Page 33 of Touchdown

At last, we were close enough to see the courage in each other's eyes.

Chapter 22

If you can ever look into another man's soul, Noah and I were looking into each other's souls then. Our emotions were raw, real, and relieved.

You all right?

I'm fine. You?

Fine.

I didn't know yet how we'd get through this. But, quite suddenly, I was certain we would.

We'd got this far, hadn't we?

“Don't try anything.” The man holding the rifle seemed to sense the change in our mood. Our refusal to surrender to despair. “If I have to trank you and hump all y'all out of here, I'm going to be extremely irritated. And you won't like me if I'm irritated.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Don't make me sorry I climbed down that tree.”

The creep switched on the halogen in his headband. Pointed the beam in the direction we should go—toward one of the damp white sheets flapping loose where it was coming undone in the breeze. It didn't seem as far away as it did when we were up high in the sky.

Well, we hadn't needed it to distract them from our tree forever. Just long enough to do some damage. The two dark masses on the dark ground below the sheet assured me that my good throwing arm had definitely done some damage.

As we drew closer, the dark masses resolved into slumped bodies that seemed to be utterly still. As in, I never saw a twitch.

Dead?

How could they be?

Death by canned fruit is not a thing.

No quarterback's arm is that good.

Even over the course of the short walk over, the rain kept changing from mist to drizzle to hard rain and then back to mist again. We were closer to mist than drizzle when we arrived at the first heap. Maybe it was harsh light from the halogen, but the deflated man on the ground looked shocky—face gray, lips blue, skin damp.

I kicked a bare toe at the broken headlamp near his face. I'd hit a hard one direct to the center of his forehead.

Could I have literally, actually killed this guy?

A sick feeling twisted in my gut. Squatting carefully, I studied the substantial lump forming on his right temple. Didn't that mean he was still alive? Or could bruises still develop after you'd croaked?

I reached out a hand to hold it an inch or two away from his chilled face.

Something warm tickled my palm.

His breath. He was breathing. Definitely alive, if likely to wake up with one bear of a headache.

“Sorry, dude,” I said. “But, you know, the whole kidnapping people thing... maybe that's not the line of work for you.”

“Your unquenchable sense of humor is wasted on him,” said the henchman. “Lucky man. He can't hear a word you say.”

“Don't be too sure. Head injuries can hear more than we think sometimes. That's what the doctor said when our lineback-”

Hench interrupted by kicking pointedly at something else on the ground—something I hadn't noticed before.

A hypodermic needle.

Oh.

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