The woman fired, the round punching the ground so close to Cash’s head that she was sprayed with wet dirt and moss, blinding her. Cash sprang up, firing several rounds into the blurry confusion of her vision. A moment later, she was struck hard and knocked down by the woman, who shrieked like a wild animal. Cash landed on her back with the woman on top of her, clawing and grappling for the Baby Glock even as she tried to jam her own handgun into Cash. They were locked together, struggling as each tried to bring their gun around to bear on the other. Cash was strong, but the woman was younger and more powerful than she looked, and Cash realized she was about to lose the contest. She released the woman’s arm and let go of her own gun at the same time as she whipped both arms around the woman’s neck and jerked her down with all her might, smashing her face into Cash’s head with a great crackle of cartilage. The woman shrieked again as blood gushed from her crushed nose, her gun firing out of an involuntary contraction of her hand, the bullet going off into nowhere.
Taking advantage of her size and the woman’s shock, Cash rolled, flipping the woman over and under her, pinning the gun arm. She could feel her twisting and squirming like a giant eel, but from her superior position, Cash slammed her forehead down again into the woman’s crushed nose, hearing a second crunch, with more blood spurting. Cash slammed her forehead into the woman’s nose a third time and watched as her eyes rolled up into her head. Cash got off the unconscious woman and yanked the gun out of her limp hand. For a brief moment, she regarded the woman’s brutalized face, and then finished her with a shot between the eyes. She shoved the woman’s gun into the back of her waistband.
Too much time had passed already. Throwing all caution to the wind, she picked herself up and ran to the cabin. Had they already killed him? Was she too late?
Colcord was tied to the table beside several jars that stank of mortuary chemicals. What had to be the Spanish boot was secured to his leg. Her heart leapt as he moved, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. He was alive.
“Frankie,” he groaned. “My God, Frankie.”
“Why’d you follow me out here, you big idiot?” Cash said, breath hitching. She realized she was full-on crying now, more with relief than anything else. With shaking hands, she grabbed a scalpel lying on the table next to him and sliced off the bindings from his wrists. Then she grabbed the boot, unshackled the tie bolts holding the pieces together. She yanked it open and tossed it aside—staring at the bloody mess that was Colcord’s foot. Even if they made it out of here, he might be permanently injured. She tried not to think about it as a few quick cuts freed the ropes around his ankles.
Colcord said, “Is it bad?”
“Just a flesh wound,” Cash lied. She grabbed him and raised him up into a sitting position. “Can you walk?”
“Got to. Gimme my boot,” he said, adding, “better stop cryin’ or I might start to think you actually like me.”
Cash dragged a sleeve across her face, grabbed his boot off the floor, and handed it to him. With a grunt, he used his sock to bind his foot as tightly as possible, then shoved his bloody foot into the boot and tied it up tight. Cash winced, feeling sick.
He rose, staggering as she steadied him, and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“The canoe,” said Cash. It was their only option: With Colcord hardly able to walk, they’d never get away down the trail.
Grasping his arm, she helped support him as he stumbled and limped down to the lake, moving as fast as possible, making no effort to hide. As they ran, she spotted the huge monk emerge from the far trees, his black robes flapping from below his jacket like a bat out of hell, rifle in hand. He saw them, dropped to his knee, and fired. The shot went wide, but not by much.
Cash returned fire with her Baby Glock, which at least sent him scrambling for cover. But where was the priest?
They approached the shore where the canoe had been stashed, crashing through the prickly bushes. Cash felt the dead woman’s gun slip from her waistband.
“Shit!” she said, but kept running, as rounds clipped through the vegetation around her.
More gunfire now sounded to their far right, Cash firing back with her own weapon.
They reached the canoe, and Cash grabbed the painter and heaved it, hauling the boat out and down, Colcord pushing the stern from behind. The canoe slid into the water, and they leapt in, Cash at the bow, Colcord at the stern. They both paddled, and the canoe shot out into the roiling lake, whitecaps combing past them with the strong wind at their stern.
More shots came from the shore, spouts of water rising up around them.
“You saved my life,” said Colcord, gasping as he paddled.
“Pretty sure you saved mine first,” said Cash. “What’s your condition? Is that blood on your head yours?”
“I think I was winged.”
More shots from the shore. They were still within range of the rifle, but the roaring wind and rain seemed to be affecting the man’s aim.
“We’ve got a problem,” said Colcord, nodding toward shore.
Cash turned and looked back across the gunwale. The monk and the priest were climbing into the second canoe, shoving it into the choppy lake. They began paddling after them, coming along fast, the same wind also at their backs. The monk was at the bow. He laid down his paddle, picked up the rifle, and aimed.
“Watch out!” yelled Cash. She fired several rounds, which, while they missed, slowed the monk down and put him off his aim.
Colcord threw himself over Cash, and she was shoved against the bow of the boat.
A shot sounded and a round smacked the water to one side. A second shot struck on the other, and a third finally found home, striking the stern where Cash had just been. Water began to pour in, filling the bottom. They were sinking.
A fourth shot rang out. Cash jerked, feeling a sudden force punching her back against the boat once more, hot agony radiating from her right arm.
She’d been hit.
