Untraceable (41 page)

What can I do?

A memory of me and Dad shooting at the gun range resurfaces. Dad’s words unravel in my head.
You’re good with a gun, Gracie, you could be a marksman
. Not something I thought was handy.

Until now.
 

Without hestitating, I hold up Mo’s gun and zero in on Al’s thigh, pausing for a second.

Al points his gun at the back of Mo’s head.

I close my eyes and fire.

Al drops to the dirt and writhes in pain.

At the sound of the shot, Mo spots me on the hill me and gives me a thumb’s up.

I signal back but am relieved. Whether Al deserves to live or not, I’m glad I didn’t actually kill him.

Mo reaches in the ground one more time and pulls. A head breaks the surface, and a skeletal figure rolls onto his back. Mo helps the man to his feet and wraps one arm around his waist. They both head in my direction. The frail man stumbles to his knees a few times, but each time, Mo is right there to hold him up.

 
I squint through the tree limbs, waiting for them to get close so I can see the man’s face. My heart pounds in my chest.

Mo sprints to the hill and pushes the filthy man up the slick grass.

The man claws at the dirt, but obviously isn’t strong enough to make it.

Men swarm in from all directions, heading for the slope.

I yell down to them. “Mo! Hurry!”

The scrawny, filthy man looks up and smiles when he sees me.

I gasp. I’d know that smile anywhere.

I scream and slide down the hill. “Dad! Dad!” As soon as I reach him, I throw my arms around his filthy neck. He smells of urine mixed with mud and blood but I don’t care. “I knew you were alive.” I push him back and check him over quickly. Mud covers his bloody body from head to toe. His face is swollen from obvious beatings, and his lips are cracked from dehydration. I touch his bearded face. “Are you okay?”

Dad doesn’t say anything. Or can’t. He just nods and smiles. That wonderful smile.

Mo hollers up the hill. “Grace! Go! Go!”

I grab Dad’s hand and tug him after me, but I can’t seem to get good traction. His tattered boots slip along the grass, almost dragging me with him. Clutching both of his wrists, I try to hang on but his hands are too slimy. He rolls halfway down the hill.

Carl charges down the path and points a gun at us.

I scream at him. “Carl, no!”

He grins and aims straight for Dad. We all sink into the underbrush. A few bullets peck the hillside around us, kicking up plants and dust. Carl tries to shoot again, but his gun jams.

Without any warning, Al limps up behind Carl and shoots him in the back. As Carl crumbles to the ground, Al sneers at me and points his gun.

Mo claws his way up the hill and throws himself over my dad as more shots ring out.

I cover my head until they stop. Then I hear grunting below me. “Mo, are you okay?”

He shifts a little and looks up, gritting his teeth. “I’m fine. Get your dad out of here. I’ll be right behind you!” Mo struggles to get my backpack off his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about my bag! Let it go!”

He coughs, and a splotch of blood paints his lip.

“Oh, my God. You’ve been shot!”

Mo gives me a sad face, like a puppy begging for food.

I cover my mouth with one hand and stretch down as my mind floods with worry. “Take my hand!”

He shakes his head. “No! You have to go!” He tosses my backpack up and holds his side. “Get out of here! Your dad won’t make it without you.” I stare at him as if I don’t understand any words coming out of his mouth. He pleads with me. “Grace, don’t let this all be for nothing. Save him. It’s what you came to do.”

I look back at my dad lying in the weeds. “Fine. But, if you die, Morris Cameron, I’ll never forgive you!”

Even his smile is too weak to move. “I’ll be right behind you, blossom.”

“You promise?”

He nods once. “Abso-bloody-lutely.”

I half drag, half walk Dad down the path as gunfire erupts behind me, trying to ignore any creeping thoughts about Mo’s fate. Dad leans his full weight on me as we stumble along the path. Every few feet, he collapses from exhaustion. It takes everything I have to keep him moving.

As we round a bend, a whistling noise drowns out the hissing trees.

I stop in my tracks and slowly turn around.

Al is following us, slightly hobbling from my shot to his thigh. He spits to one side. “What? No hello? How rude.”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

“You should be.” Al points his pistol and fires.

Dad jerks his arm out of my hand and before I can stop him, he steps in front of me acting like a human shield. The bullet must connect, because he yells and slumps to the ground.

I scream. “No!” Before I can help him, another bullet grazes my shoulder. Pain shoots through my arm, and I tumble to the ground. Dad tries to get up but collapses against a tree. I can’t do anything except writhe in pain as Al converges on us.

He stands over me. “Damn. Kinda wanted a good challenge. Thought you’d be tougher than that. Your old man was too easy. I told Carl we should’ve killed him months ago, but Carl didn’t have the balls.”

The comment pisses me off. I didn’t come this far to give up now. Holding my arm to keep from bleeding out, I stagger to my feet and take a defensive stance between Al and Dad. “Get away from him.”

Al faces me and sneers, revealing bloody teeth. “Didn’t think I’d let you get away, did yah?” Then he points the gun at my head.

Wyn always teases me about having nine lives. Last I counted, I didn’t have any left.

My brain recalls every survival move I’ve ever learned with ease. I decide to distract him. “Too bad I hit your leg. I was aiming for your heart.”

Al laughs. “What are you talking about? You didn’t shoot me.”

“If you say so.” I smile, even though my legs quiver. The whole time I’m only focusing on one thing. Knocking that gun out of his hand.

He steps forward and extends his arm, the gun’s only a few inches from my head. Just a few more steps. “You’re lying.”

I shift on my feet and slide on forward. “What? You got something against being shot by a girl? Doesn’t make you much of a man, does it?”

Al leans in and hollers right in my face. “Shut up!”

The fact he’s so close proves how much he underestimates me. I take the opportunity to head butt him right in the nose. His nasal cavity crushes and starts to bleed. But he doesn’t seem to notice because he wraps his large hands around my throat like a steel vice.

My vision blurs as oxygen is depleted from my lungs. I sag to the ground under his force and try hard to remain conscious by breathing shallow, but my refusing to pass out only encourages him to squeeze harder. A black veil slowly wipes over the image of Al’s face.

Before my vision totally disappears, Dad’s face pops up over Al’s shoulder. He barks an order. “Get the hell off her!” Before Al can react, Dad slams a log down across his back.

Al tumbles over and lies on the ground, whining. When he pushes up to on fours, Dad hammers on him again. This time in the back of the head. Al flops over on his side.

My shoulder’s on fire, but I manage to crawl over to Dad who’s slumped against a log. “Nice shot.”

His breath seems labored. “Those stupid golf lessons your mom got me finally came in handy.”

That’s when I spot the blood. At first I think it’s mine or Al’s, then I notice Dad’s side. “Dad, you’re bleeding.”

He closes his eyes and mumbles a little Monty Python, “Nonsense. It’s just a flesh wound.”

“I gotta get you outta here.”

Jumping up, I stand at a safe distance and nudge Al with my shoe. He doesn’t move, but I can see he’s still breathing. Out cold. I uncurl some twine from my backpack and bind his ankles and wrists, using a double reef knot so it holds. My hands work feverishly as I expect him to sit up and grab me like in a horror movie.

When he’s finally secure, I remove the green bandana hanging out of his pocket and shove it into his mouth. I mumble under my breath, “Jerk,” and give him one extra kick in the butt. I look at Dad. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Don’t apologize to me. I don’t blame you.” Dad coughs as I run over and help him to his feet.

We head off the path and crash through the underbrush. With each step, Dad grows weaker and weaker.

Behind us, voices grow louder, reminding me they are still after us. I search for a quick place to hide as my vision goes in and out. I almost pass out but somehow hold it together. Every time Dad collapses from exhaustion, I push through fogged vision and pain to support him.

Up ahead, I spot a small chance at safety.

I drag Dad into a small opening in the rocky hillside. Working quickly, I lay him down and pull a few logs in front of the entrance, hoping to conceal us from the path. Panting, I crawl in and collapse next to him. My heart is pumping so hard, I can almost see the outline of it pushing against my chestbone. The crunching of the men’s boots along the pebbled path outside makes me hold my breath. They sound so close. Any minute, I expect them to bust through the flimsy barrier like they did before.

I grip my knife and stare at the opening, waiting.

As the noises grow faint, Dad moans softly from the corner. I slide over next to him and position his head in my lap. “Ssshhhh. We have to be quiet.” His shirt is bloodsoaked, so I take out Tommy’s knife and cut it lose in the front to assess the damage. Once I see the wound, my throat clenches. It’s a stomach wound and much worse than I thought. My SAR skills flood back as I tear his shirt into strips and press them on the wound, hoping to slow the beeding.

I quickly assess the rest of his body for signs of major injuries. A few gashes line his forehead and stretch down around one ear. His pants are torn, revealing a huge gash on one leg. Blood lines the border of the wound. Doesn’t look fresh, but I tighten a few strips around his leg, just to be safe.

By the time I finish, the bandages on his stomach are soaked.

I stop and stare at the blood on my hands before wiping them on my pants. I hear myself talking, “What else can I do?” Tears stream down my face and splash on his cheek. But he doesn’t answer me. There’s nothing else to do now but pray.

Stroking his matted hair, I focus on Dad’s gaunt face. It’s the first moment I’ve had a chance to see who he’s become. I stare at the person who raised me in these woods.

His sallow face is as white as the moon and as thin as a skeleton. He’s no longer the strong man I once knew. Now he’s scary thin with a scattered, gray beard, and he stinks.