The Final Trade (25 page)

44

Zoey’s arms and head strike the fence and she flies through the place where Eli had casually cut it hours ago with a wire snipper between the guard’s rounds.

She hits the ground hard, grit biting into her shoulder and hip as she rolls to her feet. A chunk of her hair hangs from the jagged flap of fence and her scalp burns on the right side. The herd of men try to stop as they reach the fence but the momentum is too much and the ones at the front who saw how she got through fall beneath the stampede as the entire mass hits the fence.

Steel screeches and gives.

The fence bows and topples toward her.

Zoey runs.

The overhead lights only reach several dozen yards past the trade’s confines before darkness takes over. She leaps a shadowed boulder and nearly stumbles on a dry piece of sage that gives under her feet. Ahead, the solemn shadow of the mountain rises into the night, its peak blending with the roiling clouds above.

Less than half a mile.

Twenty-six hundred feet.

She pours on speed, leaning into the slight breeze that comes down from the main ski run, the smell reminding her of Ian’s home in the Cascades. The wind whistles in her ears, partially drowning out the guttural calls chasing her. With one hand she reaches back, feeling in her belt for the object, but finds only empty air.

Her heart sinks.
No. No, it has to be there. It won’t work without it.
She must’ve dropped it when she dove through the fence. Her fingers scrabble at her back and they touch hard plastic, ready to slip free. It only shifted beneath her holster. The relief is enormous. She shoves the object down, locking it under her belt once more. Immediately she checks the heavy nylon strap around her wrist. It is secure, the two chunks of hooked steel attached to it pointing toward her elbow. A glance backward sends a jolt through her nerves.

At least two hundred men, maybe more, run full speed thirty paces behind her.

And behind them are headlights.

Many sets of them.

They’re all coming.

Zoey fires two shots back, both going wide but they have the effect she wants. The lead man stumbles and falls hard, tripping up a half dozen others.

When she looks forward again the ground is gone.

She flies across the six-foot drainage ditch and hits the other side hard enough to send spangles of light dancing through her vision.

Her breath is gone, torn away by the impact.

And worst of all her thighs are growing numb.

She claws up the bank and yanks her legs free as the first men leap into the dry canal. They are ready for the drop and land on their feet, scrambling toward her, shadows with wild eyes and open mouths. She shoots the closest one in the chest, hobbling away as the others climb over his body as if it is part of the landscape.

The lead man, wearing a torn sweater and pants that end at his shins, pours on speed as he tears free of the ditch, and she’s suddenly aware he will catch her. He’s close enough to see pale light reflected in his eyes.

There’s a quick whining, like an insect buzzing past, and the man’s head rocks to the side, pieces of skull showering the ground.

He falls in a heap and she sends up thanks to Ian as two more men slump lifelessly behind her, the gunshots from the mountain where he rests lost in the din of the pursuit.

Slowly the numbness seeps lower toward her kneecaps, the familiar cold-water sensation, but she pushes on, fighting the growing realization that soon she won’t be able to use her legs.

A quarter mile. Maybe less.

She runs.

To her right the vehicles circle to a wider area of the ditch that isn’t as steep, their headlights igniting the dying grass and sage into skeletal creatures.

The land rises and falls twice before leveling out to the field below the ski run. A broken, waist-high fence materializes before her and she seeks the collapsed section she scouted that morning through the binoculars.

It is there to her left. She changes direction, not slowing, and hurdles the downed partition. Ahead the field climbs and empties out at the base of the wide run. She reaches down, drawing the small flashlight from her pocket and aims it at the dark shape of the shack below the first chairlift pole.

She flashes the light on and off.

The same signal comes back to her from the shack, and she drops the flashlight, tucking away her pistol.

The numbness is past her knees now, pain shooting down through it from her lower back and rebounding in her feet, keeping her aware that she’s still alive, still moving.

Engines roar to the right, yellow light illuminating the ground before her, throwing her shadow against the steep grade. She rushes on, a limp forming in her right leg, slowing her as she adjusts the strap on her wrist again.

Almost there. Almost. Please let me make it. Please
 
. . . 

“Listen, I’ve got no quarrel with you,” Merrill says, leaning against the cage. The huge man rolls his shoulders and continues a steady pace toward him, unhurried and confident. Merrill glances down at the guard near his feet and reaches for the handgun holstered on his side, but the giant hits him first.

The blow lands on the side of his head and it’s like getting hit by a car.

His foot leaves the ground and he is airborne for a full second before landing at the base of the nearest tent.

The world spins, ground tottering beneath him.

He plants a hand beneath his chest and pushes upright as the man latches onto his shoulders and tosses him down the row of cages. Merrill hits the ground, skidding and rolling once before coming to a stop. He’s never felt this kind of physical power from someone before. It is beyond human.

“Stay still and it’ll be over quick,” the man says, his voice as deep as Merrill expected it would be. He towers over him, reaching down to grasp Merrill by the shirt.

Merrill jabs upward in a quick strike, two fingers to the man’s left eye.

The giant staggers backward, grunting in pain, and Merrill crawls to the base of the nearest cage, pulling himself upright, vision slewing slightly before shifting back into focus. There is a high-pitched ringing in his ears and he opens and closes his jaw as the big man wipes at his bleeding eye.

“Gonna hurtcha for that,” he says, stalking forward.

Merrill hops to the side, nearly losing his balance as he sees he’s bracing himself on the man’s cage door, which swings open freely. Merrill opens it farther, one hand on its edge.

He holds still, watching the man come, trying to calm his breathing, and raises his chin.

The giant swings his huge fist in a looping haymaker that actually whistles as it comes at his face.

Merrill ducks, letting the blow fly over the top of his head.

The man stumbles, off balance. His fist clips the doorframe and he falls, one arm in the doorway, the other catching his weight on the bars.

Merrill drops to his back and kicks the door as hard as he can with his good leg.

The heavy steel shrieks and slams shut on the giant’s forearm.

Skin shreds. Bones snap.

The man bellows and tries to yank his arm free, but Merrill kicks the door again, wedging his flesh tighter as the latch engages with a solid clack.

The giant whimpers, fumbling with his free hand, but the latch is set too far away for him to reach. Blood leaks from his ruined arm down the doorframe, and he tries again, undiluted agony flashing through his features before he drops to his knees with a yelp.

Merrill scoots to the bars and drags himself upright, hopping closer to the man, who’s breathing in short gasps. He turns his bloodied face up to Merrill as he approaches.

“Please.”

Merrill brings his elbow down hard, smashing the giant’s nose to the side in a crunch of cartilage.

The huge man sags, unconscious against the cage, his pinned arm the only thing holding him upright.

Merrill glances down the row of cells and hops slowly past the man, stooping to pick up the guard’s handgun before turning back. He aims at the giant’s wide back, finger tightening on the trigger.

After a long second, he releases the pressure. With a final look around he hops to the nearest tent and yanks a pole from its side. Using it as a makeshift cane, Merrill moves through the narrow alley in the direction of the midway, gun sweeping the space before him.

Nell steps onto the midway and listens. The distant banshee echoes are eerie and she watches as the cavalcade of trucks and vehicles rumble toward the mountain, headlights jostling over the uneven ground.

She glances at her surroundings, struck for a second that something is very wrong. But after a second she realizes what it is.

The trade is mostly quiet.

Several vendors and performers stand in the tent openings and doorways, their eyes searching past the end of the midway and the destroyed fence. A single soldier sprints past in the direction of the shipping containers and a muffled gunshot comes a minute later. The rest of the grounds are empty.

She did it.

A surge of warmth rushes through her. If Zoey is telling the truth then maybe, maybe there’s a chance that she’ll see . . .

But she still can’t get herself to think her daughter’s name. She’s trained herself too long to shut the thoughts and memories down. But perhaps now things will change. She won’t let herself hope quite yet, but maybe . . .

Nell swallows the lump in her throat, gazing across the midway at the nest. It is lit as always, and through the lower-story windows she sees the woman Zoey came here to save seated on a chair.

Taking a deep breath she moves to the unguarded door and opens it.

The woman looks up at the sound of her entry, eyes instantly tracking to the left and back. Nell tries to turn but Hemming is already there, hands gripping her upper arms like steel clamps.

“What are you doing?” he says, face inches from hers, the gun oil smell coming off him in layers.

“I . . . I came to check on the Prestons. I didn’t know what was happening.”

“They’re fine.”

“Are they upstairs?”

“None of your business.” Hemming shoves her toward the door. “Now get out.”

“I will,” Nell says. “But I have something for them.”

“Come back later.”

“I’ll just give it to you.”

Nell draws the carving knife out of her pocket and thrusts it at Hemming’s stomach.

He twists to the side and catches her wrist easily, the blade falling to the floor. He kicks it away and grins, the white skin of his face wrinkling monstrously.

“Now, now. After all the years we’ve known one another.” Hemming flings her to the floor and kneels in the middle of her stomach. All the air rushes from her and it feels as if a hot coal has been placed in her center. “You know I’ve had fantasies about you. Not the ones you’re probably thinking of. Sex is so dissatisfying. No, I’ve dreamt of removing your skin an inch at a time. And the things I’d do with it, oh, you’d be amazed. You have beautiful skin.”

Nell jerks, trying to shimmy out from beneath his weight, but Hemming balances on her expertly. He leans closer, his irises the color of clotted blood. “Maybe now they’ll let me have you. You were planning on killing them after all.” He puts more pressure on her midsection and she opens her mouth in a soundless cry. “Usually I’m allowed one of the male prisoners. But in this case I think they’ll make an exception.”

Her vision grows smoky, the corners of the room filling with shadow. But behind Hemming a flash of red moves. The woman is there, arms over her head, carving knife clutched in her hands.

She stabs downward.

Hemming turns, lazily snagging her wrists, stopping the knife a few inches from his face. He pries the blade free of her hands and shoves her, hard, across the room. She stumbles, feet tangling, and falls to the floor.

Nell brings her arms up, the momentary lapse in pressure making the darkness in her gaze flee. She reaches, straining for what she knows is there as Hemming turns back to her, the horrid grin stitched on his face.

“I’m going to make you a work of art. My masterpiece,” he says, putting his full weight on her again.