Dangerous Ground, no. 1 Read online

  He nearly blacked out with the pain.

  He slid and slithered a few feet, stones showering down around him, the momentum of his fall carrying him several yards down the slope. He rolled, trying to protect his head from trees and boulders, trying to absorb how badly he’d been hit, listening to the sound of the shot reverberating off the mountains — and the echo of Will’s cry.

  Will sounded… There were no words to describe that cry. Horror, grief — he’d sounded mortally wounded.

  And after that one outcry, he sounded mad enough to kill — beyond rage, beyond sanity. Taylor, snatching frantically for handholds, anything to slow his descent, could hear him over the roar of the river below, ranting, swearing, threatening.

  And then silence.

  Jesus. Jesus, Will…

  Let him be okay. Don’t let them have changed their minds, don’t let them have killed him…

  He managed to grab onto a tangle of tree roots. A boulder, loosened by his brush against it, crashed on down the slope and plunged into the tumbling water below with a loud splash.

  There had been no second shot, right? He hadn’t heard a second shot.

  The vegetation he was holding on to loosened in the wet soil above him, and Taylor refocused on his own peril: legs dangling over an outcrop of rocks and nothing but the cold night air and a couple hundred feet of falling beneath him. He shifted his grip, hauled himself up a foot, onto firmer ground. Dug his fingers and boot tips into the soggy earth.

  He could hear voices drifting above him.

  “He went into the river,” Stitch called. “I heard his body hit the water.”

  Taylor, a couple of yards to the left, jammed his face into his arm and smothered his whimpers in his coat sleeve. He had to stay motionless, had to stay quiet, but the pain from being shot — again — was stupefying. Almost impossible to get beyond it.

  But after a few moments of relative calm — of no longer falling down the slope and no more rocks raining down on him — and no more shooting at him — he did manage to think; and he began to wonder why he wasn’t soaked in blood. There had been a hell of a lot of blood the other time; his body had begun to shut down immediately. That wasn’t happening. Excruciating though the pain was, it was just…pain.

  He reached up, feeling the hole in his jacket. He poked his finger through the leather, felt the hole in his shirt pocket — and there was dampness there, but not nearly enough — and then his fingertip touched metal. Dented metal. The stainless steel of Will’s flask gently leaking bourbon around the lodged bullet in its face.

  And for one crazy moment he almost laughed.

  Jesus Christ. Saved by the bourbon. He struggled against the hysterical giggles threatening to burst out of his throat. It wasn’t that funny, for God’s sake, and he was still in a hell of a lot of trouble, but the relief of not being really shot again outweighed the extreme pain of being…well, shot again.

  Let’s hear a round of applause for the man upstairs…

  He pulled himself up a few inches, trying for a more secure position, then rested, gathering himself, listening for what was happening topside. He couldn’t hear much over the river’s boom. But then he heard voices — and froze.

  He knew that Stitch had been joined by the others, that they were all looking over the edge of the cliff, trying to spot his body in the water below — or on the slope.

  He could just make out snatches of their discussion.

  “He went in the river…splash was too heavy to be anything else…”

  “What’s that? There on the left?”

  He stopped breathing, waiting, eyes staring into the darkness. He could just make out the dim outline of figures on the ledge above him but the moon was behind them, acting like a spotlight. He, on the other hand, lay in the deep shadows of the hillside. He could barely see his arm curled an inch or so in front of his nose.

  Someone turned a flashlight on. The circle of light picked out a fallen tree, moved slowly across the hillside toward him…

  He lay very still, trying not to breathe, praying the darkness and the scraggly vegetation concealed him. Every shallow, bruised breath was a reminder of how vulnerable he was, and the terror of being shot again was paralyzing — it hadn’t been so bad when he didn’t have time to think about it, but he was thinking about it now, thinking that he’d already had two close calls, and a third time was liable to be seriously unlucky. For the first time in his life he was too scared to move.

  Fuck.

  Please God…

  “I’m telling you, he went in the river. I heard him hit the water.”

  “I don’t see any blood.” That was the woman. Taylor felt a surge of hatred for her. Why couldn’t she mind her own business? Busybody bitch.

  The flashlight beam swept past his boots and he tensed.

  “Even if Orrin missed, there’s no way he survived that drop.”

  “I’m just wondering why there’s no blood.”

  And from further away: “That was point-blank range. One way or the other, he’s history.”

  He couldn’t hear Will. But then Will wouldn’t have a lot to say now. Will was smart. Will knew when to shut up and what to do to stay alive. Will would be okay.

  The flashlight switched off. The figures at the top of the hillside drew back.

  Taylor closed his eyes. His chest hurt like he’d been kicked by a mule. Or a Transformer. He’d bought his nephew a couple of those for his birthday last week. Yeah, one of those red-eyed evil autobot dudes like Megatron or Starscream.

  “If the river carries his body down…”

  “…no ID on the body…”

  Their voices were moving off.

  A few moments later he nearly gave himself away when a couple of heavy items went smashing down the hillside past him — and he realized they had thrown Will’s pack and the tent into the river.

  Chapter Six

  “I didn’t even want to come on this goddamned trip. I did it for you.”

  Taylor was dead. And he’d stood there and let it happen. Will felt dead himself; numb, empty — words didn’t begin to cover it.

  Taylor was dead. Confirming the almost superstitious dread that Will had felt for weeks — ever since Taylor had been hit — that they were on borrowed time, that Taylor’s recovery had been nothing more than a temporary reprieve, that he had lost Taylor the night he’d turned him down. Told him he didn’t love him.

  Didn’t love him?

  And now it was too late.

  “Are we going to walk all night?” the blond ape inquired. “Aren’t we ever going to make camp?”

  Orrin walked ahead carrying a high-powered flashlight, the beam catching stark glimpses of tree trunks, rocks, the crooked trail winding up through the hillside. Will’s boot caught on a tree root; he stumbled over a rivulet in the trail, but caught himself.

  “Don’t even think about it, asshole.” The woman nudged the base of Will’s spine with the barrel of her rifle. He ignored her. He didn’t give a damn if they shot him now. He should have jumped them when they killed Taylor. Why hadn’t he? Why had he stood there? Why had he let the rifle pointed at his head stop him? What was wrong with him that he’d chosen to stay alive when they’d killed Taylor? Because Taylor wouldn’t have; the gray-haired fucker had that right. Taylor would have gone for them; they’d have had to put him down to stop him. Taylor would have rather died — and so would Will, but yet Will had let them knock him down and tie his hands. He’d let them kill Taylor.

  But what he wouldn’t do was let them get away with it.

  They were going to pay. He was going to stay alive that long. All three of them were going to pay — he wasn’t sure how yet — for murdering Taylor. His eyes rested on Orrin’s back, picturing with grim pleasure blowing a hole in its retreat.

  “Hey, he’s carrying a map or something in his pocket,” Stitch reported suddenly. He reached forward and grabbed the map out of Will’s back pocket.

  Their weary processio
n stopped. Orrin plucked the map out of Stitch’s hands, unfolding it and turning the flashlight on it.

  “How’d you miss that, Bonnie?” Stitch said, and the woman’s face — gargoyle-like in the ring of flashlights — twisted into a sneer.

  “I had other things on my mind, moron. Like the fact that he’s a goddamned fed!”

  “Knock it off, you two.” That was Orrin. He looked at Will and then down at the map. “Well, well. What’s this?” He pointed at the circled point on the map.

  Will stared at him without speaking.

  Bonnie and Stitch glared at him. Orrin smiled. He had nice, even white teeth. “This is where the plane went down.” The circle of flashlight beam moved across the map to the second circled point. “So what’s so important here?”

  “Figure it out,” Will said.

  “Oh, we will,” Orrin said. “We will.” He nodded to the others, and Bonnie prodded Will with her rifle again.

  * * * * *

  It had to be true love. Because if Taylor’s only incentive for getting himself off that mountainside was his own health and welfare, he’d have been happy to spend the rest of his — few — days right where he was. But Will’s only hope was Taylor, so he tried to work up a little enthusiasm.

  But for chrissake…he’d already put in a full day’s hike before he’d got punched a few times, got slammed in the head with a rifle butt, got shot, and then dived off a cliff. And lying here in the cold earth with a gentle mist coming down wasn’t helping his recovery time.

  On the positive side, he wasn’t afraid of heights, and that was very good because when he looked down and saw nothing beneath him but the tumbling shine of the river and the swaying treetops, he felt a little…tired.

  After all, technically he was still convalescent.

  And while that bullet hadn’t penetrated anything more vital than Will’s flask, the impact had left bruises and contusions down the left side of his chest. The pain was draining, especially once the adrenaline that had numbed him to the worst of it faded away during the long, long minutes while he waited for the bandits to leave.

  Even once he was sure it was safe to move, it was difficult to force himself to action. If he hadn’t been afraid he’d fall off the mountainside he’d have closed his eyes for a few moments. As it was, he began to inch his way up, groping for handholds, feeling for something to brace his feet on.

  The recent rains made it worse, causing the soft ground to slide out from under him, for plants to pull out by their roots when he tugged on them. It was slow — and nerve-wracking — going.

  It took him forty-five minutes to crawl six yards, and by then Taylor was beginning to panic about Will. He was not going to be able to track these assholes through the woods; he couldn’t afford to let them get too far ahead of him. He wasn’t sure how long they planned on keeping Will alive. He wasn’t sure why they felt they might need a hostage.

  There was no guarantee that his worst nightmare wasn’t waiting for him at the top — but he couldn’t let himself think like that or he might as well let go and drop into the river.

  He continued on his wet and muddy way, clambering up a few inches at a time, refusing to look down — and eventually refusing to look beyond his next handhold because his progress was too demoralizing. But then, finally, he was dragging himself over the embankment, lungs burning, muscles screaming, body soaked in sweat. He crawled away from the edge, scanning the now empty campsite, verifying — and re-verifying — that Will was not lying there dead. He let himself collapse, resting his head on his forearms, closing his eyes.

  His heart was racketing around his chest like it was trying to find an escape route.

  He only allowed himself a few minutes before he pushed up and began trying to figure which way Orrin and his pals had taken Will. It would have been nice if Will had left some sign or some clue, but Will, of course, believed Taylor was dead.

  At first studying the ground seemed hopeless. As far as Taylor was concerned a herd of wildebeests could have been milling around the clearing, but after a time the moon rose above the trees and he began to discern the mess of footprints into separate tracks.

  They were using the trail heading back toward the meadow and lake, retracing the path that Will and Taylor had taken that afternoon. Obviously they weren’t worried about being followed — or even running into other hikers or park rangers.

  Every so often Taylor got a faraway glimpse of light through the trees — the stray beam of a flashlight. And once he heard the sharp clatter of rock on rock — miles ahead and outdistancing him fast.

  He didn’t allow himself to think about anything but getting to Will in time. If he stopped to consider his own situation…well, forgetting about his various aches and pains for a moment — which wasn’t all that easy to do the longer the night wore on — he’d never felt quite this isolated or lost. Not in any of his foreign postings, but then he’d never been so far out of his own element.

  Not even in an Afghan embassy compound surrounded by a desert full of hostiles.

  He wasn’t sure how long he followed Orrin and the others, but he was headed back through one of the meadows he and Will had crossed earlier that day when he saw motion in the darkness ahead.

  Not far enough ahead, unfortunately — as an indescribable heavy oily scent of wet fur, fish, and grass resolved itself into an enormous black bulk that suddenly rose up on its hind legs.

  A bear.

  Taylor stopped dead, hand reaching automatically for his shoulder holster — which was not there.

  The bear, a weaving shadow in the darkness, made a heavy blowing out sound and then a strange wooden clicking noise.

  Jesus. What was he supposed to do — besides not run? That much he knew. You didn’t run from a bear. And you didn’t try to climb a tree. What the hell had Will said about this? Play dead with grizzlies and fight back with black bears. And there were no grizzlies in the High Sierras so…yell, make noise, clap hands — and if he started yelling and screaming he was liable to alert Orrin and his pals that he was alive and on their trail.

  Taylor took a careful sliding step backward. The bear was still blowing and making those clacking sounds. It had to be six feet tall and about three hundred pounds. It looked like it was all claws and teeth to Taylor.

  Funny. They looked so cute in the zoo.

  “Get the hell out of here, you sonofabitch,” Taylor growled, trying to look and sound aggressive. He bent down, hands skittering over pine cones, rejecting them — he didn’t want to merely annoy the thing — and caught up a stone, pelting it hard at the bear. It bounced off its head. The bear made more exhalations and chomping sounds, and Taylor, scrabbling for more stones, wasn’t sure if he was merely pissing it off. He pitched another couple of hard balls — putting everything he had into his throw — and to his relief the bear dropped back on all fours and lumbered away, crashing through the brush and bushes.

  For a few seconds Taylor stood there panting; he hadn’t thought he had that much adrenaline left. He mopped his wet forehead with his sleeve.

  “I hate camping,” he said softly, just for the record.

  * * * * *

  He was weaving with exhaustion when he gave in to the need for sleep. Even after he decided to rest, it took him time to find a safe and suitable place. Safe and suitable being relative. Finally he took shelter in a small cavity in the hillside. It wasn’t large or deep enough to be a cave, but that was fine by Taylor. A cave was likely to be already inhabited, and he’d had all the close encounters with local wildlife he could handle for one night. He tucked himself in the little vault made by a couple of precariously balanced boulders, huddling, arms wrapped around his bent knees, head resting on folded arms. The rocks weren’t warm, but they protected him from the wind and the night air, and at least it was relatively dry.

  He closed his eyes.

  The night seemed alive with sound. Far noisier than the city ever had.

  He let himself dream of Will. On
ly half dream really — and half confused memory. Memories of when they had first been partnered. Nothing dramatic. Not like TV shows where the partners hate each other on sight but then come to like and eventually trust each other. The fact was, he’d liked Will right away. Liked his seriousness, his professionalism. Will was relaxed and experienced, and his calm approach to the job was a good balance for Taylor’s own more…intense work style. He’d liked Will’s sense of humor, and when he’d realized Will was gay…

  For the first time ever in DSS he’d felt completely at ease, completely comfortable…understood and appreciated. Up until this week, he couldn’t have conceived of voluntarily seeking another partner.

  He tried to picture that: getting used to someone who wasn’t Will. Maybe someone who took his coffee black, who didn’t like overpriced bourbon or dumb action films, who dated girls from the Computer Investigations Branch, and didn’t own a beer-drinking dog or listen to Emmylou Harris. Someone who wasn’t allergic to penicillin or who wasn’t an expert marksman. Someone who might not be there the next time he got his ass into a jam.

  He thought of waking up in the hospital with Will sitting right there. His eyes had been bluer than summer skies, and his smile had been sort of quizzical. “Welcome back,” he’d said in that gentle voice he’d used for the first few days after Taylor recovered consciousness. And Taylor had managed a smile because it was Will — despite the fact that he’d never been in so much pain in his entire life.

  And all the other times Will had shown up bearing magazines and fruit and CDs — sometimes only managing to squeak in about five minutes before visiting hours were over.

  A million memories. A million moments. Will’s laugh, the way his eyes tilted when he was teasing, the way he bit his lip when he was worried, that discreet tattoo of a griffin on his right shoulder — the way his skin had tasted this afternoon. The way his mouth had tasted…

  * * * * *