Gray Mountain: A Novel(118)

“There’s a gun on the table,” she said, wide-eyed.

He picked it up and said, “Have you ever fired one?”

“Of course not. And I’m not doing it now.”

“You’ll do it if you have to. Look, it’s a 9-millimeter Glock automatic. The safety is off so it’s ready to go. Lock the door behind me and sit right here on the sofa. If anyone shows up and tries to get in, you have no choice but to pull this little trigger. You can do it.”

“I want to go home.”

“Buck up, Samantha, okay? You can do this. We’re almost finished, and then we’re outta here.”

He did inspire confidence. Whether it was foolishness, bravery, the love of adventure, or a rush of adrenaline, he was assertive and sure of himself and made her believe she could hold the fort. If he was daring enough to return to Gray Mountain at dusk, the least she could do was sit by the fire and hold the gun.

The least she could do? Why was she even there?

He pecked her on the cheek and said, “I’m off. Does your phone have any coverage?”

“No. None.”

He grabbed the empty backpacks and his rifle and left the cabin. She stood on the porch, watched him disappear into the woods, and shook her head at his guts. Donovan knew he would die young. What about Jeff? Once you accept death, is it easier to charge into the darkness? She would never know.

Inside, she gingerly picked up the Glock and placed it on the counter. She stared at the documents, and for a split second was tempted to at least scan a couple. Why not, after all their controversy? But her curiosity passed quickly and she stuffed them into the coolers. They barely fit, and as she was fumbling with the tape she heard two shots in the distance.

She forgot about the Glock and ran to the porch. After a few seconds, there was a third shot, then a shriek of an indistinguishable nature. Under the circumstances, she was reasonably sure it was the sound of a man getting hit by gunfire, not that she had any experience with such situations. As the seconds passed she became convinced it was Jeff who’d been hit. Ambushed by the backup thugs, or goons, or whatever.

She began walking along the creek, headed for the trail where she had seen him disappear. She stopped for a second and thought about the gun, then kept walking. The documents were not worth dying for, not when her life was on the line. If the bad guys grabbed her, she was betting that they would not kill her. Unarmed, anyway. If she burst into the woods blasting away, she wouldn’t last three seconds. And how valuable was she in a gunfight? No, Samantha, guns are not your thing. Leave the Glock in the cabin. Leave it there with all those wretched documents and let the thugs have them all. Live another day and before long you’ll be back in New York where you belong.

She was at the edge of the woods, staring into blackness. She froze and listened; nothing. She called out softly, “Jeff. Jeff. Are you okay?” Jeff did not answer. One foot slowly followed the other. Fifty feet in, she called out again. A hundred feet into the woods and she could not see the opening behind her.

Trying to find Jeff or anyone else, or anything in particular, at that moment in those woods was a ridiculous idea. She was not following orders. She was to stay inside the locked cabin and guard things. She turned around and hurried out of the woods. Something snapped loudly behind her and she gasped. She glanced back, saw nothing, but walked even faster. Out of the woods, the sky lightened a little and she could see the silhouette of the cabin a hundred yards away. She scampered along the creek until she hit the porch at full speed. She sat on the front steps, catching her breath, watching the trail, praying for a miracle.

She walked inside, locked the door, lit a lantern, and almost fainted.

The coolers were gone, as was the Glock.


There was a noise on the porch, heavy footsteps, bags being dropped, a man’s cough. He tried to open the door, rattled it, yelled, “Samantha, it’s me. Open up!”

She was wrapped in an old quilt, cowering in a corner, armed only with the poker from the fireplace, and ready to use it if necessary in a fight to the finish. He found a key and burst inside. “What the hell!” he demanded. She laid down her weapon and began crying. He rushed to her and said, “What happened?”

She told him. He kept his cool and said only, “Let’s get outta here. Now!” He poured water on the fire, turned off the lantern, and locked the door. “Take that one,” he said, pointing to a backpack. He threw one onto his back, slung the other over his shoulder, and had his rifle in a ready position. He was sweating and agitated and barked, “Follow me!”

As if she might choose another course of action.

They headed for the Jeep, which, along with everything else, was lost in the night. The last time Samantha checked her phone the time was 7:05. The trail was straight and within minutes they were in the opening. Jeff hit the key and the Jeep’s lights came on. He yanked open the hatch, and as they tossed in the backpacks Samantha saw the two coolers. She barely managed to say, “What?”

“Get in. I’ll explain.” As they were driving away, he turned off the lights and drove slowly along the gravel road. He said, “It’s a basic tactical maneuver. The good guys are on-site doing a mission. They know the bad guys are watching, trailing them. What the bad guys don’t know is that the good guys have a backup team that’s watching and trailing the bad guys, sort of a security ring.”