“Cammie, I…”
I’d never realized how pale Dr. Steve’s skin was until it stood in contrast to the red blood that was oozing down his arm.
“You’re hit,” I said.
“It’s just a…” He trailed off, grimacing in pain. “Scratch.”
I pushed him off of me and examined the wound. He was right. It wasn’t much more than a scratch—a through-and-through—but Dr. Steve wasn’t like us. He wasn’t trained for fieldwork, and he winced as if he might be sick. But I didn’t have time for sick. There was a sniper in the woods with an excellent line on us, and our luck wouldn’t hold out for long.
“Here,” I said, dragging him around the tree and hopefully into better cover. “Put pressure on it.”
I pulled off my hoodie and started to press it against the wound, but drops of blood were already falling, landing on the rocks at my feet.
Red drops on white stone.
It was a strangely beautiful sight. I couldn’t pull my eyes away, and suddenly I felt dizzy. The world was spinning, pulling me backward through time and across space until everything grew incredibly slow—as if the whole thing had happened before, exactly like that. But different.
It was a different mountain. Different rocks. Different blood.
“I was bleeding,” I said as the memory I couldn’t quite name came rushing back. The wind felt colder, the air thinner. Was that a gunshot or the sound of snow crashing through the trees? I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“Cammie…” Dr. Steve said slowly, his lips a thin hard line.
“I was running. And bleeding. But it was finally light out. I could finally see the sky.”
“Cammie, it’s—”
“There was blood on the ground and on the trees,” I said numbly, recalling how I hadn’t bothered to hide my tracks. “They were getting closer. But I was so weak. I was just so weak…I wasn’t going to get away. I shouldn’t have gotten away.”
The memory was stronger then, deeper. It was like I was there—really there—and everything was the same, the wind and the smells and the red, red blood. Everything was exactly the same except the screaming.
No, the screaming belonged on a different mountain. I shook my head and focused on the sound of Bex’s cries. I wasn’t in Austria. And I wasn’t broken or beaten or worn. Not anymore.
I wasn’t going to be weak anymore.
“Cammie!” Dr. Steve yelled, genuine panic filling his eyes. “Don’t!” He tried to reach for me, pull me back to the relative safety of the ground; but even with two good arms, there was no way Dr. Steve could have stopped me.
I no longer felt my ankle. Adrenaline pounded in my veins. I ran faster, leaping over fallen logs, skirting around trees and rocks. My arms pumped at my sides as I pushed my way through the thick underbrush and dense pines. Faster and faster I ran until, finally, I could make out my best friend’s shape on the horizon.
She was on an outcropping of rock near the top of the hill, the shooter maybe three feet away. Bex lunged, striking the man, but he didn’t fall. And as he shifted his weight, Bex crashed to the ground.
“No!” I screamed just as the man raised the butt of his rifle.
But Bex twisted and kicked, sending the gun out of his hands and skidding across the rocks.
And I kept running.
Bex swept her leg and knocked him off his feet. But the man was so fast, it didn’t matter. He hit Bex hard across the face, sending her tumbling down the hill.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as I reached the top of the ridge. There were no trees or shadows, and that was probably why it was so easy to see the knife—shiny and clean. The sun glistened off the blade as the gunman pulled it from a sheath on his leg and lunged toward Bex.
She tried to block the blow, but the man was so strong. And the next thing I knew, there was a splatter of blood and Bex was screaming, her face a mix of shock and fear and…relief as the man fell to the ground and didn’t move again.
The gun was in my hands.
My finger was on the trigger.
The sights were still trained on the man—on the red mass spreading out from his chest, covering the place where his heart should have been. He lay so still, as if he might be resting, the knife still glistening—shiny and clean—in his outstretched hand.
“Cammie!” It was Liz’s voice. “Cammie, Bex…Cammie!” she yelled. I heard her running up the hill, and then she came to a sudden stop. “Oh my gosh,” she said, staring at the body at Bex’s feet. I heard her begin to gag and vomit, but I didn’t look away from the man who lay lifeless on the ground.
There was a weight on the rifle, a tug, but I held it steady, kept the assassin in my sights.
“Cammie,” Zach said, pulling harder on the barrel. I didn’t know where he’d come from or how long he’d been there, but his voice was in my ear, sounding worried and afraid. “Cammie, give me the gun.”
“Give it to him.” Abby and my mother were running along the ridge toward us. Abby yelled, “Now!”
And only then did I feel like it was okay to let the rifle—and my defenses—fall.
Abby walked to the body and called to my mother. “Rachel, any others?”
“No. I think he’s alone.”
“Well, he might not be alone for long.” Abby took the gun from Zach and yelled, “Everyone, get to the van.”
“Cam?” My mother was looking at me. “Cammie, sweetheart, are you hurt?”
I wasn’t hurt. I was numb. And I liked it.
Mom shook my shoulders. “Cammie, you need to—”
“Rachel,” Abby snapped, cutting her off. “We have to go. Now.”