Gone Too Deep (14 page)

His eyes flickered to the ground and then back to her face. He repeated the action, gaze down and then up again. Ellie could guess what he was trying to tell her, but it was just that—a guess. She swallowed hard, her throat pressing into the man's forearm. What if she misinterpreted him and did the wrong thing? She could be the one who got them both killed. Her vision darkened again, this time from flat-out panic.

“It's stuck,” Wilson complained, tugging at the pack. “Let go for a second, Anderson.”

“I can't,” the man holding her growled back.

“Well, I can't get it off unless you do.” Wilson gave the pack a rough yank that jerked her arm back painfully, but Anderson's body blocked the strap on her left shoulder, keeping the pack bound to her body.

With a huff, Anderson shifted his weight, putting a bare inch of room between his chest and her, while keeping the gun to her temple. His forearm shifted to an awkward angle, so it no longer pressed flat against her throat. Without allowing herself to hesitate or even think about what she was about to do, Ellie went limp.

Her neck wrenched painfully when her chin hit his arm. The barrel of the gun scraped along her hairline and across her scalp, but then she was on the ground. All sounds were suddenly muffled and strange, and there were faint, distorted shouts and then a popping noise.

Since she wasn't sure if her legs would support her, even while crawling, she rolled. Disorientated, she went in the wrong direction. Instead of moving toward safety, her body crashed into a pair of legs. Something heavy fell on her, landing painfully on her left shoulder. She cried out, but even that sound was muted, as if she were wearing earplugs.

Ellie lifted her head and found herself face-to-face with a man she didn't recognize. Blood streamed from a gash running through one eyebrow, and his eyes were dazed. It clicked in her brain that it was Anderson who'd fallen on her, and he must've hit his head as he landed. She stared at the man who'd been terrorizing her, shocked by how
normal
-looking he was. When she'd been trapped in front of him, his arm across her throat and his gun at her head, she'd pictured him as a monster. Not this.

Her random, scattered thoughts were interrupted abruptly when she remembered his gun.

Whipping her head to the side, she spotted the black pistol. It was still in his hand, but his fingers were lax, barely gripping it. Ellie lunged for it, grabbing the butt of the gun and twisting it away from him, even as comprehension returned to his eyes.

She scrambled to the side, half scooting and half crawling, trying to shift the gun so she was holding it in a more useable position. It was unexpectedly heavy, and her whole arm shook as she pointed the pistol at Anderson, so she wrapped her other hand around the grip, steadying it.

Anderson rose in a crouch, swaying as he swiped blood out of his eye. His gaze was predatory, and he shifted forward, as if preparing to pounce.

Ellie pulled the trigger.

Judging by the lack of blood spurting from a new hole on Anderson's body, she'd missed, but he still jerked away. His compromised balance sent him sprawling on his back, but he regained his feet quickly. Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie saw motion, and she shifted the gun to point it at the new threat.

Wilson skidded to a halt, his hands open and palms toward her. They were both in her field of vision, so she shifted her gaze back and forth, ready to point the gun at whoever twitched first.

“Calm down.” Anderson's voice startled her, and she squeezed the trigger again, making both men duck. Weighed down by George's stolen pack, Wilson staggered, falling to his knees, but Anderson remained upright. One side of his mouth curled into a condescending smile, but his eyes were narrowed, calculating, as they slid from the gun to Ellie's face. “You're going to hurt yourself with that thing. Why don't you give it to me and—”

His weight shifted a tiny bit forward as he spoke, and Ellie fired. A chunk of the aspen tree right next to Anderson exploded, sending splinters of bark flying. He leaped to the side, barely keeping his feet.

“You bitch!” he snapped, his fake smile gone. “I'm going to fuck you up so bad, all while Holloway watches.”

Although a tiny, adrenaline-crazed part of Ellie wanted to retort, she pressed her shaking lips together silently and raised the gun higher.

“How many bullets do you have left, little girl? Bet you don't even know.” The creepy, partial smile was back, looking so out of place in the tense standoff that it made her shake harder. “Enough to chase us off, do you think? Even if you manage that, we won't go far, so you'd better take Holloway and run fast like bunnies.” His smile widened. “Not that it'll do you any good. I'll find you wherever you try to hide.”

“Go.” She forced the word through her aching throat. Instead of backing away, Anderson made a quick hand signal, and Wilson lurched forward. As she turned the gun toward the approaching man, her tense hand squeezed off another unintentional round. Instead of grazing a tree, it took a chunk out of Wilson's arm. He yelped, drawing Anderson King's full attention.

Anderson was definitely not smiling when he turned back to her that time. “Hurt my brother again, bitch, and I'm going to carve his name on your face.”

Unable to hold Anderson's menacing gaze, she focused mostly on Wilson, only shooting wary glances at the other man. “Leave,” she demanded. “Leave, and I won't shoot him.”

The tense silence stretched for an unbearably long time. Ellie's gaze jumped from one man to the other as she tried to keep the increasingly heavy gun steady.

“Fine.” Anderson's voice made her jump, and she narrowly avoided pulling the trigger yet again. His earlier words about not knowing the number of bullets gnawed at her stomach. “We're going, city bitch, but you're not free of us. You'll never be free of us until you're dead.”

Anderson started backing toward the trees, his narrowed gaze locked on Ellie. Scrambling onto his feet, Wilson followed, also keeping his eyes on Ellie the whole time.

The tree coverage was thin enough to see where the two men turned and ran, lifting their knees high to clear the six inches of snow. Ellie watched, breathing in funny little gasps, her entire body shaking, until she couldn't see them anymore. Only then did she turn to look at George.

Even while everything had been happening, she'd known in the back of her mind that something was wrong. The only reason George wouldn't have come to her rescue would have been because he couldn't. Lowering the gun, she kept it by her side as she turned in a half circle.

He was sprawled on the snow, not moving. A noise escaped her throat, something that sounded more animalistic than human, and she ran to him, dropping to her knees beside him. Blood painted a vivid red halo in the snow around his head, and his eyes were closed.

When she reached for him, she realized she still held the gun in her right hand, and she jerked it back. She examined the gun, looking for what might be a safety, but she had no idea what the few buttons and levers that weren't the trigger did. Hoping it wouldn't decide to fire on its own, she gingerly placed it in her coat pocket.

Once her hands were free, she jerked off her glove and placed her fingers against George's neck, searching for a pulse. His skin was warm, making her want to cry with relief, but she didn't do that until she felt a steady throb of life under her fingers. Then she sagged over him, harsh sobs tearing at her throat.

Biting her lip hard enough to get herself back under control, she focused on finding George's injury. When she peeled back his black stocking cap, she saw a dark red furrow along the right side of his head. The hat gaped over the injury, and blood slicked the dark brown hair surrounding the wound.

“Okay,” she muttered, staring between the bloody streak on his skull and his unresponsive face. “Okay, okay.” Ellie forced her brain to work out the problem logically. First, she needed to stop the bleeding. Vague memories of a first-aid unit in her high school health class told her that. She swept the area with a panicked glance, as if an urgent care center was hiding behind a tree. It wasn't, but the next best thing was—her pack still lay where it had fallen during the scuffle.

She hurried to grab it, unzipping the main section as she ran back to George's unconscious body. It was awkward to carry it in front of her, and she tripped a few strides before she reached him. Her fall was broken as she landed on the pack. Instead of standing, she just crawled the rest of the way over to him, dragging the pack along with her.

As she dug inside the center compartment, she tried to remember which pack George had put the first-aid kit in that morning. When her hand closed over the smooth plastic case, she almost started to cry again. Biting her lip, wincing at the sting of her teeth, she fought off the urge to blubber like a baby and opened the case with shaking hands.

Before she started, she arranged her supplies so she wouldn't waste what she needed to wrap the wound. There were ten gauze pads but only two antiseptic wipes left, thanks to using the rest on her blisters, so Ellie grabbed one of her water bottles and one of the gauze pads. She figured she'd use water to clean the wound, and then finish with the antiseptic wipe, and hope that it would be enough to kill any germs.

She uncapped the water bottle and leaned to pour it over the gouge, but stopped and took a quick drink, making a face when she tasted fake cherry flavor. Switching to another bottle, which proved to be plain water, she poured a steady trickle over the injury.

Once some of the blood had been washed clear, the furrow didn't look very deep. Ellie bent to take a closer look, wondering if a bullet had scored his scalp. Recapping the now-empty water bottle, she slid a hand behind his head and lifted it. Using her other hand, she scooped the melting red snow away, trying not to think of how much blood had flowed out of him. Before putting his head back down, she laid a folded triangular bandage under him so his head wouldn't be directly on the snow.

George groaned deep in his chest when she cleaned the injury with an alcohol wipe. The sound made her examine his face hopefully, looking for signs that he was regaining consciousness. His eyes stayed stubbornly closed, so she shoved away her worry and disappointment and finished cleaning the wound.

One of the four-by-four gauze squares covered the entire gouge, so she added a second on top of that one and then wrapped a bandage—the kind that felt rubbery and stuck to itself—around his head several times like a headband to hold the gauze in place.

Digging in the pack once more, she pulled out one of her extra hats. It was quite girly, lavender with light green flowers, but it would keep his head warm. Ellie carefully eased it on, grateful that the fabric was extra-stretchy and encompassed his larger skull just fine, even with the additional bulk of the bandaging.

Sitting back on her heels, she did a scan of his body, belatedly checking for any other bullet holes. His tan jacket and army-green BDUs wouldn't hide blood like his dark stocking hat had, so she resisted the urge to strip him bare to look for injuries.

Her hands shook as she used snow to clean the blood from them, scrubbing the icy crystals against her skin until her fingers were as pale as the snow she was using. She repacked the depleted first-aid kit and tucked the ruined hat and bandage wrappers into one of the freezer bags they used for garbage. Then she returned everything to the pack and zipped it.

As she finished, she started to get antsy, shooting quick glances at George's unresponsive face and then scanning the area around them. What if the two men had already returned and were watching her right now? Anderson's words about chasing them rang in her ears, and she yanked her gloves onto shaking hands so she couldn't chew on her hangnails.

They needed to run, to get as far from their attackers as possible, but George wasn't moving. Her hand hovered over the pocket holding the gun. It scared her, but not as much as the two men who could return at any second. Reluctantly, she slid her hand into the pocket and closed her fingers around the grip.

“El.” Her name was more of a groan, but it made her heart leap as she released the gun and leaned closer to George.

“Hey, are you awake?” Her voice shook, which made her frown. She'd been steady—well, not too shaky—while she'd played nurse, and she wasn't about to fall apart once George woke. She had an intense need to impress him with her calmness under fire, and that was not going to happen if she threw herself into his arms and bawled her eyes out…once again.

He grunted affirmatively. His eyes were just slits, as if the sun's glare was painful, but they were open. Ellie's muscles went rubbery with relief. In George-speak, a single grunt was the equivalent of an entire coherent sentence from someone else. When he started to push up to a sitting position, she grabbed his arm to help.

Once he was upright, his hand went to his head.

“I think a bullet grazed you.” Her words were a little too fast and much too high-pitched. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on speaking more slowly. “It's not deep, but you were unconscious for”—she realized that she had no idea how much time had passed—“a while. Long enough for me to clean it up a little and bandage it.”

His fingers probed at the injury through the hat. It must have hurt, because the muscles in his face tensed.

“Quit poking it and it might feel better,” she scolded, and then wanted to laugh when he sent her a black look. Like her tears, Ellie held in her mirth, worried that she wouldn't be able to stop once she'd started.

As if everything had returned to him in a rush, George abruptly stood, pushing her behind him as he scanned the area.

“They're gone,” she said to the back of his coat. Her voice quavered only a little. “But they might come back, so we probably want to get out of here, if you're up for it.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “What happened?” His voice sounded extra rusty.

“Can we walk and talk?” Holding back a shiver, she peered through the trees. “I'd rather not be here anymore.”

He nodded, winced, and then reached for the lone remaining pack.

Moving to block him, Ellie protested, “I've got it. You're concussed.”

With a shake of his head, he nudged her to the side and shouldered the pack.

“Stubborn,” she grumbled under her breath.

One corner of his mouth lifted in response.

* * *

Despite her promise to tell him what had happened, it was hours before she had the breath to speak. Even with a head injury, George moved quickly. They stayed parallel to the path, but didn't walk directly on it. Even city girl Ellie knew that was so the men couldn't follow their boot prints in the snow.

Instead, they walked between the trees where the lighter layer of snow had already melted. When the trees thinned, George found a rocky surface that was mostly clear of snow, and they followed that for a while. Ellie tried to turn it into a game, stepping only where she wouldn't leave a print. It worked for a while, but then the adrenaline started to leave her system.

Exhaustion pulled at her, and she couldn't seem to stop shivering, despite the warm sun. It became harder and harder to keep walking, until she gave up and stopped in her tracks.

“George?”

He turned instantly and returned to where she was standing on shaky legs.

“Can we take a break?”

Nodding, he reached automatically for the side pocket where he'd kept snacks in his pack. The design of the other backpack was different, so his fingers searched unsuccessfully for a zipper before realization dawned. Unbuckling the straps, he took off the pack.

Ellie looked around for a rock or log to use as a chair, but nothing presented itself. She knew she needed to sit down before her body forced the issue by collapsing, so she plopped down on the ground. George frowned at her.

“I'm fine. Just tired. Carry on with what you were doing.” She waved at the pack, surprised by how heavy her arm felt. Letting it drop back to her side, Ellie resisted the urge to lie down and sleep. If she did that, George would not believe she was okay. Instead, she watched him as he inventoried the contents of the pack. She wasn't sure if his frown meant he wasn't happy with their remaining supplies or just that he had a killer headache. Maybe it was both.

“What do we have left?” she finally asked, needing to talk before she nodded off.

“Two sleeping mats, one mummy bag, four pouch meals but no pot to heat water and no camp stove, a flashlight, four bottles of water…” He shook the one she'd used to clean his head wound. “Make that three bottles of water, avalanche probe, shovel, waterproof matches, two bags of trail mix, the first-aid kit, your extra clothes, ski goggles, your toothbrush…uh, makeup?” He shot her a puzzled look, and she eyed the toes of her boots. She'd forgotten how she'd emptied the contents of her purse into the pack before they'd left. It seemed so long ago now. “Your wallet, some…um, other things”—by the way he blushed, Ellie guessed he'd discovered the tampons, also from her purse—“and a cell phone, but no reception.”