Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(96)

Dalco imagined himself as powerful as Zeus? Savich yelled, “What’s wrong, Dalco? Can’t you come up with anything original?”

The eagle sent a tearing cry into the heavens, but then it hovered above him, apparently in no hurry. Talking to it would do no good; the eagle wouldn’t talk back. And Dalco had seen to it he was physically helpless. He pictured Winkel’s Cave in his mind, focused as hard as he could on sending them both into the large chamber again, but nothing changed. He pictured Dalco standing on a huge alligator, lazily cruising through the green waters of the Everglades, its jaws slowly opening, its black eyes staring up at him. But he was still on the rock, the eagle above him. He pictured a purple sea, a wooden raft riding the waves, and he set Dalco on the raft, alone and in an open sea.

Nothing happened.

The relentless waves were still pounding him, washing into the open wound in his side. Remarkably, the water was so cold it numbed the pain, but for only an instant.

The eagle screamed as it dove at him again, covering Savich’s head with its wings, digging its beak deep into the gaping wound in his side. And again it lazily took flight, hovering over him, flapping its black wings, staring down at him, his blood dripping from its beak.

He yelled to be back in his bed, but nothing changed. Why couldn’t he change anything? Would he die in this dreamscape, tied forever to this rock? He screamed, “Griffin, help me!”

Griffin stood on the rock above him, nearly hurled off the rock by the ferocious wind. Waves splashed around his legs, pulling at him. His eyes were wide with shock. Savich watched him grab the thick ropes to steady himself.

He scrambled down the side of the rock, using the ropes that bound Savich to brace himself. He began working a knot. The eagle dove toward them, Savich’s blood still dripping from its beak, then, suddenly, it pulled back, its wings flapping madly, screaming at them. It slammed into Griffin and sunk its beak into his shoulder, nearly knocking him off the rock and into the sea. Griffin managed to hold on. He whirled around and struck the eagle’s head with his fist. The eagle screamed and pulled back, keeping its distance. “It’s watching us,” Griffin said. “It doesn’t know what to do now that there are two of us.”

Griffin felt warm blood on his shoulder, running down his arm. He ignored it, didn’t slow. He’d been in a deep sleep when he’d heard Savich’s shout, and the next instant he was on this huge rock in a nightmare he understood quickly enough.

Dalco.

Griffin managed to loosen the rope enough for Savich to pull an arm free and help him. The eagle shrieked, preparing to dive again, but now Savich was nearly free of the ropes. But where would they go? The frigid water below them was filled with jagged black rocks, violent waves spuming over them.

The eagle continued shrieking at them, its huge wings flapping, hanging in the air, as if uncertain what to do. The skies burst open, hurling down a torrent of icy rain on them, nearly dragging Griffin off the rock and into the sea below.

Savich tried to talk, but it was beyond him. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his side. He knew he’d see his mangled flesh. The pain was so crippling he couldn’t seem to draw a breath. Everything was blurring, he was going to pass out. Griffin would be helpless with him, and they would both die. He saw blood dripping off Griffin’s shoulder, knew there was nothing he could do to stanch the blood. Griffin was wearing only a soaked T-shirt and pajama bottoms.

The violent rain slammed against him, filling the wound in his side. He heard Griffin shout, “Hang on!” He saw Griffin bend down and pull up his pajama leg. He was wearing an ankle holster with a Glock 380 pistol in it. Then he saw it was in Griffin’s hand. The eagle came through the cascading rain, diving down at them, its wings flapping wildly, shrieking, and Griffin waited until it was nearly on them and then shot it square between the eyes.

Its head flew off, feathers and blood mixing with the torrential rain. Still it hovered, still flapped its wings, as blood streamed from its neck. It flew away and disappeared into the sheets of thick, gray rain.

“Dillon! Dillon! Wake up, you’re moaning, wake up!”

He heard her voice, felt hard slaps on his face, and she was yelling over and over, “Dillon, wake up!”

His eyes flew open. He sucked in a breath and stared up at her, saw her her outline in the predawn light. “Sherlock,” he said, and stilled, waiting for the crippling pain, but it didn’t come. There was no gaping wound in his side, his flesh was smooth, he was whole. He felt pain from the ropes, but it was fading, and when he looked at his wrists, his arms, there was nothing. He felt cold, but he wasn’t freezing. Sherlock pulled him against her, stroking his hair, kissing his face again and again. “It’s all right now, Dillon, I’ve got you. It was Dalco, wasn’t it? He can’t get you again now. It’s all right, you’re safe.”

He managed to say against her neck, “Griffin was with me. I have to call him, see that he’s okay.”

She scrambled over him, grabbed his cell, and speed-dialed Griffin.

Griffin answered on the first ring. “Savich? Are you all right?”

Savich closed his eyes against his relief at hearing Griffin’s voice. “Yes, I’m all right. Sore, cold, but no open wounds. Your shoulder?”

Griffin worked his shoulder. “Like you, I’m sore, but there’s no wound, no bruise, nothing at all. It’s like it never happened, but it did.” He paused, then, “That was a hell of a thing, Savich.”