“This way,” Matt whispered to Peyton.
Looking at her in the moonlight, he could see a hardened edge to her expression. Her eyes darted back and forth, focusing and searching for danger. He grabbed her arm and guided her through a small thicket of woods toward a distant gathering of lights. The air was cool but not frigid. Their adrenaline was sufficient to keep them warm as they raced away from the terrorist camp.
“Any idea where we are?” she whispered, keeping up with him.
“Don’t know, but these fir trees and maples make me think we’re somewhere up north, maybe New England. The airfield was small and remote, so I don’t remember much other than the landing heading on the runway. It was 355 degrees, almost due north. We banked hard after the woman was killed and didn’t turn much on our final approach, so I have to say that we are north of where we started.”
They continued to jog through the forest. After he figured they had run a couple of miles, Matt slowed to a brisk walk, steam pouring from his mouth with every breath.
They continued walking, side by side, along the deserted road. Matt let some silence pass.
“Who was that guy?” Matt asked.
“What guy?”
“The mad scientist you wanted to rescue.”
“Oh, him. Don’t have any idea.” Her diminishing voice seemed elusive to Matt. He gave her a sideways glance.
“He was a prisoner just like us. Why wouldn’t we want to save him?”
“Why didn’t he come with us?”
It was a cool spring morning. Dense fog was settling into the low ground.
They had come upon a gravel country road running perpendicular to their axis of escape. Peyton had discarded the shotgun while Matt maintained control of the pistol, which had two rounds of ammunition remaining. He had noticed during their escape that Peyton was in superb physical condition. She had been able to keep up with him the entire way, and truthfully, had pushed him early on.
Matt ran his hand along his ribcage, pressing down slightly, feeling the scar tissue and the razor-sharp pain that accompanied the year-old wound.
“Okay?” Peyton asked.
“Fine. Now, answer my question.”
“How the hell do I know?” she snapped and left it at that.
They approached an intersection with a two-lane asphalt road with faded yellow stripes down the middle.
“Which way, Kemo Sabe?” Peyton quipped.
Matt looked at his watch: one a.m. Looking up, he stared at the black sky, picking out a quarter moon sitting low along the treetops to his right. He had noticed the moon directly over their heads a couple of hours ago, and so he knew they would be traveling west if they turned to the right.
“We’ve been heading mostly southeast away from the airfield. Low, flat land to our right. Outline of mountains to our left and front,” Matt said, pointing as he spoke. “Lots of hardwoods, probably maple trees. Feels like the Green Mountains in Vermont. I skied Smugglers Notch once, and if that’s the case, there are plenty of good trails locals used for smuggling booze from Canada during prohibition. Lots of caves and small towns.”
Matt breathed deeply and looked around once more. “Let’s keep heading in this direction until dawn,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
Peyton had discarded the sling on her arm when they climbed the chain-link fence on the far side of the runway. She seemed okay but Matt could tell she was eating some pain.
“Don’t worry about me,” Peyton said.
As they made the turn, Matt thought he heard a sound in the brush, maybe a squirrel or another small animal.
He admitted to himself that after nearly a year out of the spy business, his instincts, while still very good, were perhaps a nanosecond behind what they had been in his prime.
He heard another sound. His mind began racing with the possibilities. Sure, it could be a small animal, but it was likely something more dangerous. They were in a remote area at a prominent intersection with one of the roads that led to the airfield. Honestly, they would not be hard to track. At that moment, he derided himself for following a road and not pushing past the gravel and into the rising terrain further east.
“This way!” he said, grabbing Peyton by the arm and yanking her into the long arms of fir trees. The branches slapped them as they bolted.
He heard the first tell-tale sound of a silenced weapon firing in their direction, the bullet missing its mark but snapping a branch above his head.
“What the hell?” Peyton said in a hushed tone.
Two more shots zipped past their heads like angry hornets as they tumbled into the soft undergrowth beneath the fir trees.
“Hurry, they’re coming!” Matt spoke through clenched teeth as he pulled Peyton to her feet. They darted deeper into the forest, running with such ferocity that it reminded Matt of the Philippines, where he was chased by a hundred Abu Sayef rebels. His lungs burned as they processed oxygen exponentially faster than normal. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard against a tight lump in his throat.
He started angling their route toward the east, which led them to higher, more protected ground. Without breaking stride, they darted across the road and continued another hundred meters into the forest. Then he stopped, and they hid behind two large chunks of granite that formed a V, with the crevice giving them a view of the gravel road.
“Quiet,” he whispered.
Peyton looked at him and nodded her head. The thought that she was beautiful suddenly popped into his head. He quickly pushed the irrelevant notion into the dark recesses of his mind, where it would die a quick death.
Peyton pointed to his left at the same time he was hearing a slight rustling near the road, then voices. Two men were moving fast but had slowed considerably from their initial pace. The voices were heavily accented.
“Here,” one said, pointing at the gravel in the road. “Footprints.”
There had been no time to do the old Indian trick of covering their tracks with a tree branch, but Matt’s makeshift plan might work anyway.
The pursuers looked up and began moving into the woods. Matt cringed when he noticed one man slip something onto his head.
Night-vision goggles.
He pulled Peyton slowly below the sightline of the granite and pointed at his eyes. Peyton understood.
Matt slipped the pistol from his belt and slowly moved the safety switch to disengage the trigger of the weapon. He could hear the men moving quickly now, almost adjacent to their position.
“Mustaf, wait,” one man whispered.
Matt could see that they were no more than ten feet from his position, and now they had noticed the granite formation.
Before they could advance upon his position, Matt lifted his pistol as he ran directly toward them, firing once at the man with the night-vision goggles and then expending his last bullet on him when the first bullet did not find a vital organ.
The second one did.
Matt altered his course toward the remaining pursuer. The dark figure was faintly silhouetted against the black forest and was bringing his weapon into firing position. Matt, out of ammunition, barreled into him, tackling him to the ground. They fell atop a large chunk of granite and rolled together against a tree trunk. They stopped with Matt on top, punching the man in the face, until he caught the motion of the assailant’s pistol moving toward him from the ground. Too late. It was up and firing, the loud report ringing in his ears, his shoulder on fire.
He released the man’s neck and grabbed at the pistol hand before he could fire another shot, but again he was too late.
The man’s pistol hand reeled backward, responding to a sharp kick from Peyton, who spun and swung her leg down like a guillotine, with her heel crushing the man’s windpipe. Matt heard an audible pop, which he initially thought was his attacker’s throat. But when he considered the force with which Peyton had chopped downward, he knew she had snapped their pursuer’s neck.