Courage Dares (16 page)

Judd jumped and swore angrily. "You crazy fool! Some day I'll shoot you for a trick like that."

Still swearing, he yanked the knife free and attacked the limb that held Mary captive. Once she was freed, he carelessly tossed the knife back toward Ira. It bounced off a tree branch, spun away in another direction and fell out of sight.

"Oops. Too bad," Judd intoned, his manner showing no remorse. He ignored Ira's angry retort and turned to Mary. "You okay?" he asked.

"I wrenched my leg," she replied, already feeling the soreness. Might as well claim it felt worse than it did. "It—"

Suddenly the roar of an engine buffeted the air. A helicopter swooped down across their position— its ear-shattering bellow causing everyone to jump, unprepared for the craft as it came over the ridge behind them.

Mary stared up through the hole in the branches.
No, not now. Not while she was hidden from sight.

She could practically reach out and touch the spotter standing in the door, but he couldn’t see her in the deadfall.

Connor was up there. Maybe he could signal them.

Like the others, Connor had failed to hear the helicopter. It had come up the adjoining ridge like a giant prehistoric bird and dropped over their position.

A moment earlier, Wes and Ira had moved closer in order to see what had happened to Mary. Then Ira had gone past all of them, taking the knife to Judd. Only Wes stood nearby.

Connor scanned the area. He needed to get in the open. In the tangle of brush he was virtually impossible to spot from overhead.

With the whup whup whup of the rotor blades drowning out all other sounds, Connor hooked the Velcro straps on a tree limb and ripped them loose.

Pulling back a long branch, he took one step, then staggered as Wes jammed the cold barrel of a gun behind his ear.

"Go ahead," Wes shouted. "They won't hear you die."

Connor stiffened. He’d come within a hairsbreadth of having his head blown off. It’d be a foolish sacrifice. Movement would alert the search helicopter— the shot wouldn’t.

He stood still as the helicopter continued on across the valley. Their dull-colored coats blended into the trees, but Mary's coat— a bright hunter's orange— stood out like a red weather balloon in a clear blue sky.

If they had stayed on the trail, the helicopter would’ve spotted them immediately.

Their position provided a perfect ambush. The trees hitched in like an old frontier stockade, the trunks forming a fortress.

Ira had aimed his rifle at the men in the chopper. The rescuers would have died for sure.

Defeat tasted bitter. Wes' sneering laugh as he lowered his Baretta didn’t help.

The helicopter paused at the far ridge, then swooped back toward them but further along, continuing the search pattern up the valley. Connor could see the spotter standing in the doorway and another one sitting by the pilot. They were using a large military copter, big enough to handle the wind currents and the unpredictable weather in the Cascades.

This time they were out of range of Ira's rifle. If Connor attracted their attention now, he’d save Mary. The inner lining of his coat was a bright orange—all he needed to do was get into the open and wave it.

It was worth the risk. He took it.

Releasing the long branch he had been holding, he let it snap into Wes. The force knocked the gunman backward, throwing his Baretta into the snow.

Now.

Connor sprang forward, racing for the open ridge. This time he’d make sure the searchers saw him. He lunged through the fallen trees and across snow-covered boulders, scrambling harder than he had ever done as a quarterback, more desperate than flying any mission.

A few more yards and he’d be out in the open.

This time he’d win. This time—

Ira's knife whizzed past his face and thumped to a stop a few feet away, in the bole of a tree. It halted him, instantly, like a body blow, and he glanced back to see Ira, rifle in hand, close enough to blow him away.

The killer had gained ground by running across the ridge, rather than up it. He had plenty of time to shoot before Connor got his coat off and exposed its lining.

"You move— you die! They die," Ira shouted, motioning with his head toward the helicopter.

Connor stood in his tracks, the deep sickness of despair twisting his stomach, the leaded weight of failure stopping his feet. His body shook in anger and frustration.

He wanted to rip off his coat and wave it defiantly in the air, but he had to control his mind as he did the mighty machines he drove. If he died, it had to count. To give up his life—but not save Mary— that wouldn’t fly.

He watched futility as the helicopter finished its trip across the valley, then turned to swing back again, further north. Another turn. Another sweep, farther away.

Maybe the aircraft would come back another day, when they were on an open slope.

Wes ran up to Ira and the tall man handed him the rifle before approaching Connor. As always, he did it with care, avoiding placing himself in the line of fire.

"Turn around," he demanded, and Connor did so, feeling the Velcro straps clamp down on his flesh, eliminating any more chance at escape.

"Wise choice," Ira commented, limping on to yank his knife out of the tree. "I don't miss unless I choose to." He turned the throwing knife idly in his hand— a weapon so familiar it seemed a part of him. "And I always carry a spare."

Connor nodded and laughed grimly to himself. The attempt to escape had backfired. Another decision gone wrong, but the blow of defeat was no longer as devastating as it had been the first time. Now it was just another setback to accept. One more failure.

Should he and Mary just wait for an opportunity? As long as they didn't go near the cabin, they had a chance to live.

He had never quit before now, but he had never lost before. Never felt like giving up. Defeat was a new emotion, sapping his will power.

Now he knew how it felt to lose. Two teams played equally hard, but afterward the winning side cheered, filled with energy, while the losing side barely dragged themselves off the field.

The only difference was the score.

Mary and he had lost to Judd. That explained why they felt so exhausted. He had to remember that.

He must also remember what he knew about the psychology of being kidnapped. Victims often became so attached to their kidnapers they didn’t try to escape, but rather tried to help their enemies.

A strange thing, the human mind.

Ira motioned for him to proceed and he made his way back down the ridge, taking his time, amazed that he had run so far across the uneven, snow-covered ground without slipping and falling.

The opportunity to try to attract the helicopter and the actual attempt had come so close together he had scarcely been aware of making the decision. But his body had reacted, pouring forth a surge of adrenaline that left him trembling and covered with sweat.

His teeth ached, clenched so hard he could’ve bitten through thick leather. He mentally relaxed them.

His lungs hurt from breathing too deeply of the cold air and he turned his face into the folds of the bulky parka as he rejoined Mary. Her eyes mirrored his feelings. She looked ready to cry.

Her helplessness refueled his determination. He mustn’t let her become depressed. For her sake he had to show enthusiasm, like a coach reviving his team between halves.

They could either give up and lose for sure, or fight back. This game wasn’t over—Judd had won the first scrimmages, scored the first points. That was all. The only score that counted was the final one. They either escaped or died.

It wasn't as if they had a choice.

Connor forced a smile and patted Mary on the back. "We've got plenty of time," he whispered. "Don't give up."

She took a quick breath and gave him a wan glance. "Sure."

"Look on the bright side," he tried to joke. "Ira didn't kill me."

"Maybe they're just threatening us. Maybe they won't kill us after all."

"You know better than that. Ira seems to be kindly disposed toward you. That's all."

Except for Ramone, the men had mellowed toward Mary. Her moral character had affected even these vermin. They had pretty much stopped swearing around her and had begun to say "Thank you."

It’d be foolish to think Mary's way would win out— with talk, rather than fight. Still, he had to give it to her, she had these scum beginning to like her, albeit reluctantly. They had all been worried when she plunged through the deadfall.

Mary’s goodness shone forth in her speech, her thoughts and her actions. She proved that good could influence evil. A true lady, she rose to meet the occasion. Like his mother, Mary was one in a thousand.

He watched with pride as she composed herself, then put on a show of trying to find the way. She left the lake on a trail which doubled back a little and headed more north than she had been going before. It climbed steeply upward, toward the ridge opposite where the helicopter had so suddenly appeared.

As they moved along, Judd stopped them every quarter mile or so to ease their sore feet. Connor began to limp too, not wanting them to take his boots.

The mountains provided plenty of fresh air. Whenever they overexerted themselves, working too hard to climb a slope, the freezing air hurt their lungs.

Mary pulled up her scarf to cover her nose and mouth and did the same for him with the turtleneck he wore. It served to warm the air passages, making it comfortable to breathe.

Up above an eagle soared, its huge wings spread out to catch the air currents. Connor watched it pass over him as he plodded along. Aboard ship, he felt like an eagle, surrounded by endless horizons— and once he took off in his fighter jet, he became the eagle. Soaring, free.

The last time he had been promoted, his commander had told him he was a leader, born to it. He wouldn't be able to sit back and let someone else make the decisions when he could do better.

Remembering his commander's confident words, Connor shook his head. His track record on this trip wasn't all that great. They were alive, but not because of him.

He placed one foot ahead of the other, following the trail broken by Mary and the two men ahead of him, trying to remember to limp. Every step had to be chosen carefully, to avoid putting a foot wrong, so no one paid very much attention to where Mary led them.

They stopped to rest at the top of the ridge, Wes and Ramone gasping for air, sending puffs of white vapor.

Mary glanced at him as she surveyed the situation, her gray eyes questioning. Should they go forward—north—as they were doing, or west?

He flicked his head north, toward where Mount Baker gleamed like a white pyramid in the clear sky, and she caught his signal, giving a slight nod. They were getting good at this unspoken communication.

He lowered himself carefully to a sitting position next to a young tree. They were down to two fuel bottles each and were running out of certain foods. When would Judd realize their supplies wouldn’t last forever?

What would he do then? Go back?

No. There was no reason why Judd or the other kidnapers would assume that Mary had been leading them in anything but a straight line, more or less, so they’d want to press on to the cabin. To return to civilization would be further than the distance to the cabin—at least in their minds.

They continued on another hour, then stopped for lunch. Each day the distance they traveled grew shorter, with rest stops more frequent and longer.

Coming back to Connor, Mary unstrapped his hands and handed him a packet of trail mix. His stomach growled in response, making him shake his head at the small amount of food. All he could think about were steaks, double cheeseburgers with onions, French fries, and loads of catsup. With a steaming cup of coffee and heavy cream.

Wes finished his food, then removed his boots and started re-bandaging his feet. Looking over, Connor could see blood staining his socks.

Ira didn’t seem to be having foot problems. Judd kept his well bandaged, although he walked with a peculiar hitching gait.

They didn’t travel far that day, stopping at two to make camp and rest.

Judd called them all together. "We need to talk. We're getting low on food."

"That's ‘cause yer eatin’ all the time," Wes complained.

"We've been out longer than we expected. Everyone put what they have left on the ground sheet and we'll divvy up."

"Why? So yuh kin take it all?" Wes sneered.

"Shut up and get busy," Judd replied. "Bring it out here."

Mary turned to comply, but Connor stopped her. "I'll do it," he said.

He had gone past the stage of real hunger. Now he ate and drank because Mary put it in front of him. His life revolved around her—and escape. Nothing else mattered. But he wasn’t about to give all their food to Judd.

He entered their tent and came out carrying a handful and placed it with the rest on the cloth that Judd had thrown down on the snow.

"Let's see what we've got," Judd said, sorting through the pile. "There's not much left."

"How 'bout your supply?" Wes demanded.

With a grunt, Judd brought out his food and added it to the pile. "There."

"Yes, you were getting low," Ramone commented.

Wes stepped forward. "I'll divvy it."

"Let Ira," Ramone suggested. "He's the only one I trust."

Ira shook his head. "Let Mary do it."

"I'll do it," Judd announced with finality. "Mary won't need much, she's little. Here." He handed her back a small portion.

He pushed off some to Ira. "This is yours. Yours," to Wes, "and yours," to Ramone. "This is mine." He took twice as much, stuffing the choice items into his pack.

"How about Connor?" Mary protested.

"It won't hurt him to go hungry. Make him easier to handle."

"But that's not fair," Mary blurted out. Connor knew she had been carefully rationing their food, whereas Judd and his men hadn’t, so it hit her especially hard.

"Who said life was fair?" Judd laughed at her. "Take what I gave you and shut up."

"Look, Judd—" Ira protested.

"You, too. No one asked for your opinion."

Ira stared at him, his fingers twitching. Then he stepped forward, scooped up the small amount allotted him and carried it away.

Once inside their tent, Mary began to cry. Connor reached out and touched her arm, meaning only to make contact with her, but she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. He sat down on his rolled-up sleeping bag and cradled her against him.

Each tear she shed was like torture to him. He reached out and touched her skin, soft as a baby's, and stroked a finger across her cheek, wiping away the tears.

"It's okay."

"It's not okay," she cried, shaken with sobs. "Judd means to starve you 'till you're weak. He left us only enough for one more day."