by R. R. Irvine
CHAPTER 42
By morning, Kemp knew he was in trouble. His hand had throbbed all night. His fingers had swollen to the point where they wouldn’t bend far enough to pull a trigger. His water was gone. He couldn’t even raise enough spit to swallow. And he was on his own. He knew that, because if help were coming, it should have been there by now.
Groaning, Kemp rose to his feet. Immediately, his knees threatened to buckle. Walking stiff-legged, he shuffled to the opening in the rock wall and peered over the side. The three-story drop was inviting, but there was no guarantee it would kill him. Thank God he had one good hand left to work the rifle when the time came.
Suddenly, the ground outside the dwelling moved. He rubbed his eyes. No, he wasn’t seeing things. It was that bitch.
An angry surge of adrenaline revived him. If he was going to die, he wouldn’t do it alone. And shooting her wasn’t good enough. He’d climb down there and make her beg.
Nick slid back the kiva’s plywood cover and blinked against the fiery sunlight. The blistering heat felt refreshing now that she’d drunk her fill.
She took a quick look around, saw nothing, set her rifle on the earthen lip, then retreated down the ladder to fetch the plastic jugs that had taken most of the night to fill. Over the centuries, the ancient underground river had dwindled to a brackish trickle. But to Nick, it had tasted like pure nectar.
Just as her head emerged aboveground a second time, a rock clattered from the cliff above her. Looking up, she saw the man clinging to the ancient stone and mortar wall, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He was watching her, smiling. She tossed the jug aside and lunged for the .30-30.
Seeing her reach for the rifle, Kemp changed handholds, preparing to jump the remaining two stories. But his swollen hand had no grip to it. His other hand scrabbled, but the centuries-old mortar crumbled under the strain.
Screaming, he fell straight back, landing on his assault rifle. Along with the sound of his spine snapping came the final thought that the woman had lured him out there on purpose to kill him.
CHAPTER 43
Nick found Leland Hatch under his disabled Land Rover. His eyes were closed, his lips swollen and cracked, his body bloated. He’d soiled himself where he lay.
“Hatch,” she said, “can you hear me?”
His eyes opened to slits wide enough to show his hatred. “You killed my son,” he croaked.
“Was that who you sent after me?”
“You shot down his plane.”
She shook her head. The man was out of his mind from thirst.
“Water.”
“I’m sorry.” She’d finished the last of it half a mile back.
She left him where he lay and staggered to the Trooper. If it wouldn’t start, she’d be as bad off as Hatch in a few hours.
The Trooper’s door was dented, but otherwise it looked exactly as she’d left it, the hood still up. She crossed her fingers before replacing the distributor cap.
Then she slid behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine started immediately.
Maneuvering cautiously, she turned the Trooper around and kept as far as she could from the Land Rover. The thought of pulling Hatch out from under that car and loading him into the backseat made her pause. After a moment, she shook her head. It was a risk she couldn’t take. She was weak. What energy she had left had to be saved for her father. His life depended on her.
She put the Trooper into low gear and headed for ES No. 1. After less than a mile, she switched on the radio to keep from thinking about the look on Hatch’s face. But country music wasn’t her idea of soothing. She was about to change stations when the music gave way to a news bulletin.
“Here is an update on yesterday’s midair plane crash,” the announcer said. “The death toll now stands at ten, including the pilot of a small private plane that apparently lost control and slammed into a four-engine jet that was about to land at Albuquerque airport.
“According to witnesses, the private plane, identified as a single-engine Beechcraft, had been maneuvering like a fighter just moments before the crash.
“The four-engine jet, owned by the CMI Corporation, exploded on impact with the runway. Among the dead were CMI’s executive vice president, Leland Hatch, Jr.
“The pilot of the Beechcraft has been tentatively identified as Joseph Twombly, a highly decorated pilot from World War Two.”
THE END