Gravity Check (9 page)

Still listening, Big Dude glances at his watch. “You coming out? Okay…Wow, that's really soon. No, no, it's cool, I'm just saying…Okay, sure thing, Deuce. See you later.”

Big Dude folds the phone up and places it on the porch railing. He reaches for the joint. “He's on his way.” “He's early,” says Damian, passing it over. “He wasn't supposed to come until tomorrow.”

Big Dude shrugs. “Whatever, man. Deuce is in charge of his own schedule. He sounded a bit pissed with this whole thing about the kids.”

“Well, it's hardly our fault that we found those stupid punks snooping,” whines Damian.

“Deuce doesn't care whose fault it is,” says Big Dude. “If he's mad, it's best just to stay the hell out of his way.” He pauses for a drag. “I'm glad he's coming. Let him deal with the nosy kids.”

Damian nods. “Yeah. Otherwise we'd have to do it all. And I don't want the blood of four people on my hands.”

I shudder. So the only reason these guys haven't killed the others yet is because they're waiting for their boss to come and do it? I close my eyes and fight the swimmy feeling inside my head.

Damian continues, “Yeah, no thanks. I think I'd rather sleep at night. Got to make it to heaven.” He yawns and rubs his face.

Big Dude laughs and claps Damian on the shoulder. “You're in the wrong line of work, then, sissy boy.”

Damian gives him a little shove. “Speak for yourself, Warren. It's not like you want to kill a bunch of kids either.”

Warren shrugs and passes the joint to Damian, who shakes his head. Warren shrugs again, takes the last pull and stubs it out on the railing. He tosses it into the grass in front of the cabin. “I do what I have to do,” he says, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“When did Deuce say he's going to be here?” Damian asks.

“Ten,” Warren replies.

Ten!
I look up at the sky, but I can't see the position of the sun. I think back to what's happened so far this morning since Seth and I left the campsite. I figure we left just before seven. I can't imagine that more than an hour has passed, so that puts us at almost eight.

I have two hours to get everyone out of here before this Deuce guy shows up and picks everybody off.

“I'm gonna go find out from one of these kids how many others are still out there,” says Warren. “Because I get the feeling we're not done yet. And we'd damn well better figure it out before Deuce gets here.” He turns and goes back inside, slamming the cabin door behind him.

chapter sixteen

Damian yawns again and then comes down the stairs off the porch. He strolls over to a tree and unzips his pants. This is my chance, I realize. I've got to put him out of commission so that I've only got Warren left to deal with.

Adrenaline surges through my body. I look wildly around. There's nothing under the stairs I can use as a weapon. No stick. No large rocks. Nothing on the ground beside me either. I start to panic, but then I think of James Bond. The fuzz in my brain clears. I realize the perfect weapon is right in front of my eyes.

Without a second's hesitation, I grab the seat of Nolan's bike. My other hand works furiously to unscrew the saddle from the seat post. Lucky for Damian, Nolan's got a skinny ass, so he's got a padded seat. Still heavy, though, even with all that gel inside.

I slide the seat out of the post just as Damian gives himself a shake. As he's zipping up, I slip up behind him. My foot hits a twig and snaps it. Suddenly alert, he turns, reaching around his back for something.

His gun.

Soundlessly, before he can get his hand into his belt, I bring the seat down, smashing it across the side of his head.

He goes down like a moose that's been shot. I blink, amazed I did that so easily. A trickle of spit eases out of Damian's mouth. I wonder if I killed him. I hope not. I only wanted to knock him out. I'm not that experienced with hammering people upside the head with bike seats, so there's a possibility that I might have gone overboard.

I need something to tie him up with. I turn and run back to my pack. I rip open the top. My hands close around the coil of rope. I grab the roll of duct tape too. Moving quickly, I return to where Damian is now moaning faintly. Good. I didn't kill him.

I pray that the door to the cabin doesn't open.

I take both of Damian's hands. He's heavy for a skinny guy. I drag him over to his own dark pee spot, leaning him against the tree trunk. Suddenly I remember his gun. I pull up the back of his shirt and feel gingerly around. Don't want to shoot off a finger. There it is, tucked into his belt. I shiver to think how close I came to getting shot.

I yank the gun out of his belt and put it on the ground. I stare at it. That's the first time I've ever touched a gun. It's fully weird, but I can't stop to think about it right now.

I pull Damian's hands around the back of the tree and wrap them tightly with the rope. I tie a firm knot and tuck the loose ends where his fingers can't reach them. As I work, I glance back at the cabin. If Warren comes out, I want to see him.

When Damian is tied, I grab the duct tape and tear off a strip. The noise is loud in the quiet morning air, and it shocks me. I freeze and stare at the cabin door. Another bolt of adrenaline enters my system, and my heart starts to skip all over the place. The door doesn't open.

Keep your cool, Jamie.

I stick the duct tape over Warren's mouth, pressing down hard. He moans, but he's still out. His head lolls to the side. I can see a nasty bump rising where I hit him. He'll have a bad headache later. Even worse once Deuce is through with him.

Thinking about Deuce makes me move faster. I check Damian's body to see whether he has any other weapons on him. I don't find any, but I do find the keys to the
ATV
. I put them in my pocket.

I take the gun and leave him there, tied to the tree in the early August sunshine. I don't know what to do with the gun, so I put it under the porch. As an afterthought, I grab the sat phone from the deck railing and stuff it into my pocket along with the keys.

I'm not sure what to do next, so I stand beside the cabin wall and try to think. I don't want to go into the cabin yet, not with Warren there. I want to call for help on the phone, but I'm worried that he'll hear me.

I'm having trouble figuring this all out. What would 007 do?

As my exhausted mind slogs its way through the options, I realize I'm terribly thirsty. I haven't had much water since yesterday. And I was sweating buckets at the bike park. I lean over and yank the water bottle off Rico's bike. It's half full. I unscrew the lid and drink until the bottle is nearly empty. As I screw the lid back on, the metal bottle slips from my grasp and clangs to the rocky ground below me.

Shit.

chapter seventeen

I freeze, plastered against the cabin wall, my mouth an
O
of fear. A second passes. I am unable to breathe.

When the door yanks open behind me, I realize I've got to get my ass out of here before I get killed. I make a split-second decision. I grab the closest bike.

Crap! There's no seat!

I fling it away and reach for the next one. I hope its parts are all working.

I take two quick steps, swing myself on and pedal like hell. I see now I'm on Chase's bike. Behind me, I hear Warren shouting, but I'm working too hard to hear what he's saying. I touch the computer screen, and the map function pops up.

A sudden gunshot splits the air. Okay, forget the computer. My heart pummels against the walls of my chest.
He's
shooting at me!
As the words roll out of my brain, I feel something hit the back of my bike. A bullet! I downshift, put my head down and pedal faster than I ever have before.

It hits me that I should try to be a moving target. I zig and zag so Warren can't train his gun on me.

The bike's been hit, but I can't tell where. Not my tire, because I'm still rolling. Not my gears, because I just shifted cleanly. And Warren didn't shoot
me
, because all my parts are still working and nothing hurts. Maybe it was a rock being kicked up from the ground or something. It's not like I'm about to stop and look.

I listen with dread for the sound of the
ATV
behind me, but it doesn't come. Oh, yeah—I've got the keys in my pocket. This makes me smile. Score one for Jamie.

What I
do
hear behind me is Warren swearing. I risk a quick backward glance. He's jumped onto one of the other bikes and is pounding after me.

I'm fast, but Warren is strong. And I don't want to run the risk that he'll overtake me on this path. Besides, he's got a gun. The closer I let him get to me, the greater the chances are that he'll try to shoot me again.

I definitely don't feel like getting shot today.

Something in this scene's going to have to change. I keep an eye out as I pelt along, looking for side trails. The double track runs along the top of a pretty good hill. If I can find a way to start us dropping through the trees, I should be able to outmaneuver this guy. Assuming he isn't a pro downhiller. Which he could well be, given his ripped physique.

But something tells me he's more of a barbell bozo than a biker.

Just as the panic is about to creep back in, I fly past a side trail. It's a small track, more like an overgrown deer path, but it leads in the right direction. I squeeze my brakes hard. And suddenly I understand what the bullet hit.

My rear brakes are gone. There's no speed-check action back there, whatsoever. The only brakes I have left are on the front. And those aren't what I'm going to need when I'm leading an armed criminal on a steep downhill chase through unfamiliar terrain.

All these thoughts race through my head as I turn my bike around and point it down the deer path. I don't take another second to consider my options—like there are any in the first place—because Warren is bearing down on me, hard. I glance down the trail, then back at Warren. He raises his arm and points his gun.

I drop down the hillside, aware that this might be the last ride of my life.

chapter eighteen

Things start to happen really fast. The long grass lies flat across the trail, concealing the rocks and roots below. I remind myself to stay loose, letting my body absorb whatever bumps I hit.

I'm tempted to just blaze and get the hell out of this guy's sight. But Nolan's spectacular face-plant flashes in my mind's eye. I don't want to take any soil samples today, thanks. There won't be anybody at the bottom to patch me up. I have to remember what Mitch said, and stay in control.

But I also have to stay alive.

And there's a dude with a gun behind me. And he's pretty steamed.

I listen for Warren, but it's hard to hear anything above the sound of my own descent. I doubt he's coordinated enough to shoot me while navigating a narrow section of downhill. The path is working in my favor.

My front wheel hits a hidden rock and I wobble. Death cookie. A bolt of fear shoots through me. I refocus my attention on the path ahead. I hope Warren hits the same rock and pitches over his handlebars.

Another trail joins the path and it widens. I ride gratefully into a section of hard packed dirt. This seems like a proper bike trail. I send out a message of thanks for all the great single track out here on the North Shore.

I'm not sure where this path is taking me, but that doesn't matter right now. As long as it keeps going. I look ahead. The trail seems pretty clear, so I punch it. I'm taking it pretty gonzo right now, but I can't afford to slow down. I push all thoughts of falling out of my mind and focus on being one with the trail. I roll along, up rises and into dips like a wave following the ocean floor. I steal a peek behind me, the wind rushing through my helmet openings.

Warren has dropped back. He's slowed down to take the hill. Good. I've bought myself some time. I'm formulating a devious plan. If it works the way I want it to, I'll be able to put Warren away too. Without getting myself killed in the process.

As if the universe has heard my thoughts, a perfect drop appears ahead of me. From where I am, it looks like it's about three feet high—high enough to really mess someone up if they don't know what they're doing. Only problem is, it could mess me up too. Not because of the drop—I can handle that—but because it's a supershort landing. About twenty feet below the ledge, the path whips away to the left.

Along the edge of a cliff.

If I don't make the turn, I'll pitch straight over the cliff and into the trees. I have no idea what's below, but from past experience, I can pretty much guess that it's rocks, trees…and more rocks and trees. Not a very soft landing.

I shift my weight onto my rear tire and squeeze my front brake a bit to slow me down. It's all I've got—and it's the lesser of two risks. I can't afford to take this drop at full speed. If I did, I'd drill straight into the forest and end up bringing home a Christmas tree, like Seth did last year. He flailed into the bushes and came out with little branches stuck in his helmet and gloves and shirt. I had a good time teasing him about it.