The Seventh Stone (49 page)

“
Just how long will that run-off from the storm across the valley take to reach here?”

“
Any time now.”

“
For the run-off to reach here, or for you to reach the strongbox?”

“
I don’t want to drop the key.”

“
I don’t want to drop you,” he said.

A sudden, cool breeze swooshed by them from the direction of the underground lake. It was followed by an ominous bellow, the sickening warning of an unstoppable force.

She hoisted herself another inch, tried to jam the key into the keyhole. “I can’t get the key in.”

“
Just grab the box, Christa. Pull it down.”

She clasped the carry handle on the front of the strongbox and yanked. It didn’t budge. “These strongboxes had holes in the bottom,” she said, “so that they could be bolted down.”

“
Just like people do today, with gem safes in their homes. They’re not much good if the thief can walk out with the entire safe and its contents.” Her weight shifted on his shoulders as he twisted beneath her towards the direction of the underground lake. He quickly turned back, edged in closer, got her another half-inch higher. “Keep trying the key.”

She jammed it again. “I’m in!” She twisted the key. The lock disengaged with a thunk. She hoisted up the lid, pushing it with all her strength to break apart the rusty seam. Braydon couldn’t get her any higher. She curled her fingers around the top edge of the strongbox. She hoisted herself up with her arms, balancing the bottom of her hiking boots on his shoulders. His hands grabbed her ankles as she wobbled. She reached her hand blindly into the inside of the strongbox, hooking the inside of her elbow over its sharp ironclad rim. She pawed around frantically, her fingers feeling nothing but smooth, cold metal. She stopped. Her fingers landed on a protuberance, round, about the diameter of a golf ball. She scooped it out and, hanging on to the strongbox with one hand to steady herself, she opened her palm. In the glimmer of the sunset captured by the shaft, a piece of the sky glowed in the palm of her hand. The stone was the purest Turquoise she had ever seen. More than that, it emitted a now familiar energy. “It’s the Turquoise,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

Suddenly, Braydon was yanked out from under her. Closing her fingers around the Turquoise, she fell backwards, arms flailing, but she didn’t hit the ground. Her backside plunged into a rush of freezing water.

She clamped her hand around the Turquoise. She’d be damned if she dropped it now. The rush of water was like a furious serpent and she the bronco rider on its back. It pushed her beneath the surface. She bobbed up, coughing, sputtering. She fought to breathe as frigid water splashed into her mouth and nose.

“
Keep your feet downstream!” she shouted, swallowing a mouthful of water for her effort. The walls of the tunnel flashed by as the flood rocketed her down the passage. She caught glimpses of Braydon ahead of her, struggling to stay afloat. It got worse. Ahead. The dead end. The barricade of rocks, scrub brush and tangled tree trunks blocked their exit. They were rushing headlong into it.

She searched frantically for something to grab onto, to slow her down. The head of the flash flood steamed ahead, like a train engine out of control. In seconds, Braydon would be crushed against the barricade.

A deafening boom blasted down the passageway. Light poured in as water blasted out. The head of the flood blasted through the barricade. Braydon shot out of the passage, Christa right behind him. The force sent them tumbling, head over foot. Braydon grabbed her in his arms and yanked her aside. They rolled, tumbled and crashed to a stop in a heap in the desert sand, the water coursing beside them, gushing as it merged into the once tepid waters of the valley’s river.

She laid on top of Braydon, their wet bodies like one, breathing hard. He didn’t want to let go any more than she did. Reluctantly, she rolled off of him and swiped her bedraggled, dripping hair from her face.

Braydon sat up, coughing, visibly slowing his breathing. He twisted to look back at her. The sky behind him had turned a dark blue, the sun kissing the top of the canyon opposite them before it winked out behind it, leaving them in twilight. She propped herself up on one elbow. She held her fist up to him and opened her fingers. The Turquoise seemed to almost hover, reaching for the blue of the sky. His mouth stretched into a smile. He laughed, really laughed. And she found herself laughing with him. Crazy laughing. She knew it was the incredible stress playing games with her emotions. She didn’t care. She threw her arms around Braydon, pressed her wet body to his.

Suddenly, he hugged her tight and rolled her over, thrusting her against the face of the cliff. A bang echoed down the valley. Braydon jerked against her. Something warm and sticky was on her hand, blood.

CHAPTER
58

Christa could barely react before Braydon hoisted her up and pressed her back against the rough rock of the cliff. His gun appeared in his hand. He was craning to look up while not moving out into the open.

“
Shooter is at the ruins, above us,” he said. “He can’t get a bead on us if we stick close to the face of the cliff, but he won’t wait long to reposition. The jeep is our only chance.”

She yanked the pouch from beneath her wet-t-shirt, opened it and pushed the Turquoise inside, tugging the drawstring closed. A red splotch was staining Braydon’s wet shirt sleeve, up by his shoulder. “You’ve been shot,” she said. “You need a doctor.”

“
I’m going to need a coroner if we don’t stay out of range.”

She looked up, quickly taking in the silhouette of a man aiming a scoped rifle. He stood on the precipice of the plateau in front of the cliff dwelling. “If we move, he’ll kill us.”

“
Not if we move fast and plaster ourselves against this cliff.”

A bullet zinged into the sand ten feet in front of them.

Christa pressed her back against the sandstone, still warm from the sun. Braydon edged along the base of the cliff. She followed. A bullet hit the ground, closer to her toes, only six feet in front. A second bullet stung the ground beyond where they started. “The shooter can’t see us,” she said. “He doesn’t know what direction we’re heading.”

“
He will soon enough.” He stopped. The pinon grove and their jeep waited just across the river. She could barely make out the jeep in the darkening light. They had camouflaged it, covering it with scrub brush. It would be hard to spot, especially from above. The shooter could have lost them, think they doubled back.

“
No shots in the past five minutes,” she said. “They must have given up and gone home.”

Braydon smiled, then grimaced in pain as his injured shoulder scraped the rock, leaving behind a bloody splotch. He snapped forward for a quick peek up. “They’re rappelling down from the cliff dwelling,” he said.

“
They can’t hit us while they’re descending.”

“
Unless they left behind that sniper to keep us pinned down.” He checked his gun. “I’ll cover you. When I start shooting, you start running and don’t stop until you get in that jeep.”

He dashed forward. His feet splashed into the river. She heard the sharp report of a rifle from above. He spun around, aimed up towards the plateau and fired.

She ran into the river with all her strength. The water, once tepid, was wild, forceful. It roiled thigh-deep down the valley, churning with the detritus of branches and tumbleweeds. A tree trunk smashed into Braydon’s shins, hurling him into the water.

She rushed towards him, struggling to keep herself upright. She grabbed Braydon, heaved him up. He was sputtering, fighting to breathe.

“
Get out of here.” He tried to push her off. “Get to the jeep.”

“
I’m not leaving you,” she screamed above the roar of the water. She wrapped his good arm over her shoulder. He stumbled along beside her. She glanced behind. Three men, dressed in special ops black, were nearly boots on the ground. A fourth hung from his rope, taking aim with his free hand. She forced Braydon down and ducked. The bullet hit the gnarled trunk of a pine just ahead of them.

As soon as they cleared the river, Braydon pushed her forward. “Start it up,” he said. He clutched his injured arm to his chest, the pistol in that hand, and rushed to yank the scrub from the top of the jeep.

She tossed her pack in the rear, threw off a tumbleweed and climbed behind the wheel. “I hear something,” she yelled. She twisted to look behind her, blindly turning the key in the ignition. Her fingers were shaking and it wasn’t from the frigid water. “Two Land Rovers, black, coming up fast.” Dust billowed behind the SUVs. They were speeding down the dirt track into the valley. “They’re coming in our only way out.”

Braydon grabbed his pistol with his good hand. He aimed at the incoming SUVs, pulled the trigger. Missed. She turned the key. The engine roared to life. Braydon aimed again. This time the lead Land Rover swerved and skidded, its front tire blown. It stopped a hundred yards away, the second Land Rover swerving to a stop behind it. Braydon hoisted himself into the passenger’s seat.

She threw the jeep into drive and jammed her foot onto the accelerator. It started forward like a slingshot. She yanked the wheel around. The men who had rappelled down the cliff raced across the river. One detoured down river, flanking them from behind. Three of them positioned themselves between the jeep and the dirt track in an arrow formation, two in front, one in the center further back, their rifles aimed straight for the jeep. The only way through them was to run over them. She stepped on the gas. “Move!” she screamed at them, honking the horn wildly. Braydon targeted them with his pistol. She closed in on them. They remained still, didn’t even blink. She saw no way around. The pinons were too close to allow a detour. “I can’t do it,” she screamed at Braydon. “I can’t run them over.”

“
Don’t slow down,” he yelled back. He targeted the man in the center with his pistol as they bumped and rattled toward them, his hand bouncing wildly. “I can’t get a bead on him.”

She could see their faces now, their set expressions. Without warning, the man on the left lowered his rifle. A look of sheer terror crossed his face. He was looking at something behind the jeep. Christa stole a look back. The fourth man, the one who had circled in behind them, was no longer there. She dared to twist around. A black, wolf-like beast had flattened the man. It was holding him down, howling and growling, as the man twisted and fought to free himself. Three more black beasts were tearing up behind them at breakneck speed. “Skinwalkers,” she whispered. She could barely speak the name, barely believe the shadows of terror materialized in these vicious animals.

She turned front, gulping in breaths. Her heart beat fast and hard. The three men who had positioned themselves in front of their jeep were running ahead of them now. They were fast, but she quickly caught up to them in the jeep. She could see a beast on her left side, leaping through the air. It pounced on the man. He screamed, terrified, as the beast’s jagged teeth closed on his throat. The second beast pounced on the man on Braydon’s side, shoving him to the ground. As the man screamed, the beast stretched wide a black, toothy jaw and clamped it over the man’s face, crunching down. The last man on Braydon’s side stopped and faced the third beast. He fired, stepped back, fired. The beast slowed, stalking him. The bullets pelted its haunches, but had no effect. The man stumbled back, firing again and again. The beast crouched. It pounced, flinging the man away bodily, right in front of the jeep as she sped forward.

Christa yanked the wheel to the side to avoid running him over. The jeep swerved and spun. They mowed down a sapling, barreled through a thorn bush and slammed into an old pinon. Braydon was forced forward, his forehead smacking the rim of the windshield.

The black Land Rover skidded to a stop twenty-five yards away, its wheels shooting up a plume of dirt and pebbles. Two men stepped out, both wearing button down shirts, open at the collar, dress pants and spit polished shoes. The man with the crescent scar. He was the one who shot her at Percival’s house, who was with Contreras at the Marrakesh restaurant. She had to get Braydon out of here. He was conscious, but woozy.

Two beasts paced the edge of the dirt track, waiting, stalking. They were jet black, with matted fur, like wolves, but larger, with oversize forequarters and glowing, golden eyes. The larger of the two bared its teeth, snarling. They looked even more terrifying in the twilight than in the dark.

The man that had been flung in front of the jeep reached his hand towards the driver of the Land Rover. A beast stood over the downed man, its paws on his chest. The beast’s mouth gaped open hungrily. Drool dripped from the beast’s sharp canine tooth onto the man’s cheek. “Rambitskov,” the man pleaded. “Get me out of here.”

“
Torrino,” Rambitskov said in a voice that was preternaturally calm. “Go get Devlin and Fox and bring them to the Land Rover. Professor Devlin,” he added in the same, steady tone. “You’d better bring the stones with you, or I will throw you right back to the beasts.”

Torrino moved cautiously toward them, his eyes not leaving the beasts, his hand on the butt of his gun in his shoulder holster.

Torrino, that was his name. She couldn’t possibly overpower him and Rambitskov. She couldn’t make a run for the Land Rover and leave Braydon behind. And she couldn’t let Rambitskov get the stones. He was keeping them alive for a reason. She had to use that to her advantage. She had only one priority now. Get away from the beasts.