Gone Too Deep (20 page)

Minutes passed with painful slowness. Ellie finally quit asking her dad what time it was, since it just made it worse to know. In her mind, she set up a countdown clock, ticking off the seconds until George's arrival.

She forced herself to drink, but she shook her head when Baxter offered her food. Ellie knew she wouldn't be able to choke it down. The cabin grew colder, and her dad slipped out of their corner hiding place to feed the woodstove. Aiming her pistol at the window, she didn't think she breathed the whole time he was exposed.

Enough time had passed that she began to wonder if the men outside had left. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, there was a scratching, scrabbling sound outside the window. Her back grew rigid, and she grabbed a handful of her dad's coat. The noise wasn't loud, but it seemed to be coming from different directions. First, it was focused outside the wall by the window, and then it sounded almost like they were on the roof above them. She and Baxter sat stiffly, listening, until silence returned. The quiet was more ominous than reassuring.

Were they just waiting them out, knowing that Ellie and her father would eventually have to leave the security of the cabin? They had enough water for a couple of days, and George would be there in less than seven hours. That thought jolted her as she imagined the men ambushing George and the rescuers he'd bring with him. There was no way to get word to him.

Her stomach soured as different scenarios, each one worse than the last, ran through her mind. She was so caught up in her nightmarish thoughts that she jumped when Baxter squeezed her arm.

“Smoke.”

Once he said the word, she instantly smelled it. “Are they burning us out?”

Eyeing the thin haze starting to fill the cabin, he shook his head. “It's coming from the woodstove. They've blocked the pipe.”

“That explains what they were doing on the roof,” she said. “My turn. Cover me.” Again, she was over the barricade before her dad could stop her. At the woodstove, she grabbed the shovel off the side of the ash can and shoveled the flaming contents into the metal container. Sparks jumped as the burning wood fell into the can, a couple hitting her bare hands. Ignoring the sting, she capped the ash container and did a final check inside the stove. Satisfied that it was out, Ellie hurried back to their corner, suppressing a cough from the smoke.

“It's going to get cold now,” Baxter warned, helping her over the table.

“Cold is better than asphyxiation.” Taking her place against the wall again, the rough logs at her back made her worry. “Do you think they'll try to burn the cabin?”

Her dad shrugged. “Depends on what supplies they have. The wood on this place is dry, but the snow keeps the kindling underneath it wet. I'm no fire expert, but I'd think they'd need an accelerant to get things started.”

Not feeling reassured, Ellie leaned back against the wall and stared at the haze, straining her eyes to see if it was getting thicker, indicating that another fire—possibly in the walls—was burning.

“Please tell me why these guys are after you,” she said after several minutes. “I'm stuck in the middle of this, too. You're not protecting me by keeping me in the dark.”

“He…he sent them,” Baxter said after a long pause. His take-charge attitude had faded back to his usual tentative way of speaking, and she felt bad for having caused the change. It was important that she know all the details of their situation, though. If she was about to get burned alive inside that cabin, she had a right to know why.

“He who? And why?”

Completely ignoring the first part of the question, he said, “I got too close. He thought I knew. Thought I knew, that I had proof. He's protecting him.”

That made no sense. Ellie tried to think of the best way to phrase her next question to get a clear answer in return. “What did you know?”

“About Gray Goose. He didn't deserve that. Dumped like he was nothing. He was a good soldier, a good friend.”

With a huge effort, she resisted gritting her teeth in frustration. Baxter was scared, and when he got scared, his communication skills got a little shaky. Ellie knew that, but it didn't make it any easier to deal with, especially in their current perilous situation. “What did you know about Willard?”

“He killed him. Gray Goose figured it out. He knew, and now he's dead. He sent… Gray wrote me letters, told me things, so now…now he's trying to make me dead, too. I don't want you to get caught in the crossfire. Not you, baby girl.”

“Little late.” At his flinch, a surge of guilt flowed through her. “Sorry, Dad. It's not your fault. You told me not to come here, but I found you anyway.”

Her reassurances didn't seem to ease Baxter's mind, judging by his miserable expression.

“We'll get out of this.” She tried to inject confidence into her whispered words. “We've already gotten two of their guns away from them, one of them is shot in the arm, and I think the other guy's hand is hurt. George will be here tomorrow with help.”

Despite her assurances, he still looked distant. Suppressing another smoke-induced cough, Ellie took a drink of water to try to quiet her irritated throat. Between the bruises and the smoke, swallowing was almost impossible. Looking around the cabin, she was pretty sure the haze had dissipated a little. She supposed that was one positive about the broken window—the air circulation was good. Cold, but good.

Her mind returned to their conversation before she'd snapped at Baxter. “Who is he? The guy who killed Willard Gray?”

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, something flew through the broken window. It looked like a comet while it was in midair, complete with a fiery tail, and it landed with a
thunk
in the middle of the plank floor.

Ellie stared at it, unable to move, unable even to blink, her brain refusing to accept that there was a bomb right in front of them.

“Go! Go! Go!” Baxter hauled her to her feet, almost launching her into the air. He kicked the table, sliding it forward far enough that they could run between it and the wall. At the door, she reached for the board, only then realizing that she still held the pistol in her right hand.

Her dad flung the bar to the side and yanked open the door. It was her turn to grab Baxter and shove him against the wall next to the opening. There were four sharp cracks of sound, and Ellie felt her dad's chest expand in a shocked inhale as he heard the gunshots. The men outside must have been waiting for the door to open, hoping she and Baxter would come flying outside to be picked off like the proverbial fish in a barrel.

As soon as the shooting stopped, Ellie was moving through the open doorway, gun up and blasting as she ran into the night. She pulled the trigger over and over, until the pistol went quiet and she knew it was empty. Even with the deafening booms of her own shots ringing in her ears, she heard the scream. It was a terrible sound, like nothing she'd ever heard from a human throat before. She froze in her tracks, but Baxter shoved her from behind, making her stumble back into motion.

Her feet fumbled on the steps, and she almost pitched forward, barely preventing herself from falling face-first into the snow at the base of the stairs. Baxter gave her another push to the left.

“Go!” he yelled again, so she turned and ran, that awful scream still echoing in her head. The snow was deep, slowing her pace to a nightmare-worthy slog, and she fully expected to feel the impact of a bullet at any moment.

Instead, just as she reached the first line of trees, there was a bright flash that lit up the night. Ellie felt herself flying forward toward an evergreen, weightless for just a moment before she hit the prickly boughs. The branches bent under the impact, absorbing most of her forward momentum, and she landed fairly softly on her belly in the snow. As she sank face-first into the powder, the world went dark around her, and the snow swallowed her whole. The memory of the avalanche swamped her, and she was back there, torn off the mountain and dragged along with the cascading snow and rocks and branches, helpless to stop her descent. The worst had been at the end, when the snow had hardened around her in an encapsulating body cast.

She couldn't move—then or now—not even an inch. The darkness had been so complete, and the snow had blocked almost all sounds. When something had jabbed her side, she'd cried out, more surprised than hurt, and then she'd heard the muffled but beautiful sound of George calling her name.

The thought of George jerked her back to reality, and she lurched to her hands and feet. She could move. The darkness was gone, the air lit with a dull red, and so was the silence, her sobbing breaths loud to her own ears.
It's over
, she reminded her still-panicking mind.
George dug me out. It's over.
Even as she calmed slightly, she realized that, despite being free of the snowy cage, she wasn't safe.

Scrambling to her feet, she started to run again. The ground sloped up, adding to the difficulty until her jog turned into a fast walk. When the tree coverage thickened, she allowed herself to cower behind a squatty pine and peer through the branches at the house below.

Despite the darkness, it was easy to see the cabin, since the small structure was on fire. Flames climbed the walls and licked the roof, lighting up the area around the burning building.

A body was lying on the snow, either unconscious or dead. Another pair of men were standing at the edge of the circle of light. One had a gun pointed at the other guy's chest. Her lungs seized when she recognized the unarmed man as Baxter.

Once she'd torn herself free from her momentary paralysis, she ran again, down the slope this time. The only thought in her head was to help her father. She'd just promised him that she'd have his back, but she'd run the other way, instead. If he was killed, she'd never forgive herself.

As she grew closer, logic crept into her brain, reminding her that she was out of ammo for her only weapon that hadn't been blown to bits. She remembered the other handgun she'd tucked into her coat pocket, but a quick search came up empty. Disappointment surged through her as she realized it must have fallen out of her pocket, probably when the explosion had sent her flying. Slowing her pace, she stayed in the trees, circling around until she could approach the armed man from the rear.

Her foot caught on something in the snow, and she tripped, going down to one knee. When she pulled her foot loose, the end of a stubby, rotting branch emerged from the snow. She picked it up, testing the weight. It was light enough for her to carry without too much effort, but it was heavy enough to use as a weapon. Looking up at the sky, she mouthed a “thank you” before starting her silent jog again.

The fire was loud. She'd never known that before, but it roared, allowing her to creep up on the two men without being detected by the gun-holder. Baxter saw her. She knew because she saw his eyes widen in a moment of panic before he refocused on the stranger. Now that she was closer, she recognized the one called Anderson, so Wilson must be the man lying unmoving in the snow.

The memory of the horrifying scream flashed through her mind, but she quickly shut it down. If she had been the cause of Wilson's death, there would be time later for guilt and regret and self-recrimination and whatever else she might feel. Now, she needed to concentrate on survival—hers and her father's.

Anderson was talking, but she had to get very close to hear him over the noise of the burning cabin. When she got within branch-striking range, she wound up like she would at the batting cages but then paused.

“…said that you saw us on Second Street that night.”

Baxter was shaking his head, focused on Anderson's face. Ellie figured he was trying not to glance over the armed man's shoulder at her, not wanting to give away her presence. “I wasn't even in Simpson that night.”

“Why would he have said you watched us make that sale if you didn't? He said you were willing to testify against us.”

“Because he killed Gray.” Baxter's calm, coherent persona was back. “And I knew. He wants me dead, and he's using you to do it.”

Ellie saw Anderson's back stiffen in shock. “The headless dude found in the reservoir?” Part of the cabin collapsed with a crash and a renewed roar of flames, drowning out what Anderson was saying. Once the noise died down, she caught just the tail end of his sentence. “…everyone thinks he's a hero when he's actually a fucking killer.”

When he shifted his weight, she was afraid he'd turn and see her, so she swung. The branch vibrated when it connected with his head, and she almost lost her grip. Instead of falling, though, he turned and squeezed the trigger at the same time.

At the roar of the gun, Ellie's knees softened, nearly sending her to the ground. The pistol was swinging in her direction, though, so she stiffened her legs and swung the branch again, this time aiming at the hand holding the gun. There was a dark streak along the heel of his hand close to his wrist, and Ellie had a moment of disappointment that it looked like she'd only managed to nick him when she'd shot him.

Anderson blocked with his left hand. The piece of wood glanced off his forearm and connected with the barrel of the gun. It went off again as it rotated toward the ground, and Anderson yelped as it was knocked from his grip.

“You broke my fingers, bitch!” he snarled.

Taking a few scrambling steps back, she raised the branch onto her shoulder like a baseball bat. “You were going to shoot my dad,
bitch
.” Even though her voice shook, she was glad she'd managed any comeback at all.

His gaze flicked to where the gun had landed by his feet and then back to her face. After a few tense seconds, he crouched to grab the pistol. Ellie had been expecting it, and she brought the branch down on the back of his head, hoping she hit a more vulnerable spot this time. Going down on one knee, he dodged a second blow and rolled out of reach.

She saw that the gun was back in his hand, and time slowed as he raised it, the light from the burning cabin bathing him in a hellish red glow that illuminated the smug smirk on his face. He thought he'd won, and, in that moment, Ellie was pretty sure he was right.

In the fraction of a second that she stared at the pistol aimed at her, Ellie felt a jolt of sadness that she'd never see George again. Anderson pulled the trigger just as the wind settled and the fire quieted. In the sudden silence, there was a hollow click.

They froze for a startled moment, both staring at the jammed gun. Swearing, Anderson smacked the bottom of the grip and then yanked back the slide to clear it.

Move!
A voice in her head commanded, and Ellie pivoted to run. The snow, half-melted by the heat of the fire, was slick underfoot, and she stumbled, falling to her knees in the slush. Turning her head, she saw Anderson was aiming at her again, and she clenched her teeth against a sob as she scrambled to her feet.
How sad
, she thought,
to have been saved by a jammed gun, just to die anyway a few seconds later
.

Movement to her right made her flinch and twist to face the newest threat. Despite the earlier awful scream and seeing a body lying still in the snow, she still expected Wilson to be standing there. Instead, it was Baxter, running toward Anderson.

Her dad tackled the bigger man, driving his shoulder into Anderson's midsection. As both men hit the ground, the gun flew into the air, dropping into a slushy drift. Terror for her father dug claws into Ellie's throat as she watched Anderson roll Baxter beneath him and land several solid punches.

Tearing her attention from the unequally matched fighters, she slogged through the melting snow toward where the gun had landed. The hole it had made on its way down was obvious, and she found it quickly.

As she shook off the wet chunks of snow, she sent a mental prayer that the gun would still work, and she aimed it at the two grappling men. Anderson shook off Baxter and rolled gracefully to his feet. As Ellie's dad weakly attempted to stand, Anderson drew back his leg as if to kick Baxter in the ribs.

“Stop,” she ordered, but the word was swallowed by the renewed noise from the fire. “Stop!”

The scream worked, and Anderson spun around to face her. He ran toward her, closing the distance between them before she even realized he was moving. Her finger on the trigger tightened automatically, and the gun in her hands roared. His body jerked as if he'd been hit, but he didn't stop coming.

“Bitch!” he yelled, and then he was on her, twisting the gun from her hands with humiliating ease. He drew back his arm, and she ducked as his fist swung toward her face. There was nowhere to go, however, and she cringed as she waited for the pain of the blow.

It never came.

Baxter was suddenly between them, pushing her back so his body physically blocked her from Anderson. He landed a punch to Anderson's belly that doubled him over. A second hit to Anderson's jaw sent him to his knees. Landing strike after strike, Baxter looked possessed, his expression wild and painted in firelight.

“You do not hit my baby girl.” Baxter punctuated each word with another blow. “You do not hurt my Eleanor.”

Anderson tried to regain his footing, but Baxter's foot connected with the other man's throat, sending him to the ground and making Anderson lose his grip on his gun yet again. Hearing Baxter's ragged breathing even over the noise of the fire, Ellie feared her dad was tiring.

Although Anderson looked dazed, he definitely wasn't done. His clenched fists were swinging with more and more accuracy, and a pained yelp from Baxter drove Ellie toward the pair. Her boot slid on a rock that had been exposed by the melting snow, and she reached down, grabbing a stone about the size of George's fist.

Running the last few steps toward the fighters, she swung the rock toward the back of Anderson's head. It connected but didn't knock him out. Ellie pulled back her arm to try another hit, but he lurched to his feet, throwing her off-balance and making her stumble back a few steps.

With a roar like a wounded bear, he swung an arm, knocking Baxter off him and sending him flying. Ellie clutched her rock, trying not to drop it as her fingers started to shake.

Anderson's gaze focused on her, his expression turning ugly and angry. “You fucking shot my baby brother. I'm going to make it hurt when I kill you, bitch.”

“No.” Baxter spoke clearly, although his breath was coming fast. “You won't.” He stepped closer to her, brandishing the branch she'd initially used as a weapon. Anderson's gaze flicked back and forth between father and daughter before finally stopping on Ellie.

“I will kill you.” Anderson sounded like he was making a vow, and she braced herself for an attack, holding the stone in her hands more tightly. Instead of advancing, though, he backed toward the trees where he was quickly swallowed by the shadows beyond the reach of the firelight.

Ellie kept a tight grip on the rock as she moved a step closer to Baxter. “You okay?”

“Fine, baby girl.” His gaze didn't leave the spot where Anderson had disappeared. “I'm just fine.”

Something collapsed in the burning cabin, and the flames shot higher with a roar that made Ellie jump. It was impossible to see beyond the circle of firelight, and she shivered, feeling horribly exposed. “We need to go,” she said in a hushed voice that shook with cold and a waning adrenaline rush.

“Yes.” Baxter moved his head jerkily as he stared in one direction and then the other. “Yes, we need to move. He'll be back, baby girl. He'll be back, and I don't think I can protect you.”

“You did great, Dad,” she whispered, taking a few steps away from the fire and then pausing when she realized she had no idea where to go. Without replying, Baxter moved in the other direction, and Ellie followed, grateful that she didn't need to come up with yet another survival plan. Her body and brain and courage were just about spent.