“Shit!”
I go down hard, slamming onto my right side, my head cracking against the ground, the breath driven out of me.
I roll, forcing myself to look?—
The bushes part.
A group of deer bursts through, seven or eight of them, startled and wide-eyed, rushing past me in a blur of movement. They barely register me as they leap over a fallen trunk and vanish into the gloom.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, dragging in a breath as my heart hammers in my chest.
They must have already crossed my enemy’s path and been startled by him.
I push myself up, testing my ankle. It protests, but holds.
Good enough.
It’ll have to be.
Bruised and muddy, breath rasping, I grab the fallen tire lever and set off again, forcing myself back into rhythm, heading east as fast—and as quietly—as I can.
At last, I see a lighter patch of sky up ahead of me, marking the clearing where the two paths meet at Devil’s Pond. Instinctively I slow my pace, trying not to make a sound. My ears strain for any unusual noises up ahead or to my left, where I expect to find my foe and his precious cargo.
Nothing.
Have I beaten him to the little glade? Reaching the edge of the track, I peer forwards into the gloom as best I can. No movement. The water in the pond is pitch black—I doubt much sunlight penetrates here, even on a cloudless day, which this is not, and it’s too early in the evening for moonlight. The water is dead, still, featureless. No movement. No reflections. No fish stir in the depths. No waterfowl paddle on its surface. Yet I feel watched. My presence unwanted. The place feels… ominous. Seems that Devil’s Pond is well named. This is not a place that makes me want to linger.
I shake my head, pushing aside any mystical nonsense. I have a job to do, and I’ll only get one chance. I need to get it right. I scan the clearing, quickly weighing my options. Time is against me. He could arrive at any moment, and I need a plan.
Then I hear it again.
Twigs snapping. Vegetation shifting. Stones rattling underfoot.
And something else—beneath the rasp of effort.
Muttered cursing.
He’s here.
Too late for careful plans.
I slip silently behind a large juniper bush.
No doubt in reality it’s only a few seconds, but the waiting behind my juniper bush feels like hours as the labored breathing and muttered cursing come nearer and nearer.
At last, the bushes part, and a man dressed in black half strides, half stumbles into the clearing, sweating and gasping. He’s about my height, but far bulkier—two hundred and seventy pounds at least, even in the dim light.
Jesus Christ. He’s a monster.
He dumps the heavy bundle from his shoulders and drops onto a large rock, panting. The bundle lands with a thump, and I hear Sierra’s voice, muffled, as if partially gagged.
“Fuck you, you bastard. Couldn’t you have just lowered me down?”
“Shut ya mouth, or I’ll shut it for ya,” the man snaps. “D’ya think I wanted to carry you all this goddamn way?”
“Do you think I wanted to be carried here against my will? Take me back. There are laws, you know. Take me back, you fucking bastard, or I’ll make you wish you’d—ouch!”
He lashes out with a vicious kick.