Freefall (21 page)

She was wrong.

Kruger released his hound.

Hope ran faster, her lungs burning. She heard the Doberman gaining on them, its paws thundering against the ground. Owen stumbled over a root and lost his balance. He went down hard on his hands and knees.

Skidding to a halt, she turned back to help him, but the dog was already there. In a blur of sharp teeth and glistening saliva, it attacked, tearing at his ankle. She pulled the 9 mm from her waistband, her chest tight with panic.

She didn’t know where to shoot. The dog was all over the place, biting Owen’s thrashing arms and legs.

“No,” she shouted, trying to dislodge the Doberman with a kick. “Bad dog!”

Owen and the dog rolled across the pine-needle-strewn ground. For a moment, she thought he’d break free. Then Owen was underneath and the dog was on top, growling and snapping, its muzzle inches from his throat.

Hope didn’t have a choice. She raised her gun, aimed for the animal’s barrel chest and squeezed off a shot. The boom thundered in her ears as the weapon jerked in her hands, filling the air with residue.

With a sharp yip, the dog collapsed.

She sobbed out loud as Owen shoved the animal’s body aside and scrambled to his feet. They started running again, worried that Kruger was closing in. Tears streamed down her face as she stumbled through the woods. When they arrived at her Jeep, she gestured for Owen to climb in first, pointing her weapon at the trees.

Kruger didn’t emerge.

Keeping her eyes peeled, she went around to the driver’s seat and got in, placing her weapon on the console. She fumbled for the keys and started the engine. Her tires kicked up dirt as she stepped on the gas.

“Are you hurt?” she asked Owen.

“I think I’m okay,” he said, but he sounded shaky. His jeans were ripped and blood snaked down his left forearm.

“Put pressure on the wound.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. She drove away from the scene like a stuntwoman, barely breaking for curves. They both managed to secure their seat belts on a straight stretch of road. “I’m going to the hospital.”

Owen pulled a ringing cell phone out of his pocket. “It’s Sam.”

“Shit.”

“Should I answer?”

“Yes,” she said, distracted. “We’re lucky Kruger didn’t try to...”

Headlights penetrated the rear window, illuminating the interior of the vehicle. The words
follow us
died in her throat.

Kruger was coming after them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

H
OPE
PUT
HER
foot on the gas, increasing her speed.

The pickup truck’s front grill kissed her back bumper, causing the Jeep to lurch sideways, zigzagging across the road. With a cry of distress, she straightened the wheel, trying to regain control of the vehicle.

“He’s coming again,” Owen warned.

She drove faster, determined to put distance between them. The next thing she knew, the rear window shattered, sending safety glass flying through the cab. She screamed, ducking her head to avoid another bullet.

Owen twisted in his seat, looking back. “Swerve! He’s got us in his sights.”

Gritting her teeth, she cranked the wheel to the right. Her gun tumbled over the console, into Owen’s lap. Kruger’s next shot missed by a wide margin. They came upon a series of hairpin turns that required both drivers to focus on the terrain.

“Just a second,” Owen said into the phone. Setting it aside, he picked up her gun.

“You know how to use that?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Return fire.”

“What should I go for, his tires?”

“Hell no,” she said. Vehicle tires were difficult to hit in any situation. Unless he was a crack shot, which she doubted, he needed to pick an easier target. “Aim at his head. Shoot through the front windshield. Anything.”

Face pale, he trained the gun on Kruger.

Hope realized she was asking a lot from a convicted felon, but this was a clear case of self-defense. She jerked her attention forward, narrowly avoiding a collision with a parked car. She did her best to weave around. It was a difficult task at top speed on a lonely mountain road. Owen crouched in the passenger seat, ready to fire.

Another bullet slammed into the tailgate.

“Fuck!”

Owen squeezed off several shots. She glanced in her rearview mirror, gasping as the truck’s front window exploded. Kruger slowed down, and Owen fired twice more. The noise was deafening. It ricocheted inside her ears, drowning out all other sound.

“Did you hit him?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.”

She slammed on the brakes and hooked a right, heading away from town. Kruger might gather a posse from the sheriff’s department. Meeks could sic every patrol car in the area on them. They weren’t safe in the Sierras, and there was only one escape route. She had to take the twisty 198. It was a dangerous road on a good day. At night, with a madman trying to run them down in a high-speed chase, the chances of a serious accident were high.

She put the pedal to the metal, punching it on a straightaway. Owen tried, and failed, to incapacitate the pickup with her gunfire.

Tires squealing, she merged onto the 198 northbound. The highway flanked the mighty Kern River, and rose several thousand feet in elevation before falling again. She wanted to lose the tail on the way up, rather than continuing the chase downhill.

“Wait until he gets close again,” she said.

Letting his gun arm drop, he picked up the phone again, shouting their location at Sam. “We just passed Cold Springs Road.”

The hairpin turns made her stomach clench with fear, and the heights were dizzying. She anticipated death around every corner. The truck inched closer again. As they entered a tunnel, she could see Kruger’s deranged face in the rearview mirror.

“Now!” she ordered.

The last bullet connected. Kruger’s shoulder jerked from the impact, and he let go of the wheel. His passenger door scraped the tunnel wall, sending sparks into the air. He steered the truck back toward the center of the lane, but he couldn’t continue to shoot. The only weapon he had left was his vehicle.

“He’s going to try to run me off the road,” she said, driving faster.

She couldn’t believe the numbers on the speedometer. They were already traveling at a breakneck pace. Kruger rammed her bumper in a bone-jolting crash. She sideswiped the guardrail as they exited the tunnel. He struck again, tapping her bumper at an angle. The Jeep went into a sickening spin.

She held her breath, expecting to fly over the cliff. Instead, she came to a grinding halt on the opposite side of the road, facing the other direction.

“Go!” Owen shouted.

Heart pounding, she stepped on the gas. Kruger turned around to continue his pursuit. She realized that she couldn’t outmaneuver him. Her vehicle was built for off-road treks and smooth freeway trips. The pickup could go faster and hit harder. But Kruger was injured, and he’d probably been drinking. She could outthink him.

As they neared a sharp curve at the side of the cliff, she slowed down, glancing in the rearview mirror. Kruger took the bait. He advanced, ready to slam her bumper. A second later, she cranked the wheel to the left.

Kruger didn’t have time to slow down. His truck hit the guardrail at full speed and launched off the edge.

It was a very steep drop to the river below. She doubted he’d survive the fall.

Unfortunately, Hope couldn’t avoid her own disaster. When she swerved onto the gravel embankment on the opposite side of the road, she was going way too fast to correct her mistake. The wheel jerked out of her hands. She slammed on her brakes, but her tires found no purchase on the loose gravel. The Jeep skidded across the road, careening toward the guardrail in a shuddering slide.

Like Kruger, they went over.

* * *

S
AM
HAD
WAITED
all weekend for Hope to call.

On Sunday afternoon, she’d sent one short text about driving back from L.A. He texted back immediately:
Come over.
Even though she didn’t respond, he tidied up his house, washed the sheets, and stocked the fridge with groceries. Now it was late, and he still hadn’t heard back. Had she made it home okay?

After burning off some energy in the climbing gym, he checked his messages again. There was a strange text from Owen:

Hope is searching cabin owned by Dixon, 443 White Pine Ave

What the hell?

He tried to call a dozen times before Owen finally picked up. And then he didn’t even talk. Sam could hear Hope shouting in the background. It sounded like a car chase. When gunshots erupted, Sam’s knees started shaking. The term he’d heard climbers use for this reaction was “Elvis legs” or “sewing-machine legs.” It was a normal side effect of fear and physical exertion. Sam hadn’t felt it until now.

He didn’t know if he should hang up and call 911, or stay on the line. Forcing his wobbly legs to move, he stumbled toward the house phone. The problem with calling the police was that he didn’t know what to tell them.

“Where are you?” he repeated several times.

Owen shouted something about Cold Springs Road and hung up. Instead of using the landline, Sam grabbed his keys and ran outside, getting behind the wheel of his Range Rover. Cold Springs was off the 198, less than ten minutes away.

He drove like a madman to get there, taking a series of twisty mountain back roads. With his free hand, he dialed 911 to report gunshots and a vehicle accident on the 198. The operator kept asking questions he couldn’t answer. Making a sound of frustration, he ended the call and tried Owen again.

No response.

Cursing, he went north on the highway, searching for headlights. He passed Cold Springs and kept going. To his dismay, he saw a vehicle fly off the side of the cliff, near the tunnel. Tires squealing, he pulled over on the shoulder to take a better look. While he watched, horrified, a second vehicle followed the first.

It looked like Hope’s Jeep.

“No,” he croaked in disbelief. “No!”

Heart pounding, he leaped out of his SUV and ran toward the guardrail. One vehicle had plummeted several hundred feet and burst into flames. The other took a slower tumble down an angled slope. It landed in the ravine, out of his line of sight.

Into the middle of the river.

“Shit,” he said, jumping behind the wheel. He couldn’t get to them from here. He’d break his leg scrambling down the steep hill. Backing up, he turned around and headed the opposite direction. Kern Road was only a few hundred yards away. Its scenic bridge offered easy access to the riverbed. He squealed to a stop by the bridge and got out, hitting the ground running.

Sam knew he had to reach them in minutes. Occupants of a submerged vehicle were likely to become drowning victims. Assuming Hope and Owen had survived the plunge, they might still be trapped inside.

Please, God. Let them be alive.

He raced along the river’s edge, scrambling over rocks and skirting between trees. There was no path, and the ground was uneven. It was dark. Branches whipped across his face and tugged at his clothes.

When he finally reached the wreckage, he knew it was too late. Too much time had elapsed. The Jeep was upside down in the river, its back bumper almost invisible. The front end was completely under water.

He stared at the still, wet tires, his blood turned to ice.

This couldn’t be happening. Not again. He felt like screaming at the sky, bellowing until his voice went hoarse. If Hope was dead, he didn’t want to go on.

He pushed the thought out of his mind, baring his teeth. Fuck death. He’d defeat death with his bare hands. With grim determination, he shrugged out of his jacket and waded into the water, ignoring the cold bite. When it was waist-deep, he dove in, swimming the short distance to the vehicle. He took a deep breath and went under.

Sam was trained in swift-water rescue, as well as high-angle, so he understood the danger of approaching a vehicle in a river. It could shift and roll at any moment, trapping him below the surface.

But he was also well versed in taking extreme risks. If all of those free-solo climbs had prepared him for this task, he didn’t regret a single second on the rock face. He entered through the open front window, swimming around the cab. The passenger seat was empty. So was the driver’s seat.

He needed more air, so he exited the way he came and broke through the surface. After a quick gasp, he went down again. This time, he searched the backseats and the cab space, running his hands along twisted edges.

Nothing.

They weren’t here.

Sam knew what that meant. Some accident victims were thrown clear of the wreckage. Maybe Hope and Owen had been tossed from the Jeep as it fell. If they’d landed at the bottom of the cliff, their chances of survival were slim. If they’d ended up in the river, the bodies had already been swept away.

He swam back to shore, shuddering from the cold. Like a zombie, he trudged along the riverbed for another quarter mile. He didn’t see any broken remains, but he found the crash site where the Jeep had entered the river.

If they’d managed to get out, they’d be here.

Sam collapsed on the bank, numb. His chest ached with sadness. It felt as if there were a vise wrapped around his torso, crushing his internal organs. He was vaguely aware of a dull throb in his palm and blood dripping down his fingers.

It was nothing compared to the emotional pain. His heart was bleeding. He hadn’t been able to save Melissa, and he’d failed again with Hope. He hadn’t defeated death. Death had defeated
him.

The hot sting of tears burned his eyes. He gave in to it, letting sorrow take him. Shoulders shaking, he hung his head and cried.

* * *

H
OPE
BRACED
HERSELF
for the crash, expecting to die in a burst of flames.

A couple of images danced in her mind in the seconds they were airborne. Her baby’s pink, wrinkled face as she let out her first cry. Faith on her birthday, blowing out the candles. Sam, asleep in the hotel bed.

How could her life flash by? It hadn’t even started yet.

Although they’d gone off the same cliff as Kruger, they didn’t take the same trip. Instead of flying into space like the General Lee, the Jeep tumbled end over end. Her seat belt caught hard across her chest, almost knocking the wind from her lungs. Twin airbags deployed. She couldn’t count the number of times the vehicle rolled. Her knees and elbows banged against the interior with every stomach-jolting impact.

When it finally came to a stop, they were both alive. She had about two seconds to count her blessings. Because the Jeep landed upside down in the Kern River.

The icy current rushed in the broken windows, hitting her like a slap in the face. Murky water filled her mouth and nostrils. She sputtered and choked, trying to avoid the deluge, but it was no use. The Jeep was fully submerged before the airbag had even deflated.

Her first instinct was to right herself, but she was dizzy and disoriented. She couldn’t breathe. The front end of the vehicle sank to the river bottom and scraped along the rocks, groaning from the pressure.

She had to get out.

Pushing the airbag away from her face, she attempted a swimming motion. Her seat belt pulled tight, trapping her in place. Hope’s lungs burned from lack of oxygen. The extreme cold had stolen her motor skills and robbed her ability to think. She tugged on the seat belt in confusion. It wouldn’t budge.

Another pair of hands slapped hers away and released her seat belt. Her body floated up. Owen tucked a forearm under her chin and pulled her backward, out the broken rear window. They surfaced together, gasping.

He had saved her.

The tail of the Jeep was sticking out of the water, but it was hardly stable. Any minute, the current could sweep them downriver. As oxygen bubbled back into her brain, she realized they were in serious danger. The Kern was wider and deeper than the Kaweah. It claimed drowning victims on a regular basis. The longer they stayed in the water, the colder they’d get. They’d lose simple functioning.

“Can you swim?” he asked, shouting to be heard above the roar.

She didn’t have a choice. It was swim or die. “Yes.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

As they kicked away from the Jeep, it shifted, dislodging the rocks on the river bottom. Hope swam with all her might, fighting a current that threatened to suck her down, carry her away or trap her underneath the vehicle. Although it was a short distance to the bank, her arms grew heavy and her legs sluggish. She had to fight to keep her eyes open. The combination of shock and cold created a dangerous lassitude, inviting her to sleep.