One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(94)

He should be here. Any time now. Or is he already here, one tree about to split into two? Or working some kind of strategy of his own, flanking us from the side, or clambering up to a preestablished sniper’s perch?

There are too many things I don’t know.

I tuck myself into the screen of pines.

The first pine cone crunches to my left.

A silhouette appears.

And Miguel opens fire.





CHAPTER 38





Miguel’s first shot misses its mark. He follows it quickly with two more, trying to correct for his mistake. But tree man is already on the move. He spins sideways, nearly crashing into my hideout. With lightning speed, he has his rifle up, positioning the butt against his shoulder.

I spring forward, double-edged Rambo knife in hand, signal whistle pursed between my lips. I blow, as loud and hard as I can, right in tree man’s ear.

He recoils, slapping his right hand reflexively over his ear and partially dropping the rifle. He whirls toward me, but for once my slight build is an attribute. I dart in low and quick. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and stab at another human being.

I feel the thud of contact before my knife skitters sideways. I open my eyes, encountering tree man’s camouflaged thigh. I thrust with my blade a second time, harder. My pitch-dulled blade is deflected once again.

The fabric is reinforced. Some kind of heavyweight patching.

I’m still processing that detail when tree man shoves me away. I stumble backward, landing on my ass. I look up to see a mythical beast out of every horror movie ever made. Bugged-out eyes. A distorted head. A mouthless face.

Then I watch the butt of a rifle descend straight toward my head.

At the last second, I roll away, then scamper up long enough to throw myself behind a tree.

With a roar, tree man charges after me.

I whirl behind another pine, then another, working a crazy zigzag pattern with no strategy other than dodge and duck, duck and dodge.

Miggy. Where is he? Please let him and his bullets arrive shortly.

I zig left. Bad choice. Tree man slams me in the shoulder with the rifle. My right arm immediately goes numb, knife dropping to the ground. I blow the whistle again. It’s no longer a shrill sound, but a whispery, panicked hiccup as I start to hyperventilate from sheer terror.

Then fresh gunfire. The tree next to us explodes. The hunter flinches, takes cover, and so do I.

Miguel. I think I can just see him, advancing through the trees and shadows. Had to get close, he said. I hope he’s about to be near enough.

Tree man slams me in the face with his rifle. I go down seeing stars.

Fresh gunfire. Tree man grunting, turning away from me, toward the new threat.

Get up, get up, get up, I will myself. I’ve spent my whole life in motion. Now is not the time to stop.

A yelp of pain. Miguel. He’s outclassed. We both are. Gotta do this together because we’ll never make it separately.

I manage to grab a nearby branch and pull myself to standing. My eyes are watering from the blow. It feels like my left cheekbone has exploded. It makes it hard to see, but at this stage, that hardly matters.

Miguel needs me.

I wade forward, pulling myself together as I go.

I’m a small, slightly built female. I can’t win battles of strength or brute force. But I’ve had enough experience by now to know my best options for success. Go for eyes, throat, groin, knees. If you can’t hit hard, then strike where it counts.

Tree man is wielding his rifle as a club. Now he smacks Miguel in the arm, causing Miggy to drop his gun. Then in one fluid motion, the rifle is across his back and tree man now has a gleaming blade in hand, a near twin for mine except it’s not gummed up with wood fibers.

Miguel pales. He has his arms held wide, his feet drumming, like a football player at the ready. No begging, no pleading. He’s gonna go down fighting, just as he said.

That gives me the rage I need to duck low and charge forward. I hit tree man mid leg, wrapping my arms around his knees and heaving for all I’m worth. I don’t care how big you are. Knee joints still aren’t designed for side impact.

Tree man crashes to the left, slashing down with his blade as he falls.

I scream. A wounded animal. A feral beast.

Then Miggy is there, jumping upon the hunter’s fallen form, going after the knife.

We are fueled by adrenaline and sheer terror.

Unfortunately for us, the hunter is powered by sleep, a solid meal, and a lifetime of experience. In a matter of minutes, he shakes us off as no more than bothersome flies. He rises to standing.

I go once more for his knees. He lashes out with his leg and kicks me solidly in the chest. I reel back, the wind knocked out of me.

Miggy lunges for the knife. Tree man slashes him across the face, then the chest, several times.

Miggy stumbles and falls. He scrambles backward like a crab.

The tree man advances, gleaming blade in hand.

Gun. Miggy dropped the gun. If I can just find it. I scrabble around in the dirt. I gasp and heave and search. I’m a seeker, this is what I do. Please, please, please . . .

The hunter stands above Miggy. He raises the knife high, and behind the mask, the goggles, the camo clothes and twiggy hat, I swear he is smiling.

Miggy looks up at him. He declares loudly, “Fuck you.”

The blade comes down.

And once more, the woods explode.