Deadfall (40 page)

The man looked puzzled but dismissed it. He shut the briefcase and once again headed for the helicopter. Declan walked alongside, his hand on the man's back.

At the helicopter, Declan said, “Julian, I need you.”

No, no, no,
Hutch thought. Julian must have expressed something similar, for Declan said, “Julian! Now! Come on.” He gestured with his head for Julian to disembark.

The man said, “Julian's coming home with me.”

Declan gripped the man's arm. “I need him. He's a crucial part of this operation.We'll clean all this up and be home by tomorrow.”

“I don't want Julian—”

“He won't be part of the cleanup. I promise. I need his technical expertise.” He turned to his brother, still in the helicopter. “Julian, really.”

“I want to go home!”

“You will, tomorrow.”

Declan looked at his uncle. Something passed between them.The man nodded. He said, “Julian, you'd better stay. Just one more day.”

Julian appeared in the portal.

“But, Uncle—”

The man said something.

Julian hesitated, then jumped out. Everything about him slumped with defeat.

Uncle Andrew climbed aboard, followed by the big bodyguard. The door shut. The engine whined. The blades spun. Julian and Declan backed up. Their hair whipped wildly in the downdraft. The helicopter lifted.

Phil had backed to within ten paces of Hutch. Now he watched the helicopter without moving.

“Phil!” Hutch said in a loud whisper.

He seemed not to hear.

Declan turned from the helicopter and strode to the Jeep. He leaned in through the open passenger window, then straightened again.

The helicopter rose higher, taking its billowy winds with it. It drifted away from the plateau slowly, giving Uncle Andrew a final look.

Julian waved and turned. Noticing something, he immediately broke into a sprint toward Declan. “What are you doing!”

Hutch now noticed the laser cannon's firing device in Declan's hands. He heard a musical chime. Hutch's eyes flicked up toward the helicopter in time to see a shaft of rippling air and a green flash punch down from the sky and vanish. The helicopter crumpled; it simply buckled in midair. The boom, stretching back to the rear propeller from the cabin, rose like the tail of a happy dog. The cockpit window shattered as the nose torqued up under the pressure of the laser's downward thrust to the center of the cabin and engine assembly. Instead of spinning out of control or even breaking apart, as Hutch had seen in movies, it tucked in on itself and plummeted straight down, like an elevator with a broken cable. It disappeared below the far edge of the plateau.

A moment later a plume of smoke and dirt erupted, rising high. The shriek of crushed and twisted metal, the winding down of a jet engine, the deep
whoop
of an exploding fuel tank, the shattering of glass, the groan of disrupted earth and trees—all became a symphony of destruction and death, an overture to the people on the plateau. It rose from below the hill, as from an orchestra pit.

The visual spectacle of the helicopter's destruction drove Phil back several paces.

Even as the plume of smoke and dust started to rise over the plateau, Hutch slid his hand along the arrow shaft, closer to the broadhead. He sliced through the zip-tie and hopped up. His right knee wanted to give out. His ribs on both sides felt bruised and cracked, playing ping-pong with pain back and forth through his organs. The wound in his shoulder sent a Morse code of agony to his brain.

Despite this, his head felt worse. He could easily believe the arrow had not penetrated his shoulder but had been pushed through his left eye and into the gray matter behind.

In less than a blink he determined to ignore all these sensations. Even if his injuries prevented him from obeying his commands, from sprinting forward or jagging sideways, he would dismiss the trauma and instantly adjust.

A quick glance at Declan and Julian showed them captivated by the helicopter's demise—and, of course, the demise of the pilot and bodyguard and their Uncle Andrew; even Hutch, in these few seconds, felt a distancing of their deaths by virtue of their being out of sight.Were their deaths any less real, any less tragic than they would have been had Declan used a knife to slit their throats? Of course not, but without witnessing the spraying of blood, the shock in their eyes, the gasp of their last breaths, Hutch felt their deaths had become muted, symbolic. Declan's weapon was frightening not only because of its ease of use and destructive power, but because, like the worst weapons man has devised, it allowed impersonal killing.

He stepped forward, gripped the back of Phil's jacket collar and, without looking, backpedaled right over the edge of the plateau.

58

They tumbled down the slope
through the trees, kicking up layers of matted and wet needles, moss, and twigs. Phil smacked into a tree and
oophed
through his gag. A second later Hutch did the same. Continuing to use his arm as a tether to Phil, he tried to swing his feet downslope. He dug his heels in and used his other hand to slow their descent. When they stopped, they were halfway down the slope toward one of the narrow valleys Hutch had grown accustomed to in this region. Frantically, he looked through the trees to the edge of the plateau. No one was there. He believed the woods were heavy enough here to prevent Declan from using his satellite to spy them out, but that didn't mean the man would not blindly blast the area as he had when he pursued Hutch after killing the caribou.They had to move fast.

Phil seemed to realize this; he fought against Hutch's iron grip on his collar. He tried to rise and continue downhill. Hutch did not release Phil but yanked him back. His friend's hands were still handcuffed in front of him. The white rag tied around his head over his mouth, which silenced him for Uncle Andrew, had probably given them at least a little extra time, and also silenced his screams when Hutch yanked him off the plateau. He pulled Phil's ear to within inches of his mouth and said, “We have to head back up.”

Instantly Phil's head shook no. He mumbled against the rag.

“I'll explain later, and I'll get this rag off you, but right now we just have to go. Fast.” He moved Phil around to give him a view of his face. He said, “You have to trust me, okay? Do you trust me?”

A second's pause. Phil nodded. Hutch moved diagonally up the hill, praying no one would appear at the plateau's edge for at least another couple minutes.

Julian's wailing screams—“What did you do? Uncle Andrew!”— came from above, and Hutch hoped the boy was also flailing and punching in displeasure with his brother. He thought Declan would want to witness the result of his latest insubordination. By the dimin-ishing volume of his answer to Julian—“I saved your life. Shut up”— it did seem that he was moving away, toward the far end of the plateau, which would overlook the helicopter's wreckage. Evidently he had not yet noticed Hutch and Phil's escape, distracted, no doubt, by Julian and the thrill of the kill; besides, having been tied to a tree, Hutch did not warrant consideration. Right?

About thirty feet from the edge of the plateau and the same distance over from where they had jumped, Hutch found a fallen tree. As its foliated branches deteriorated, what used to be it's crown began sliding down the slope, anchored at the other end by its root system. Eventually the dead tree would have swung around to point perfectly downslope and, over time, the roots would crumble and send it shooting to the valley below. However, the top of this tree's pendulum swing had been frustrated by the trunk of another tree. It now lay nearly horizontal to the edge of the plateau above. Rainwater coming off the plateau and simple gravity had pushed piles of dirt and dead needles onto the top of the blowdown and into the crevice formed where its uphill side met the slope.To an observer above, the timber would appear to be a ledge, followed by a small drop to the continuing slope. Because the trunk was round, and water sluiced under it, washing away earth, a long cavelike depression had formed under it.

Hutch helped Phil position himself in this depression. Then he lay next to him. He pulled overgrowth and dead needles from the forest floor, careful not to take so much that his efforts became obvious. He packed this detritus over them.

He whispered, “Phil, don't say a word and don't move.” Hutch worked on slowing his breathing.

On the plateau the others had returned.

“What happened?”

“Was your uncle in there?”

“Who else?”

“Hey! Where's the guy?”

Footsteps. The voices became louder, closer, more distinct.

“He got away.”Whiny like Cortland.

“How? Wasn't he tied up?”—Bad.

Declan said, “Julie was over here talking to him.”

“Julian? Why would he—”

“Julie being Julie.” Evidently calling out to Hutch, Declan yelled, “You just killed yourself! You and your friend!”

Bad: “What friend?”

Declan, calling: “Don't forget to look up!”

Hutch whispered, “Here it comes. Don't move.”

That musical tone he'd heard before.
Whoosh-crack
.

A section of woods below them blew up.Trees cracked and fell.

Phil started, but did not make a sound or get panicky. He had already seen the power of the weapon. As terrifying as it was, at least he did not have to contend with the greater fright of experiencing it for the first time.

Twice more:
Whoosh-crack Whoosh-crack
.

Right where they would have been had they continued straight toward the valley.

Two more explosions. Off to the right, deeper into the woods—in case he and Phil had veered off. It was the only other way they would have gone.To the left of the woods was the open slope and the mine's secondary exit. He hoped Declan realized that this exit lay too far from the woods for Hutch to have made a break for it. It would have been stupid to be in the open that long, not knowing when their absence would be noticed.

Several more explosions erupted farther down the hill.

Declan said, “Go check it out.”

“What?”

“You and Bad, go check it out. See if you can find them.”

“Who's this friend guy?”

“Just somebody Uncle Andrew brought. Doesn't matter.Two guys got away. Either get two guys or find their bodies.”

“Send Pru. My leg—”

“Forget your leg. Go.” Somebody hit the slope hard, running. No, Hutch realized—tumbling. Declan must have shoved Bad over. Somebody else—Kyrill, most likely—started down at a more controlled pace.Whoever was tumbling stopped and began swearing and yelling.

The outburst devolved into incoherent mumbling as Bad slowly continued down.

Declan yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

Bad and Kyrill simultaneously said, “What? Where?”

Whoosh-crack
.

An explosion—way to the left, in the open part of the slope.

The two in the woods were not happy: “Don't do that!” “I about peed myself!”

Hutch closed his eyes, suspecting the strike hit the very thing he had hoped Declan would overlook: the mine's secondary exit.

Please let Dillon have obeyed my instructions to go back into the tunnels, away from the escape shaft.

He imagined Dillon at the bottom of the shaft, peering up at the square of sky, at the sunlight not penetrating even half of the shaft. After Hutch had climbed up, he would have heard Bad's machine gun, the ricochets of the bullets on the concrete floor near him. He would have understood that their enemies had taken Hutch captive. He may have expected the bad guys to come down and look for more people or scope out where Hutch had been. After a while, would he have circled back, not knowing what else to do, hoping for Hutch's return? Would he have sat there on the floor below the shaft, waiting? Hutch prayed he did not.

He tried not to think of Dillon down there, crushed by that poking finger or the rubble it would have rained into the tunnels. He tried not to think about the (somehow worse) perspective of Dillon down there—injured, bleeding to death, and scared; Hutch unable to go to him. Death by satellite laser cannon had to be relatively painless, too quick and too definitive to leave a victim in wet, frantic agony. Unless the injuries came from fallout: shrapnel, collapsing structures, superheated air.

His heart had migrated into his throat and now drummed to get out. His stomach rolled and churned out acid. He realized, when Phil touched his head to Hutch's shoulder, that he had started hyperventilating. He stopped breathing. Slowly exhaled. Pulled in a controlled breath.

Feet crunching over twigs and ground cover below. Silence at the plateau. He supposed if Declan had heard him, he would never know. He would experience that relatively painless death. A finger jab too quick to see coming or to feel once it had arrived. He waited.Would he notice
anything
? A blinding flash? A
boom
cut short? Or blackness? Then what? Speculating on his journey to eternity was something he could not do right then. It was beyond his ability to fathom. He could better see himself suddenly becoming a superhero with laser vision, bulletproof skin, and a sword that flew out of his hand to smite his enemies and return.

Okay.Was this the last thought he would have on this earth?

He forced himself to envision the laughing faces of his children: Macie . . . Logan . . . and oddly, considering their short time together, Dillon. Stranger still, the image of his wife came to mind. It was not the harsh countenance of her leaving him, but the comforting face he had known for so many years.

“Go sit in the truck.” It was Declan. Apparently concentrating on something other than targeting Hutch and Phil's hiding place.

Cortland whined, and Declan said, “Go.” A few moments later Declan called, “Julie, get over here!” It took the boy a minute to obey. Finally Declan asked, “What did you do?”