrapped her bloody hands around his wrist and she pulled. She pulled so damn hard she should’ve yanked his arms out of their sockets and then she pulled some more.
“Exhale, Jack. Now.”
They rasped forward a few precious inches.
“Again.”
Her shoulders broke free. And Jack’s fingers went limp. She was losing him. She was losing him to the stone and the mountain and the thousands of pounds of rock collapsing his chest.
Pull, pull, pull.
Dammit, pull.
Her neck corded. Her teeth gritted and veins popped up, and for a horrible moment, they still didn’t move. He was stuck, so tightly stuck. She squirmed, he groaned, and the minute she heard the release of air, she pulled once more.
They moved. Slowly, horribly, painfully. She could hear the rocks grating against his skin. She could feel his icy, numb hand.
“Come on, Jack.” One inch. She pulled harder. Two inches. Her muscles roared while lights danced in front of her eyes. The top of his head appeared, blond hair so dirty and dear. “Don’t die on me, Jack, don’t die on me. Don’t die on me.”
She wept and she pulled and she wept.
And then his head broke free and shoulders broke free and a minute later he slithered to the floor.
“J-J-Josie,” he gasped.
“Stryker, Stryker, Stryker. Damn you!”
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, rocking him like a baby and sobbing against his hair.
Chapter Eleven
Jack hadn’t been lying—you could fly a kite in the cavern. Maybe a couple of kites. The ceiling yawned above Josie so high her light bounced off distant crystals and wet rocks as if they were distant stars or the misty Milky Way. The cavern embraced the nighttime sky, took it inside the bowels of the earth and claimed it as its own. The air was rich, moist and fresh, replenished by unseen holes in the rocky ceiling. Josie inhaled deeply and greedily. She imagined she was sleeping beneath a vast awning of tree branches, feeling the cool night air on her face and listening to crickets.
She wanted desperately to be anywhere other than beneath ten tons of rock and earth and mountain, pressing down, down, down. Jack’s silent, shuddering body was sprawled beside her.
Josie made herself move. She clambered wearily to her feet and tugged Jack up with her. His nearly naked body swayed dangerously. Immediately, she offered a supporting hand, but he winced as her fingers brushed his raw, torn up skin.
“Are you all right?”
“I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder.”
Josie fell silent, trying to keep calm. She was faring better than Jack, it was up to her to keep them moving. They were both very tired now. They’d gone too long without food or water. Adrenaline and fear had milked their muscles dry, and now they stood bonelessly, too fatigued to think. In the meantime, the cool cavern air hit the perspiration coating their skins, chilling them too fast for safety.
Josie had her orange jumpsuit, but Jack could only shift in place for warmth, his threadbare socks and B.V.D.s not offering enough cover for a tropical beach, let alone an underground cave. His dress shirt still hung in tatters on the handcuffs between them, but he appeared too tired and dazed to put it on.
“We need water,” he mumbled thickly. “The…cavern…”
Josie frowned, not understanding, but then her ears picked out what her eyes couldn’t—the rhythmic sound of water slapping against stone.
“Okay, Stryker,” she said firmly. “Time to move.”
He gave a hoarse bark of laughter that ended as a groan.
“Come on,” she said, hands on her hips, face determined. “You were a Boy Scout. Surely you can handle more than this. Time to march!”
“Yeah.” He tried to step, but his overwrought muscles gave out and his legs folded beneath him instantly. He grimaced, his hands struggling for something to hold on to. “I swear I didn’t think I’d had that many beers,” he muttered.
“Drunkard,” Josie scoffed, though her heart hammered in her chest fearfully. She offered him the support of her shoulder. “Hang on. Here we go.”
They lurched up without elegance, Jack’s larger frame almost toppling her over. She compensated belatedly and almost tipped them the other way. But after a few steps, they got the system down. Her arm curled around his naked, trim waist. She felt the chill of his skin, but also the lean definition of muscle and bone that kept him going.
They staggered their way toward the beckoning promise of dark, unseen waters. In the movies, underground caverns were beautiful rooms encrusted with glowing, purple-tinted stalactites. Josie figured out quickly, however, that no one had told this cave that. The floor burst with sharp, hard stalagmites, some protruding like full columns all the way to the ceiling, while shorter stalagmite children played ring-around-a-rosy at their base. They had to weave in and out to avoid the worst, and even then, Josie stubbed her toes on shorter, unseen protrusions so often that her feet finally went numb.
In addition to the dangerous stalagmites, the ground sloped up and down with the uneven roll of a fun-house room. When Josie spent too much time looking at her feet, she was rewarded by bobbing her head against a particularly long stalactite protruding from a suddenly downsloping ceiling.
If Josie had her way, she would never go spelunking again.
Abruptly, the ceiling rose up again and suddenly the cavern lightened. Blinking her eyes owlishly, Josie craned her neck all the way back and saw for the first time a narrow tunnel that rose up above her to a lighter shade of black. Then she felt the soft, cool promise of fresh air brush her cheek. For the first time, she could see the soft, navy blue velvet of night sky. A whole quarter’s worth of distant, beautiful sky. After her ordeal in the tunnel, Josie wanted to fall to her knees and thank the Lord.
She settled for dragging Jack carefully toward the sound of water.
After a moment, their lights illuminated a far wall covered by running water. It seemed to be leaking in from the top. Bobbing down, their lights revealed a series of small puddles.
“Water,” Josie said happily.
“Look left.”
She obediently bobbed left. “Oh, my God, water.” It poured out beside them, a huge, endless black lake barely distinguishable from the floor except for its gentle undulation. Parts of the cavern floor evidently dropped beneath the water table, forming one hell of a pond.
“Now, if we just had exotic rum drinks with those cute little umbrellas, we’d be all set,” Josie murmured. She couldn’t quite take her eyes away. Such a vast, endless black lake. Silent. Still. Unimaginably deep. The uneasiness crept up her spine. She edged back a step before catching herself. She could picture the Loch Ness monster rising out of such a pond. Or worse.
Jack didn’t suffer from her imagination, though. Gripping her hand tightly, he led her toward the very edge, then collapsed.
“Is it safe to drink?”
“It’s not stagnant. It connects with the outside.” He was already scooping up a handful.
Josie drank. Then she drank some more. They both finally rolled away, gasping for breath after gulping so much water. The exhaustion hit hard, weighing down their eyes.
“Do you think we can sleep?” she asked at last, her voice already fading away.
“I’m…already there.”
“Jack…is there another way out? Besides the tunnel? I don’t think…I don’t think I could go through that again.”
“There’s anothe
r way out.”
“Good.” Daylight would come, shining through distant holes in the ceiling and lighting the cavern. The fresh morning breeze would fill their lungs. They would dine on a decadent feast of water, water, water. Jack would show her the other way out and they would escape, safe at last.
Everything would be all right. Somehow, they had made it.
She heard Jack shift beside her restlessly, then stifle a groan of pain. She curled up closer to him, draping his shirt over his shoulders and offering what warmth she could. His skin heated slowly, degree by degree. His hand squeezed hers.
For some reason, a fresh tear trickled down her cheek. She rubbed it away against his shirt.
“Good night, Stryker. Good night.”
“‘Night…sweetheart.”
Almost immediately, they were both asleep.
* * *
Nightfall. The sun set behind the mountain, bathing the forest first in bloodred, then in pitch-black. Some of the smaller, furrier creatures bedded down for the night. The rest of the forest came alive.
Joanna Jackson joined the owls searching for prey.
The dark slowed her down, but did not deter her. An experienced woman, she carried two flashlights in her utility belt, plus an extra set of batteries. Generally, she set up assignments that were quick, easy and efficient. Killing Olivia Stuart had been like that. Knock on the door, wait for it to open, strike. Over and done with in a matter of minutes.
But life didn’t come with guarantees, and it was foolish to expect things to always go according to plan. Sometimes cleanup could be long and tedious. Sometimes it could require serious dedication and time, as it was doing now.
Leading her into an abandoned mine had been a good idea; Joanna respected her targets for that. It had been a long time since she’d had to give serious pursuit, and while she’d been annoyed in the beginning, she was starting to enjoy it now. Both Jack Stryker and Josie Reynolds were holding true to her dossiers on them—they were quick-thinking, resourceful and creative.
But they were also on the defensive, handcuffed together, exhausted and most likely suffering from exposure. In contrast, Joanna’s suit contained a thin thermal liner, she carried high energy bars in her utility belt plus a canteen of water. She was fit enough to be a major contender in marathons and she could bench-press one-fifty.
Born as poor white trash in the bayous of Louisiana, she’d spent the first sixteen years of her life being abused by her father and uncle. A strong, quick child, she’d learned how to hunt, fish and navigate the bayous as well as any Cajun. She’d also cleaned the ramshackle hut, seen to all the cooking and mending, and late at night, lain perfectly still while they did to her what they always did to her.
On her sixteenth birthday, she’d taken matters into her own hands. She baked herself a birthday cake loaded with arsenic and served it to her father and uncle. She discovered she could watch them die and not feel a thing—no pity, no remorse, no rage. Mostly, she was curious. It seemed to take them a long time. She bet she could’ve used a stronger dosage. Or perhaps a better drug.
She dumped the bodies in the bayou for the fish and gators, decided she might have a talent after all and hit the road.
She’d discovered a wealthy benefactor, a twisted, rich old man eager for the blind affection and absolute submission of a young, pretty girl. He’d been eager to see her as the naive waif he wanted her to be and she was adept at hiding her true psyche. He’d taught her how to dress, how to act and how to carry herself in high society. After two years, she’d decided she knew enough to go it alone and pumped his body full of insulin. It worked much faster than the arsenic had and was simple enough to inject. She took all the cash from the house, plus her wardrobe and jewelry, and moved to New York.
There, she’d cultivated her true calling as a hit woman. She was good, cool, calm and composed. As a beautiful female, she could also gain access to places many men couldn’t. After just one year, she’d commanded top dollar. She would kill anyone, she didn’t care, but her method was always poison. And she always wore the scent of gardenias like an overpowering cloud, so that everywhere she went, she carried Louisiana with her.
You never forgot what made you.
Now she patiently swept the ground with her narrow flashlight beam, finding the disturbed path, moving forward, then sweeping the ground once more. The night moved and rustled and grumbled around her. It didn’t bother her. She kept her concentration one hundred percent on the ground.
And slowly, she followed their trail.
* * *
“Oh, my God, I’m a hundred years old!”
“Then I must be one hundred and eight.”
Josie and Jack sat up gingerly, testing out bruised limbs and sore muscles that had spent a day running through the woods and a night sleeping on stone. Now it was morning, the cavern a misty gray from its ceiling of pinpoint lights, and they both felt the need to get going once more. When Josie tried to move her neck, however, it cracked loudly enough to make both of them wince.
“Have I mentioned yet that I hate hiking? Have I bothered to inform you that I’m a snob and I sleep well only on feathers, hence my outrageously decadent bed where I would really like to be right now?”
“When we find it, I’ll fight you for the covers,” Jack promised. He raked his hand through his hair, then grimaced as twigs and dirt rained down around him.
“Wow,” said Josie. “You look like Pigpen.”
“Then it must be like looking in a mirror.”
Josie touched her face immediately. Oh, yeah, she could feel the mud caked onto her skin. “Some spas charge a fortune for this kind of treatment,” she said weakly.
“I’ll remember to send you a bill.”
He tried to stand and immediately grimaced, falling back down. Josie eyed him with fresh concern. His skin was pale, but it was hard to tell as most of his face and legs were covered with scratches. His cheeks were hollowed out. When he raked his hand through his hair again, she could see that his fingers were trembling with exhaustion.
“Are you all right?” she asked softly. She touched his forearm tentatively. His skin felt dry and cool—at least there was no sign of a fever.
“I’m a little ragged,” he said at last.
“Anything broken?”
He tested each limb, then shook his head. “Nothing that a huge meal, plenty of liquids and a long, hot shower couldn’t cure. Well, and maybe a week’s worth of sleep.”
“You’re cut up pretty badly.” What she meant was that he stood a good chance of infection, particularly given the dirt comingling with the scrapes.
“Yeah.” He looked down at his bare legs, smeared with dried blood and dirt. “They’re mostly superficial scrapes, but you’re right, we should both clean up.” He looked at the silent black lake, then at her. “What do you think?”
Josie immediately shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that looks more like an oil spill than a lake. Or maybe a monster’s lair.”
“It’s fresh water, Josie. Look.” He pointed to the walls with their small cascade of water. Following the rise of his finger, Josie could see that the water came from a hole in the ceiling above. “It’s a swallow hole,” Jack said. “The water is running off from above and emptying into the subterranean stream. The stream goes out into a river, where the water precipitates into clouds, falls as rain and runs back down the swallow hole. It’s a cycle. Mother Nature’s way of cleaning house.”
“Yes, but does Mother Nature stock her lochs with scaly-finned beasts? I’ve heard stories of all sorts of gruesome fish that manage to evolve in underground lakes.”
“Stories, Josie. Surely your sensible accountant’s brain does not allow you to fall victim to exaggerated folklore.”
“Stryker, I have been shot at, handcuffed and chased up a mountain. I have willingly entered an abandoned mine and I have crawled through a tunnel not even a termite would love. And I’m telling you, I’m not getting into that water.”
He was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “Fair enough. Will you at least sit by the side so I can get in? It would be good to wash the cuts.”
“That I can do.”
Of course, Josie hadn’t quite thought that comment through, either. Upon hearing her agreement, Jack moved onto the next logical step—he started unbuttoning his mangled dress shirt. One button, then two buttons. Smooth, rippling pectorals came into view. Three buttons, four buttons. His stomach was lean and hard and tempting to touch. The last button. He shrugged off his shirt and it dangled on the handcuffs between them.
Jack Stryker stood in just his white B.V.D.s, and Josie figured that was the best advertisement for men’s underwear she’d ever seen.
“I’m going to take them off, too,” he said at last.
“What?”
“Well, they’re the only clothes I have. We’ll be out in public soon. I’ll be half-naked as it is. I’d like my underwear to at least be dry.”
“Of course.” The words came out hoarse. Her gaze was fixated on his lean flanks. He hooked his thumb beneath the elastic. He swallowed, and for the first time, she realized he was nervous and a little bit self-conscious. Then her gaze continued its journey down and she understood why. Her cheeks went red so fast she was surprised she didn’t spontaneously combust.
“It’s early morning,” Jack said in a strangled voice. “Even men on the run have…basic biological functions.”
“It’s…uh…well…I mean…we’re both adults.” Josie was trying desperately to look away, trying to give him some semblance of privacy. No such luck, she couldn’t stop looking if her life depended upon it. He was beautiful.
He pushed down his underwear. It puddled at his feet and he kicked it free. Josie could feel the heat radiating from his body. She wanted so badly to touch him.
“I’m…uh…I’m going to get into the water now.” His voice seemed to have risen a few octaves.