Gravity Check (10 page)
Except Seth didn't break any arms or legs when he did his bit of pruning.
If I crater, the story will have a different ending.
There's another reason I can't afford to bag out on the landing. If I do, my plan will fail.
And there are four other people whose lives are depending on me right now.
As I near the drop, I imagine Mitch coaching me through it. I loosen up on the approach, wiggling my butt back on the seat and stretching out my arms ahead of me. Loose elbows. All the outside noise falls away. I look at the path ahead, picking my line and scouting the exact spot where I'm going to set down.
Then I hit the jump, and boost.
Airborne.
I watch the corner drawing closer. I'm wishing I'd come into it slower before launching off that big-ass lip. As I coast through the air, I see that the gravel below me is thick and slippery.
I'm going to slide.
I force my muscles to relax again. I need to flow with the skid when I come down.
My front and rear wheels make contact with the ground at the same time. Nice. And not a second too soon. I need to turn. Like, right now.
Gravel spurts away from my wheels with a loud
shhhisshh
. As I hit, I lean slightly to the left. This sends the tail of my bike to the right. My back wheel fishtails. I instinctively put my left foot on the ground to offer a third point of contact to stabilize the bike in its slide. So far, so good. I crank my handlebars to the left. My front tire obeys, but not before it slips on the rolling gravel.
With both wheels unstable, I grind my foot into the ground and prepare for the fall. I let go of the handlebars and allow the bike to slide away from under me. My other foot and my hands all hit the ground at the same time. The gravel absorbs my wipeout. I absorb some gravel in my knees. I flail for a second, looking for my balance.
Then I'm up, adrenalized, turning to see where my bike landed. It's near the edge of the drop-off. I grab it and check it over.
Not even a scratch.
Perfect.
Now it's Warren's turn.
I scramble into the trees behind me and wait.
Seconds later I hear his approach, heralded by squealing brakes and a single syllable repeated over and over and overâ “No, no, noooooooo!” and then an “AaaauuUUUUUGGGH!” And with that, Warren is sucking sky.
He's going way too fast. I don't see him take the jump, but I watch him sail through the air as he passes the corner where I'm hiding. He clears the landing strip entirely. His wheels are still several inches above the ground when he rockets straight over the edge of the embankment and into the waiting arms of the trees. He hits them with a crashing, rustling, cracking sound. There might even be crunching. I can't really tell.
I wince.
When all the smashing noises die away, I go over to investigate the damage. Warren is lying in a bloodied heap on a juniper bush at the base of the trees. He's not moving. I scrabble down the cliffside, dirt wedging itself under my fingernails as I try to control my descent. About halfway down, I come across Rico's bike. The front wheel is completely tacoed, bent into the shape of an open clamshell. He's going to be pissed.
Suddenly it hits me. Now that Warren is down, we might all get out of this mess alive.
Might
being the operative word. We still have to get away from Deuce. And now we're down a bike too.
I reach for my belt, where I carry my Swiss Army knife. I keep it there, on a ring. There's a whistle attached to it too. My dad trained us early to always keep our knives and whistles right on our bodies in case things went wrong in the bush. I send a silent thanks to Dad for his sensible teachings and general squareness.
When I grab the knife, my hand brushes against the phone inside my pocket. I'd forgotten it was there. I pull it out, yank up the antenna and dial 9-1-1. I hope to god it works out here.
And it does. It takes a minute, but I'm connected with a dispatcher who sounds very far away. I babble on about marijuana and mountain bikes and an armed drug lord on his way to kill us.
“Where are you now?” she asks.
“Um, I don't know,” I say. This is a huge problem. “I don't know,” I repeat, willing myself not to panic. “We're, um, we're in the North Shore Mountains. We camped near a riverbed last night.” I realize I'm not giving her any useful information, but I can't think of what else I can tell her. Should I describe the trees around me?
She solves my problem with a simple question. “Is there anyone I can call who can tell me where you are?”
Relief floods me. I give her the name of the camp.
“Jamie, when I hang up with you, I'm going to call Camp Edgelow to figure out your coordinates,” she says. “We're going to send help.” She sounds so reassuring. I really want to believe her. “Be very careful,” she says. “You are in a dangerous situation.”
I almost want to laugh. If only she knew. But instead, I thank her profusely and hang up.
I pull the main blade out from the body of the knife. Pulling off Rico's front tire, I yank out the inner tube. With a quick slice, I cut it in the middle. I use it to tie Warren's hands to a tree trunk. There's a fair amount of extra tubing, so I tie his feet as well. That'll be fun for him when he wakes up.
As I start back up the embankment, I remember the gun. I turn back and feel around on Warren's belt. There it is. I pull it out and stuff it into the back of my shorts. Isn't that where you're supposed to carry a gun? But having a firearm pointing down my shorts makes me feel a bit nervous. I kind of like my butt the way it is, thanks.
I take the gun out and stuff it into the lower pocket of my cargo shorts instead. As I turn and scramble back up the cliffside, a terrible thought hits me. I never asked the dispatcher when help would arrive. In fact, I don't think I even told her when Deuce was supposed to show up.
God. Did I even tell her about Deuce?
As I grab for the phone again, I glance up at the sun. Probably after nine. A sudden shiver jolts me.
I've got less than an hour to get back to the cabin, get everyone loose and get the hell out of this place before this Deuce guy shows up.
I don't have time to make another call.
The one bad thing about riding a great stretch of downhill? Yep. What goes down must come up.
I walk Chase's bike past the jump, then slide it into granny gear and get moving. I put one foot in front of the other in a constant forward motion. I don't look up at the trail ahead. It's too discouraging. I just keep spinning. Up, up, up, past the dirt single track and into the grassy deer trail. Up, up, until finally, when my legs are screaming at me to stop, I pop up over the lip of the trail and onto the logging road.
I hammer back along the road toward the cabin. My breath comes ragged in my throat. I'm thirsty again. Already the sun is hot, baking the back of my T-shirt.
I reach the cabin in record time. Damian is still slumped against the tree. I must've hit him good. Maybe he's sleeping off the weed too.
The door to the cabin is still open, the way Warren left it. I can't hear anything from inside. My worry motor starts up again. I drop Chase's bike and climb the stairs. As I do, it strikes me that there might possibly be a third guard that I don't know about. I freeze, terrified by the thought.
But I have to keep moving. I have to try to get the guys out.
I peer around the frame of the door and into the cabin. It's dark as hell in there, but I catch a glimpse of Nolan sitting on the floor next to a table. His arms are behind him. Tied to the table, probably. A slash of duct tape covers his mouth. He sees me peeping in, and his eyes widen. He grunts at me and nods, thumping his feet on the wooden floor. He cranes his head to look around.
Nolan wouldn't be making this much noise if there was another armed thug, I figure, so I step inside. I leave the door open behind me so I can see, but the light only falls a little way inside the cabin. I can't see past the front area.
“You guys okay?” I call. I hear scuffling noises. Someone starts banging. Good. Banging is good. “Okay. You're good now,” I say. “It's all good. I'm going to get us out of here.”
I take a few steps and squat down by Nolan. “Jesus, Nolan, are you okay?” I peel the tape off his face. His glasses are still there, but they're missing an arm.
He winces as the tape pulls his skin. “I'm okay,” he says, after a big gulp of air. “Where are those two idiots?”
Okay, so there
were
only two. That's good.
“I took care of them,” I say. It sounds absurd, like a line from a Clint Eastwood movie. But it's true. I did take care of them. “They're tied up, and they won't be getting free anytime soon. What about the others? Is everyone else all right?”
Nolan nods. “I think so. Undo my hands and feet and I can help you get them.”
I grab my Swiss Army knife and carefully slice through the duct tape on his ankles. “We've got to move fast, Nolan,” I say as I work. “There's another guy called Deuce. He's on his way. I think this is his grow-op. He's coming up to check on things, and he knows we're here. He's probably going to kill us if he finds us.”
“How do you know he's on his way?”
“I heard the goons talking on the phone,” I reply. “He's planning to be here by ten.”
“Ten o'clock?” Nolan squeaks. He looks at his watch. “Jamie, it's, like, nine thirty-five!”
“I know, Nolan,” I say. I keep my voice calm. “That's why we have to bust our asses out of here.”
“Faster than a rolling
O
,” he agrees. His feet free, Nolan stomps them on the floor to get the circulation moving again.
From deep inside the cabin, the other guys stomp in reply.
“We're coming, guys,” Nolan calls. “Jamie's just undoing my hands now.”
For once, I appreciate Nolan's tendency to keep people informed. I turn my attention to his hands. “We're down a bike,” I say. “Two bikes,” I correct myself, remembering that Seth's bike is still in the bushes somewhere. “We've only got three now, for the five of us. We're going to have to double up.” I have no idea how that's going to work either. How do you make a quick getaway with someone's butt on your handlebars?
“What about the
ATV
?” Nolan asks.
Ah, man. The guy's brilliant. I could kiss him. I reach inside my pocket and feel around for the keys. Still there. Perf.
“Good thinking. Yep, we can use that too,” I say. I yank off the last of the duct tape. “Okay, let's move. Are there windows in this place? I can't see what I'm doing.”
Nolan nods. “I'll see if I can open them.”
“If not, there are headlamps in my bag outside,” I call after him. I start into the back of the cabin.
“There should be one on the front table,” Nolan shouts over his shoulder.
I turn and look. Sure enough, there's a light on the table. I crank it over my helmet and twist it into the ON position. Nolan uncovers a couple of windows and light punches holes in the darkness of the little cabin.
Having the light makes the work go much faster. I can actually look at what I'm doing instead of going mostly by feel.
Within the span of several minutes, Nolan and I have freed everyone. I explain as much as I know about Deuce as we step out into the sunshine. Rico looks like he's been run over by a truck. Chase's easy smile is long gone, replaced by a look of determination. Seth is in full freak-out mode, his eyes rolling around in his head.
“It's nine forty-seven, guys,” I say, glancing at Nolan's watch. “We've got to get a move on.”
“Let's head 'er,” agrees Chase. “If we ride now, we'll be back at the campsite by the time that Deuce guy gets here.”
“What if he's got infrared scanners in his helicopter?” asks Nolan suddenly. “If he does, he'll be able to find us in the bushes, no matter where we are. We'd need a bunker to be safe.”
This thought scares me. Seth gives off a little moan.
“What makes you so sure he'll come in a chopper?” Rico asks.
“Well,” Nolan says, “he's a big-time drug trafficker, right? Do you think a busy guy like that is going to hike in to his grow-op on foot?” He blinks at Rico. “Or maybe he'll ride in on a purple unicorn, Rico.” If I wasn't so scared, I'd laugh.
Rico grunts. “Well, still. He might be traveling light. The other guys were on
ATV
s.”
Nolan opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. A faraway sound has stolen his words. We all freeze at the same time, eyes locked on each other. Terror rips through us as we listen to the noise that's drawing closer.
It's the sound of a helicopter.
He's early. I hadn't planned on that. Hadn't even thought about that. Somehow I had convinced myself that Deuce would arrive at the stroke of ten.
