One Step Too Far (Frankie Elkin #2)(95)

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—

I never saw him coming.

He rams straight into the hunter, who doesn’t have a chance to defend himself before being slammed into the ground.

The two shapes roll free of the pines, into the open. I try to pull myself up but my right arm doesn’t work and a warm, salty fluid has coated my eyes. Finally, I manage to heave to standing. I have to wipe my face several times.

Even then what I’m looking at doesn’t make much sense.

Two men, on the ground, locked in a battle to the death. Tree man and . . .

The tree man gains the upper hand, smashes the other person across the face with a vicious right hook. The new intruder stumbles back. His face appears as obscured as the hunter’s. I just make out human eyes peering out from a mask of caked dirt and dried blood.

Martin.

Still alive. Kind of. And really, really pissed off.

The hunter slugs him again. Then again and again. Belatedly, I resume my search for Miguel’s dropped handgun.

“You . . . shot . . . my . . . son,” Martin is gasping. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . kill you . . .”

The hunter abandons control and starts slugging away. Martin doesn’t dodge. Bent in half and clearly grievously injured, he just keeps taking the blows, his lips peeled back into an unnerving grin. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . kill you . . .”

Now the hunter is fumbling with his pockets. No doubt searching for another knife, gun, bear spray of his own.

“Frankie,” Miguel croaks.

I turn to see him pointing. The handgun. Just five feet away. I lurch toward it.

“Shut . . . up!” the tree man yells at Martin.

He stabs Martin in the chest, his hand coming back to reveal a short, bloody utility knife. Then he stabs again and again.

Martin, standing there, taking it. “Kill you . . . kill you . . . kill you.”

I grab the gun. One shot to get this right.

Suddenly Martin howls. A father’s rage. A father’s pain. Then, even as the knife comes down in another debilitating blow, Martin charges.

He doesn’t go low. He doesn’t try for finesse. He collides, hard and square against his opponent.

A moment of hush.

Quiet shock.

The hunter, no doubt confused by how his prey can still be standing, still be fighting back.

Then a second of pure disbelief.

As Martin’s momentum carries them backward. As Martin’s sheer indomitable will shoves them to the edge of the ravine.

The hunter, twisting now, trying to get his footing.

Martin’s feral smile, a flash of white against his blood-encrusted face. “Kill you kill you kill you.”

Martin pushes them both over the edge.

I hear the hunter scream. I swear I hear Martin laugh.

Then there’s nothing at all.





CHAPTER 39





Somehow, I crawl my way back to Miguel. The adrenaline is still coursing through my veins. Fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight. But I’ve already exercised both options. I’ve got nothing left.

Miguel has managed to push himself to sitting, his back against a tree trunk. The light is failing now, the temperature dropping quickly. It’s hard for me to tell how much of him is covered in dirt versus blood. I suppose he’d say the same.

“Water?” he gasps.

Our packs are still up on the short rise, tucked beneath their cover of grass. It feels like a million miles away, but of the two of us, I’m in the better shape. I stagger my way in that direction. It takes several tries, then I’m on top of the mound, looping my left arm through both sets of straps. My right arm still isn’t working. And I can feel half my face swelling to twice its natural size.

I get the packs back to Miggy. Take out water bottles for each of us.

He manages to work his. I require his assistance to pop the top off my own.

I do some digging till I find the small first aid pouch packed eons ago by Josh.

I don’t have the energy for more bandages. We’re out of feminine hygiene products and probably beyond help anyway. In the end, I pluck out the ibuprofen tablets. There are eight. I dole out four to each of us. We’re living the dream.

“Can you walk?” Miguel asks.

“Not well.”

“Me either. My knee. My chest.”

I can hear it now, when he breathes. An ominous hiss.

I don’t want to know, but now is not the time to be squeamish. I fumble with my pencil flashlight, finally pointing it at him.

“Oh,” I say at last. I turn off the light. I was right the first time. I didn’t want to know.

“That . . . bad?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Well . . . if it helps, you look pretty awful yourself.”

We share exhausted smiles, the kind seen in foxholes and on front lines.

“That was Marty, wasn’t it?” Miggy says at last.

“Apparently, he was still alive.”

“Who . . . knew?”

“Stubborn has its advantages.”

“Don’t have to . . . convince me. You think . . . other guy. Dead?”

“God I hope so.”

“We should get going. Put some distance.”

Neither of us moves.