Blind Descent

The vision sucked the breath from her. She shook free of it and began to scream like a berserker warrior reminding himself of his own bravery. Intellect was over. Time for instinct.

She lunged upward toward the light.

13

Tacky with Brent's fast-drying blood, A

Moving too fast for balance, she was unable to straighten up, and loped along on hands and feet. Wind tried to push her back, but fear made her unstoppable. She was a stampede of one. Rock and lechuguilla raced past a mere foot or two from her eyes as if she swooped over the desert in a low-flying plane. "Serpentine! Serpentine!" A line from an old Peter Falk movie blossomed in her mind. Had she had breath, she would have laughed. Had she time, she would have complied and zigzagged to avoid the sniper's bullets.

A moment more and she found her balance, pulled herself up, claiming her ancestry as a Homo sapiens, and began to sprint up the hill. This tiny evolution had transpired in seconds. That was as long as the honeymoon was to last. The time had been purchased by the element of surprise. Evidently her attacker didn't think she'd have the courage-or the cowardice, depending on how one looked at it-to make a run for it across the open country.

A shot cracked behind her. Energy in the form of liquid panic spurted into her gut, but her body was already performing at its peak. There was no more speed to be gotten from her legs. The next noise brought her down. Whether the crack was from bullet or bone, she couldn't tell. Both feet flew to one side, and she smashed down on hip and shoulder. With the breath knocked half out of her and her brain skidding in her skull, she considered for a moment lying where she fell. An instant's betrayal of life and those who loved her, and it would all be over.

Oblivion's temptation flickered out in a gust of anger. She clawed at the rock, determined to drag herself as far as she could. The gunman could damn well work for this kill. Though hurting-a fact she vaguely sensed through the insulating layers of nature's own anesthetic-everything seemed in decent working order. Again she scrambled animal fashion over the ground, wondering with an odd detachment where she'd been hit and waiting with the same carelessness for the bullet that would end her life. The spill she had taken had been of long enough duration the shooter could take careful aim for the follow-up shot.

None came. A clue. What kind of rifle carried only that many bullets? How many? Worthless. A

The top of the knoll had been graded flat to provide parking space. A low berm of dirt around the crown of the hill resulted. A

By then she'd be gone.

Unless Brent had taken the keys with him.

Anal retentive, A

The engine fired up without complaint, and she promised herself she'd write General Motors a thank-you note if she made it back to a post office alive. Haste precluded finesse. Dropping the Blazer in reverse, she floored the gas pedal and jerked the Chevy in a tight arc, its tailpipe pointed about where her stalker would be coming over the hill if he'd continued on her trail. Before the truck came to a full stop, she jammed the gear lever into first and poured on the gas. Gravel flew from beneath all four tires as they scratched down through the dirt to find purchase. Then the Blazer leapt forward, its power fishtailing the body over the ruts of the road and down the far side of the hill.

The jolting knocked A

Unable to control the raging jitters, she mashed on the brakes rather than easing to a civilized stop. The Blazer skidded, shuddered, and died. Gasping for breath, A

No lumpish hostile appeared. A

Or her.

A

With a last long look into the mirror to guarantee the coast was indeed clear, she finally shoved open the Blazer's door and stepped out. Her foot buckled under her, and pain, kept at bay by necessity, crippled her. Screaming at the sudde

"Dagnabbit," A

Having unlaced the offending boot, she considered it for a moment. Her first instinct was to remove it, run her fingers over her foot to reassure herself it was all there. Intellectually she knew it was; there was no blood, and, though it hurt, she could wiggle everything that was supposed to wiggle. The ankle would undoubtedly swell. Once she got the boot off she might not be able to get it on again. With a lame foot she'd be useless, and there was something more she needed to do. Lacing the boot back up, she cinched it tight, splinting the ankle. Given good support, she could push herself a little further.