I kicked the door closed in his face.
03:02:52:28
We were standing at the back of the château, looking down a steep, densely wooded slope, the bottom of which was lost in the shadow of the mountain range directly in front of us. Ashley’s breath exploded from her mouth, crystalline white puffs of air that barely escaped her pale lips before the wind whipped them away.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
She mumbled something against my chest. Her knees buckled. I held her up and glanced back at the château. Pushed against the wall were six large plastic garbage cans, their lids held down with bungee cords, I guessed to keep the bears from rifling through the trash.
I eased her to the ground. “Be right back,” I said. I trotted over to the cans, freeing one lid and leaving the thick rubber cord threaded through the lid’s handle. I placed the lid upside down at the top of the slope and then returned to her.
“What are you doing?” she asked as I scooped her up.
“Ever go sledding?” I asked.
“I’m from Southern California!” she gasped.
I plopped her into the center of the overturned lid and positioned myself behind her. She drew her legs up to her chest as I wrapped mine around her shivering body. We fit, but barely. At that moment, the door behind us flew open and a mass of black-clad agents swarmed out. No time to think about it now. No time to work up my courage or even consider the wisdom of what I was about to do. There was no clear path below and the odds were we’d hit a tree before we went twenty feet, but if it’s necessary then it’s possible, and our getting away from the Company’s clutches was pretty darn necessary.
I grabbed the metal hooks on either end of the bungee cord and pushed off.
The fresh snowfall from the night before was a blessing— and a curse. It covered fallen branches and small bushes and the twisted upraised roots of the trees, but it also made us go faster. The lid was slightly concave, so by pulling on the cord and shifting my weight from one side to the other, I could kind of direct our descent as we flew down the mountain. We almost tipped straight over a couple of times, until I yelled at Ashley to lean back against me. I didn’t dare look to see if they were coming after us; I didn’t think they could without jumping on some lids themselves or fetching some skis.
They were shooting at us, though. The bullets tore into tree trunks and snapped off small branches as we rocketed past, flinging chunks of wood and toothpick-sized pieces of shrapnel on impact.
Maybe three hundred yards down, we went airborne, clearing a small ledge, smacking down so hard my jaws slammed together with enough force to bite my tongue in two if it had been between them. The trees thinned out and, looking over Ashley’s shoulder, I could see the slope abruptly ended: we were heading straight for a deep gorge. If I didn’t find a way to stop us, we were going straight over the edge of a cliff.
I flung my legs out and pulled back hard on the cord, like a rider trying to rein in a runaway horse. We went into a spin and the world whirled around us, trees, snow, rock, sky.
Instinctively, I shoved Ashley as hard as I could. She tumbled away and then I dove after her. The lid tumbled over the cliff, swallowed by the deep shadow of the crevasse.
I was sliding toward it on my back, frantically kicking my heels into the snow, trying to slow my descent. My flailing right hand touched Ashley’s forearm and I grabbed her. Dumb idea: if I went over the edge, I’d take her down with me. I let go.
We came to a snow-crunching stop with five feet to spare, flat on our backs, staring up with open mouths at the cloudless, brilliant blue sky. After what seemed like a very long time, I looked at her, and saw the snow beneath her was red.
I didn’t dare stand up. The ground was steep and slick with snow. So I scooted to her side like a marine in the barbed-wire portion of an obstacle course.
“Nothing personal—gotta do this, Ashley,” I
breathed in her ear as I unbuttoned her jumpsuit. I pulled back the material to reveal the wound: the bullet had torn into her left side, between a couple of ribs; I probably got one of her lungs. I tried not to look, but I did notice—I swear not on purpose— that her bra was pink.
Then I dug into the snow until I reached the hard, frozen ground beneath and slammed my wounded palm against it until the cut burst open and began to bleed.
I pressed my palm against the bullet hole and I also pressed my lips against her ear, which was bright red and very cold, whispering, “In the name of Michael, Prince of Light, I command you to be healed, Ashley. Be healed . . .”
My heart pumped blood down my arm, into my hand, through the jagged lips of my wound and entered her body.
A gift . . . not a treasure.
Ashley’s eyes came open and she said in a clear, strong voice, “I can’t believe you shot me, you jerk.”
02:17:16:44
The sky was darkening, the first stars were poking through the atmosphere, and the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees when Ashley lowered herself to the ground and leaned against a tree, gasping.
“Can’t go on . . . Got to rest,” she said.
That was fine with me. We’d been hiking along the ridge for hours, staying near the cover of the trees, stopping only to eat snow to keep us hydrated and to listen for any sound of pursuit. There was lots of snow but no pursuit, though once I thought I heard the sound of a helicopter to the south, where the compound was.