Chapter 48
Chuck hit the asphalt and rolled.
Flesh tore off the palms of his hands. His elbow slammed into hard road. He heard the sound of his jeans tearing at some unknown spot.
But he was out. The jump through the shattered back window had surprised even him, so it had to be a shock to the Serbs.
He heard the SUV skid to a stop about thirty yards away.
Bright lights slammed into Chuck’s face.
Another car coming, fast, right at him.
He realized he was lying in the lane of oncoming traffic.
Blinded now by the lights, engulfed by the roar of a horn, amplified by adrenaline pumping through his head, Chuck pushed off from the road and thrust himself backward, toward the darkness of the canyon he knew was behind him.
He thought, as he fell, that the car whizzing past was his last chance to be saved.
.
What would Teddy do about barbed wire?
Stan was stunned by the fence. He needed to get through it. What was it doing on this hill?
But he was in his underwear and didn’t want to tear his skin. If he got bad scratches he could bleed to death! And that wouldn’t do anybody any good, especially Chuck.
He looked behind him and saw dark gray and what he thought was the strip of road. Then on his right, way far off, the headlights of a car coming, he thought, his way.
Maybe he should run down and wave his arms.
But people weren’t as friendly as they used to be. In the movies they would stop but now was different, everybody was afraid.
He was starting to hate fear.
For a long moment he stayed still. Dear God, tell me what to do. What am I supposed to do?
From the side he heard a crunch, like branches being stepped on.
When he looked there was nothing. For one second.
Then light burst out of the darkness. It was a beam, a flashlight, aimed right at him.
And a voice grunted, “There he is.”
.
Down, falling like a sack of auto parts tossed in a pit. Only the sack was his skin, ripping.
Chuck closed his eyes so as not to get jammed by a stick or bush or rock. His arms, held together by heavy tape, were useless in front of him, and he thought for a moment he had dislocated both shoulders. The pain was as hot as fire in August. He rolled over completely three times, stuck his bare feet out to stall the descent. He saw stars in the sky and behind his eyes. Then darkness as he ended up face down, sucking dirt and weeds on the sloping bank.
In the silence, the momentary pause, he listened. He heard only a slight wind whipping through the canyon, and then another sound—a car driving slowly by. It was them. If he was right about where he was, this was a deeply chiseled ravine and he still had a long way to go down.
And down was where he’d have to go, because up was only them.
He pulled his head up and saw the red of taillights, only a few feet from where he must have gone over the side.
If they got out with flashlights he wouldn’t be hard to find.
If he stayed.
Forcing himself to his feet, feet now shooting with razor blades, he started down. It was an obstacle course of hard scrub and dirt and rock. Of unseen flora in the dead of night. He took in a full breath and smelled ocean in the air.
Not looking back, he let gravity help him get as far as possible. His only plan was to go deep into this crack in the earth and stay hidden long enough not to be found. Then he could figure out which way was north, which was south, east, and west, and maybe find his way to a house or town.
But every step was an agony of uncertainty. There was no moon and the expanse below was little more than a gaping maw of black. Chuck saw the terrain in his mind, recalling the times he’d driven to the beach on one of these roads. The green bushy splotches that looked so innocuous from the road were hard reality now when he needed to escape.
At least he was getting farther from the road, from the red lights, from the enemy.
Enemy. That’s exactly what they were. It was Afghanistan, come to his city.
Rushton Line . . .
He heard Dylan Bly’s voice, breaking through his brain mass like an explosive device.
I know where,
Bly had said. Chuck hadn’t recalled those words before, but there they were now. Like one of those loose files Royce told him about. Here under the stress of escape one of them flopped open.
Rushton Line . . .
Did Bly say that? What did he mean?
Chuck told himself to keep moving. But he was waist deep in something now, sharp branches of something pushing back against him.
He needed to get his hands free but there was nothing doing on that score. He’d need something sharp, like a caveman’s flinty stone. No time to stop and look for that.
He had to keep going. Had to make it out.
Had to get back to Stan.