A Heartbeat Away

CHAPTER 52

Matt Fink pulled a tangle of rope from the open trunk of the Taurus and tossed it by Griff’s feet.

“Tie him up,” he ordered.

Melvin had made it unsteadily to his knees. Through the gloom, Griff could see blood cascading around one of his ears and down his neck.

“Shit,” Forbush said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I said tie him up!”

“How did you know we were here?” Griff asked, stalling, but also desperate to learn the answer.

Genesis had somehow been aware when Angie left the compound. Now, it appeared, they were once again a step ahead.

“I’ll ask the questions here,” the man said. “Now do as I say or I swear, I’ll shoot this jerk in the eye.”

“Why do you need me to tie him up? What do you want with us?”

“Do I look like someone you should be fucking around with, sport? You’re going to tell me where you are headed and why, or things are going to get mighty painful for both of you.”

Griff’s teeth were beginning to chatter. He rubbed at his arms to keep his circulation going. The icy wind was cutting through his thin scrubs like a scalpel.

“Didn’t he bring a jacket for me?” he asked. “I … I need one.”

“My patience is wearing thin, sport. Now, do as I say and you’ll get your jacket. Don’t do it and watch your friend here die a painful death while you become an icicle.”

Griff quickly surveyed their surroundings. To the west was the lab—a series of tiny lights on the horizon, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. To the north and east the flat, frozen ground was interrupted only by the scattered silhouettes of rolled hay. The south, however, held some promise. In fact, the distant farmhouse, outbuildings, and enormous barn told him precisely where they were—on the vast Cahill Bar-B Ranch, home to one of the largest herds of bison in western Kansas.

During his initial time at the lab, he had actually driven past this field a number of times. Once he had stopped to walk to within just a few yards of the magnificent beasts before a ranch hand on horseback warned him that, even though herds of wild bison had given way to ranch-bred, the animals were still fast, unpredictably temperamental, and at two thousand pounds, with horns, hooves, and a massive, battering-ram head, more deadly than a grizzly.

“I’ve had it with you, Rhodes,” the man was saying. “You’re a wise guy, and you don’t care what happens to your pal, here. Well, maybe you care about what happens to yourself.”

He jammed the muzzle of the submachine gun with force into Griff’s kidney, sending him down to one knee. Just as quickly, Griff was up, refusing even to rub at the spot.

“Who are you?” he asked, searching for an opening, any opening, through which to attack or to run.

“I’m a bad man, sport. That’s all you need to know,” he said, pressing the muzzle against the back of Forbush’s head for emphasis.

Like the killer who had tracked Angie to New York, this was a professional. Griff knew with certainty that there was no way either he or Melvin was going to leave this place alive.

Griff’s vision had adjusted to the gloom, and he could see a portion of the bison herd itself, huddled together against the cold. His best chance, likely his only chance, was to find a moment’s break and to run weaving in that direction.

“Are you Genesis?” he asked.

“Tie him the fuck up!”

“I won’t do it.”

Griff’s shivering was becoming more intense. He had to do something while he was still able.

But before he could make any move, the huge man charged at him, lowering his shoulder and driving it hard into Griff’s sternum. Griff heard the popping of his ribs separating from cartilage or breaking. The pain was explosive. The fury of the surprise attack lifted him off of his feet and sent him flying backward onto the rock-hard ground. He landed heavily, gasping, his lungs unable to take in air. Through dizzying pain, he rolled onto his stomach, and forced himself onto his knees. Then he glared up at the figure towering above him. Death for Melvin and for him was getting closer. The man’s temper and intense anger were the only weapons they had left.

“I’ve had it with you, sport,” he said. “You can just stand there until you freeze solid. I’ll enjoy watching.”

Teeth clenched, Griff maneuvered one leg underneath him, and was working painfully on the other when he saw movement from behind the man.

Melvin!

The gangly virologist was a specter, blood smeared across his face, rising up behind their assailant like Phoenix from the ashes. The wildness in his eyes shone through the mounting darkness like lasers.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Griff cried out, grunting around the words, but still heightening the distraction. “I’ll tie him up!… I’ll tie him up!”

At that instant, with the shriek of a banshee, Forbush leapt onto the man’s back, his hands clawing frantically at his face, his fingernails digging into his cheeks. The giant swung his body around, but Forbush held his grip like a rodeo cowboy on a bull. The submachine gun fell. Griff dragged himself toward the weapon, but the man kicked it out of reach. Then, in a blaze of motion, he pulled an enormous hunting knife from his boot.

“Nooo!” Griff screamed.

In a single, practiced move, the killer drove the blade up and back into the taller man’s shoulder.

Still, Forbush held on, yelling for Griff to run.

Then, bellowing and stumbling awkwardly, the man whirled and buried the knife almost to the hilt at the base of Forbush’s neck. Blood spewed from the wound. Forbush screamed, released his grip, and fell limply.

Griff was on his feet now, staring in disbelief at the scene. Melvin lay motionless, blood pulsing from his neck and pooling beneath him. Griff’s eyes clouded over. He felt weak and disoriented, immobile and unwilling to believe his friend’s wound was mortal.

Get the gun!

Griff heard the words in his mind as if Melvin had hollered them.

The gun!

Two agonizing strides and Griff had the submachine gun in his hands. He whirled and aimed at the center of the man’s chest. His index finger pulled the trigger, and the assailant, who was clumsily trying to stand, dove to his right in evasion.

The gun did not erupt.

Griff aimed at the man’s back and pulled the trigger once again.

Nothing.

Griff’s experience with guns was a single, unpleasant session many years before at a firing range with a friend and his target pistols. Now, he panicked.

Had the gun jammed?… Was there a safety he needed to release?

Either way, Griff knew his ignorance was about to be lethal. The man was back on his feet, no more than ten feet away, clutching the heavy knife. Griff glanced down at Melvin, who was unmoving and silent, his eyes wide open and staring unblinking at the blackness. Dark blood was pooled on the frozen ground beneath his head.

For a moment, Griff stopped caring. He wanted desperately to charge the beast, who had perhaps killed the most harmless, gentle man he had ever known. He wanted the whole thing just to be over.

Finally, with the man moving unsteadily toward him, Griff took a single step backward and looked to the south. The plains there were divided by stretches of wood-post fencing that extended in every direction. The distant farmhouse seemed unlit—five hundred yards away, he estimated. Maybe farther.

His chest was throbbing mercilessly, but he could no longer feel the painful cold in his feet. Still, clutching the useless weapon, he shambled awkwardly across the field. The solid, frost-coated ground was pocked with divots that made every step a danger. The surgical booties made traction even worse. Now, from behind him, Griff heard footsteps crunching on the frozen ground. The footfalls were steady but uneven, suggesting the assassin might be limping.

But they were also getting closer.

“You’re a dead man, Rhodes!” the killer bellowed from behind him. “This knife is going to love finding a resting place in your heart!”