The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(12)

Mike had gone to one knee, holding the Glock with both hands as he fired, and a bullet tore through the back of my shirt as it fluttered behind me.

Then we were in the woods, plunging into the pines and oaks and maples, through thick undergrowth and hanging vines, and if we were following a path or trail, I couldn’t see it—but I didn’t see much because half the time my eyes were closed. When I did open them, I could see the rump of the white horse and the ground sloping down as we thundered toward the foot of the mountain, a descent that seemed to get steeper as we went. Any second I was sure the stallion would lose its balance and both of us would fly into a somersault, flipping end over end before a tree stopped us.

We zigzagged between the trees and scrub growth, occasionally becoming airborne as the horse leaped across ravines and deep gouges in the ground where tributaries of the Little Pigeon River ran.

Then we burst into a wide clearing maybe halfway down the mountain, a flat, treeless area, and the rider brought the horse to a snorting stop. I didn’t dismount as much as slowly slide off the saddle onto the ground.

The rider fell to the ground beside me, and we lay there, contemplating the night sky. The rider moaned, one hand pressing against the dark fabric of the turtleneck sweater.

“I’m hit.”

I rolled to my side. I recognized that voice.

She reached up with her free hand and pulled off the ski mask.

“Ashley?”

She tried to smile, but it was more of grimace. “Hello, Alfred.” “I guess you’re not a transfer student from California.”

“No.”

“I knew it! Seniors don’t eat lunch with sophomores.

You’re OIPEP, aren’t you?”

She nodded, her eyes watering from the pain, I guess.

“Where are you hurt?” I asked.

She pulled up the sweater, exposing her rib cage. Mike’s bullet had torn through the left side. She was bleeding pretty bad.

“Chopper’s on its way,” she gasped. Then she started to cough, and I saw blood shimmering in the starlight on the corner of her mouth.

“Got the lung,” she whispered. “Alfred, strapped to my left leg . . .”

Her eyes rolled in her head. I reached down and pulled up her pants leg and saw a long knife in a black leather sheath strapped there.

Then I understood. I knelt beside her and yanked the knife from its sheath. My hands were shaking. I pressed the edge of the blade against my left palm. I hated knives, but I didn’t see how I had a choice. Maybe the OIPEP chopper had a medic on board, but Ashley might not make it if we waited for them. She was bleeding to death.

I pressed harder and a thin line of blood welled up around the blade. I threw the knife into the grass and pressed my bleeding hand over the bullet hole. Ashley gasped. Her eyes came open.

“Alfred . . .” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re going to be okay.”

Her breathing steadied and the wet gargling sound lessened, then faded away. She grabbed my wrist.

“I don’t believe this . . .” she murmured.

“But you knew about it,” I said.

She started to say something, but at that moment a black Apache helicopter rose above the trees, blotting out the stars as it climbed. A searchlight stabbed into the clearing.

I scrambled to my feet, running through the options in my head. I could run—I didn’t know if Ashley would be able to stop me, but she had gone through a lot of trouble to extract me, so she would probably try. I could go with her, but so far I hadn’t run into one OIPEP agent who hadn’t lied to me at one time or another—so that might not be in my best interest either. She had saved my life, though, and running randomly through the woods didn’t seem to be a very wise option, especially since Mike was still on the mountain, probably looking for me.

So when the helicopter set down, I scooped her off the ground and ran to it. The pilot, wearing a black helmet with a dark visor, met me there.

“What happened?” he shouted over the roar of the blades above us.

“She was shot, but she’s going to be okay!”

He nodded and we got her inside.

I searched in vain for a safety belt, across the aisle from Ashley, who was sitting up, and her eyes were open as the pilot checked out her injury. He said something to her that I couldn’t hear, and she nodded, waving him toward the front of the helicopter, making a twirling motion with her index finger as if to say, Get us out of here! The wind blasting through the open hold set my teeth to chattering uncontrollably. Then we were airborne.

Ashley smiled at me. All the OIPEP agents I had known had had great orthodontics. I wondered if that was a job requirement. Are people with good teeth more trustworthy?

“Where are you taking me?” I shouted over the wind at her.

“Airport!”

“Why?”

She shouted something back that sounded like calcified, but I figured I heard it wrong and probably what she said was classified.

“Why is Mike Arnold trying to kill me?” I shouted.

She just shook her head, looked at the luminescent dial of her watch, then slapped a headset on. Her eyebrows drew together and her smile faded away as she talked; it looked like she was having an argument. Then she ripped off the headset and stood up, legs spread wide for balance in the rocking hold, turned, and pulled down a black case from the compartment above her head. She dropped the case on the seat, her back toward me, and fumbled with the contents. Maybe, I thought, she was going to put a bandage on her wound.