DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (18 page)

Chapter 27

Moving as fast down-trail as he could, Martin struggled to carry Sasha in his arms back to the cabin. She felt light, and he fought off the thought that as she bled in his arms, she got lighter every second.

“Right behind you, Martin,” Cynthia said. Catching up to him after gathering all the weapons she could find, she slowed down to walk with him. She looked like a walking arsenal.

“We’re going to need to get her to a hospital,” he said.

“Let’s get her inside, see what we got, see what we can do, and then we decide.”

He kept trudging down the trail, doing his best to not fall. Tears were welling in his eyes. “We’re not going to be able to do much for her here. She’s losing a lot of blood.”

“I know,” Cynthia said, “But it’s a long hike downhill, then a longer and bumpy drive. We don’t want her to bleed out. Let’s see if we can stop it, get her comfortable, and then I’ll run downhill for help.”

They arrived at the cabin and Cynthia went in ahead to hold the door open. Martin struggled up the steps, passed through the threshold and took her to the bed. By the time he set her down, Cynthia knelt down on the other side of the bed. Quickly, she snapped off Sasha’s blouse and pants.

Martin looked down at his shirt and hands. Per Cynthia’s advice, he’d carried Sasha with her wound against him, so that at least he was applying some pressure as he went. Cynthia’s handkerchief, which she’d pressed against Sasha’s wound was caked with blood. Martin’s pants and shirt were not much better.

“God, there’s a lot of blood,” Martin said.

“It always looks like that,” Cynthia said after examining the wound, where the bullet had entered Sasha’s back and exited out the front, one inch above her hip, and just far enough into her abdomen that it wasn’t a glancing shot. “Through, and through. That’s good, too. Don’t have to deal with nasty bullets. Looks like the bleeding is slowing, so that might be good, too.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think it hit an artery. Otherwise the bleeding would come out more strongly with each heartbeat or just spray out. We’re not seeing that. I don’t think this is so bad.”

“So what do we do now?”

Cynthia stood and looked around. She walked over to one of the cabinets, where the door displayed a large red cross. She opened it and rummaged through it swiftly and roughly, throwing aside what she didn’t need.

“Here,” she said, tossing Martin a large box of large square bandages. “This too,” she added, now hurling a tube of antibiotic ointment.

Cynthia washed her hands at the sink, twice, before she walked back to start applying the ointment. Bandages in front and back came next. The front one developed a large round dot almost immediately. She went back to the first aid cabinet and came back with a large roll of heavy gauze, out of which she ripped two pieces folded each over and over into thick squares. She handed the squares to Martin.

“Here,” she said. “Hold one on the bottom and one on the top and apply pressure.”

Martin did as she said. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking, Martin. Let me just catch my breath.”

“Did they send you?” he asked.

“I sent me.” Cynthia sat and started reloading her handgun's clip. She stopped abruptly, as if realizing something was terribly wrong and went to the sink to wash her bloody hands. She then grabbed a dirty glass, rinsed it, filled it, and gurgled down the water in one gulp. She filled it again, and drank more slowly.

“They approached me, but I refused and skipped town.” A faint smile parted her lips. “You would be proud of the off-roading rig I purchased to come here. Truck and dirt bike.”

“Why did you come?”

She hesitated. “Do I have to say it?”

Now he hesitated. “Thank you. I mean it. We’d be dead.”

“You were about to shoot him,” Cynthia said. “And you would have done it, too. I saw the way you shot the first one.”

“You did?”

“From a distance. I didn’t have any clear shots, and I had no clue who was shooting who. I couldn’t move until I knew.” She pointed at Sasha. “Sweet innocent Sasha is quite the pro,” she added. “You must tell me where you met her again.”

“At MIT. You know that. And the ITAA trained her.”

“Did they train you to do what she just did?” Cynthia asked. “How much knife play did you do in your training?”

Martin thought about that for a moment.

“That’s right, none,” Cynthia said. “Besides, weren’t you two in the same class coming into the agency?”

Martin felt Sasha move. She moaned, but her eyes stayed closed. “I think she’s waking up.”

“It looks that way. Before she does, you need to decide if she’s all that you think she is. Just think clearly, Martin. Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment.”

“I know you want to get me out of here, but I won’t leave her.”

Cynthia came over and knelt next to him. “Martin, I came to protect you. I came because a million tons of rocks are falling on you, and I want you to make it through, or at least be with you when you’re crushed. I’m just saying that saving both you and her may not be possible.”

“Then I die.”

“It could be worse than dying. In terms you understand, four goons without a clue how to capture a valued asset -- that was just the probe. The payload, fifty or even a hundred, is on its way. You and I with a few guns won’t be able to hold them off. And when they get you, the things they’ll do to you will make you wish you were dead.”

“Then I die,” he repeated. “I’m not going back. I’m not going to be under anyone’s thumb ever again. I want freedom, true freedom, and if takes death to get it, then I die. Do you understand that?”

Martin saw her eyes cloud with sadness. “I do,” she said, and she gripped his hand.

Beloski and Ochoa arrived at the trail head where a black Jeep blocked their way. Ochoa got out first.

“Looks like we’re on foot from here on,” he said. He reached into the back seat and handed Beloski a bulletproof vest. “Put it on.”

Beloski strapped on the bullet proof vest, and when he was done, Ochoa handed him a backup side arm, a Beretta 9mm, and a spare bulletproof vest. “For Spencer,” Ochoa said, after strapping his own bulletproof vest. “If Spencer doesn’t have too many holes already.”

Ochoa eyed Beloski with blatant suspicion. “You do know how to use a pistol, right?”

“It’s been a while,” Beloski said.

“Just don’t point it at me and we’ll be good.”

Ochoa started running up trail, and Beloski tried to keep up.

Cynthia was running down-trail. It had taken her fifty minutes to climb it, and she figured she could cut that by 10 minutes on the way down. It had taken her 2 hours of driving to reach the trail head, but now that she knew the way, and going downhill, and without worrying about hitting a black Jeep on the way up, she figured she could tear it up to the highway in fifteen minutes. Then, it would be another 20 minutes into town. She did the math in her head: 40 minutes, plus 60 and 45, plus 20. That was 165 minutes, or 2 hours and 45 minutes before she got into town and got a hold of a doctor who could get some blood and supplies for Sasha. Double that time and add the time to do the persuasive talking, and it probably would be 6 hours before and the cavalry got back to Sasha.

Something told her Sasha wouldn’t make it, but what other choice did she have? Martin had been insistent that she go for help, and really, he was probably right. Waiting and hoping for the best to happen was foolish. Sasha needed blood. She needed medicine. She needed pain killers. If she could survive without them, going into town and wasting 6 hours would not hurt her. The only drawback, a rather significant one, left Martin alone, with two hands on Sasha, and a couple of guns nearby in case someone with ill will showed up.

Cynthia told herself that having made the call, she had no time to double-think it. Just execute.

It was then she heard it, a horn blowing three times, followed by a pause, followed by two longer blows. Cynthia stopped and left the trail to crouch behind a large tree at a spot that gave her a good view of the trail. The horn blew again, three times, pause, two times.

Last time it had blown three times, then four times. The four she connected with the four gunmen. OK, there two gunmen this time. What the three meant, she would have to figure out later.

Cynthia found a better spot, knelt on one knee, and pointed her Uzi at the trail.

Ochoa stopped and swore like the sailor he was. “We’ve been made.”

“What do we do?” Beloski asked. When Ochoa didn’t answer, he added, “I think we should go back.”