He drew his pistol and spun to make sure he wasn’t threatened, then rushed to his cousin. Rudy lay on his side, his crimson throat gaping. He couldn’t possibly be alive, but Max felt for a pulse anyhow, shaking Rudy gently, hoping there was something he could do. But no one could have survived such a deep gash to the throat.
He spun and quickly checked the bunker.
Liz Sansborough wasn’t there.
He raced past the monitors toward the stairs and charged upward. There was a chance she was hiding at the top, ready to slash at him.
Rather than approach cautiously, he rushed through the opening. But she wasn’t there, and he kept running across the lodge’s community room toward the open front door. Behind him, below in the bunker, he heard a phone ring, but he didn’t dare stop to answer it.
The bitch was only thirty seconds ahead of him.
The outside air was gray and cool.
Mist encircled him.
Behind him, faintly, the phone kept ringing.
He heard something else, though.
Past the van.
Footsteps running across gravel.
LIZ PLUNGED INTO THE MISTY forest.
The weather had softened the autumn leaves, but they still made noise, and thinking quickly, she veered toward the soft duff of pine needles, leaping over patches of leaves as she came to them.
Sensation was returning to her fingers. She used the knife to cut off the plastic cuffs, wincing as the tip dug into the skin under them. Then she pulled out the iPhone she’d stolen. She needed to use its GPS to determine her location and text Simon. She prayed he was all right. As she touched the icon activating the map, she lifted her head, listening. Feet were crunching quickly through the leaves behind her. It had to be Max, and he’d be armed with his pistol, while all she had was the knife.
No time to text.
“Liz Sansborough, where are you?” Max’s voice boomed. “You’re dead. Do you hear me? Dead.”
Shoving the iPhone back into her pocket, she spotted a rotting log ahead. Now she wanted Max to hear her, so she ran hard, pounding through twigs and leaves. Then she yelled, “Stay away from me, Max.”
To the right, a steep slope descended into the mist. At the log she dropped onto her back, braced her feet against it, and used the strength in her legs to push. The sound of the log rolling over the slope was at first hushed in the mist, but then it hit a rock and bounced off an unseen tree, the noise exploding as it crashed down into brush.
“I’m coming to get you,” Max shouted.
She moved swiftly away in the opposite direction, into the trees again, leaping silently from one bed of pine needles to the next. She could hear him pounding down the slope, grunting and swearing and calling her name. Pauses told her he must have slid or fallen.
She smiled.
Hurrying as quietly as she could, she rounded an enormous boulder and saw the stream. It was about five feet wide and clear as glass. Desperately thirsty, she fell to her knees on the mossy bank. Cupping her hands, she scooped up water and drank. Then she splashed her face, the cold water, though stinging, like a tonic to her bruises and cuts. Wiping her hands on her jogging jacket, she took out the iPhone and touched the map icon again. No response. She frowned, checked the charge, saw it was good, and realized she had no reception. No surprise. She was out in the middle of nowhere. She had to get back to the cabin where there was wireless.
The forest was starting to come awake from the shock of human intruders. Unseen animals skittered through the underbrush. Birds complained in the treetops. The stream sounded extraloud. She’d heard it when she’d first arrived at the log cabin and realized it could lead her back there.
Abruptly, she heard Max searching for her, coming closer. Even in the mist, the yellow of her jogging suit would be obvious. The Rambo movies that Max and Rudy had talked about flashed through her mind, reminding her of the way the character always blended with the forest. Grabbing handfuls of mud, she smeared them over her face and her jogging suit. Soon her clothing was a monotonous brown.
She yanked the hood up and tied it under her chin, hiding her red hair.
Feeling the pressure of time, she ran along the moss and sand that edged the stream. She listened for Max, but he’d become silent once more.
That made her nervous.
With luck, he’d slipped and fallen, perhaps hitting his head on a rock on his way down into the hollow where he thought she’d run. If her luck were really good, the bastard was dead.
But she wouldn’t count on it.
Creeping through the mist, she reached a stand of beeches.
She slowed and crouched. Listened. Watched.
Then took out the iPhone and studied the screen.
Finally, reception.
MARTA LISTENED AS THE LODGE’S phone rang and rang.
She didn’t understand why no one was answering. Had she used the wrong number?
She pressed End.
Again, she called the number for the lodge, this time double-checking that she hadn’t made a mistake.
One of several errors.
Nick would be furious.
It was her fault that he’d been arrested. He should never have been at the warehouse where the stolen prescription painkillers were delivered. She’d neglected to arrange for a go-between to pick up the money they were promised—so huge an amount that Nick himself had driven impatiently to the warehouse to retrieve it, only to be grabbed by the FBI.
And that wasn’t the only screwup he would blame her for.
If she couldn’t make this right, she didn’t want to be around when he got out of prison.
After the twentieth time the lodge’s phone rang, she impatiently broke the transmission and called Rudy instead of the lodge.
FEELING A SURGE OF HOPE, Liz touched the screen’s map icon and saw a green dot that revealed her location in the middle of a large, unmarked rural area. She expanded the image and discovered an orange line indicating a road, along with a number for Highway 55. She expanded the image even more, revealing the name of a town—Marsdon—southwest of her.
Her fingers trembling, she started to type a text message and let Simon know where she was. But all she managed was ESCAPED. OFF H55 N. Music suddenly blared from the cell phone.
Damn.
It sounded like the theme from the damned Rambo movies. The trumpets startled her so much that she nearly dropped the phone, touching the Send button before she intended to. As the rousing anthem reverberated through the mist, she flipped at the mute switch.
The sudden silence unnerved her.
Every animal in the forest seemed to have become paralyzed. Birds no longer complained in the trees.
Max didn’t make a sound either.
No way he couldn’t have heard the music.
RUBBING HIS SIDE FROM WHERE he’d tumbled down a slope, Max stalked through the forest.
Abruptly he heard music. Trumpets.
Rambo music.
Then he realized it was the ringtone on Rudy’s phone. To the left. For a fierce moment Max almost charged toward it, but at once the trumpets ended, their echo subsiding into the mist.
He found an unexpected stillness inside him.
What would the big guy do?
Would he charge ahead?
No damned way.
The scum he’d hunted never knew where he was.
Rambo just struck out of nowhere and . . .
Listening for any sound that Sansborough might make, he changed his phone to mute.
Then he texted Marta.
BITCH ESCAPED. RUDY’S DEAD. HUNTING HER.
After studying the ground ahead of him, he stepped onto soft pine needles—exactly what Rambo would do—and moved silently toward where the music had come from.