Page 94 of Badlands

What the hell would they do now?

“Where are we?” he shouted over the wind.

He heard Sharp reply. “Help me reach my cell phone.”

Keeping his face from the wind, Watts twisted to one side, reached into Sharp’s singed jacket, found the cell phone, and plucked it out.

“Give it to me.” Wincing afresh with pain, Sharp swiped and fiddled with it.

“Working?” asked Watts.

“Yes,” said Sharp. “I’ve got a sat connection. It shows…” He paused. “It shows we’re on the western rim of the canyon, about two miles southwest of our planned LZ.”

Watts sat up, momentarily forgetting the wind. “You’re sure?”

“Think so. Looks like…” He stopped to take a few breaths. “Looks like the pilot completed his turn and was headed toward the canyon from the west. The ground team will know the chopper crashed and send out a rescue.”

“I can’t wait,” said Watts. “I’m going to find them.” He lumbered to his feet after briefly checking on the unconscious man.

Sharp looked at him. “Take my gun. And good luck.”

61

NORA WRITHED ONthe floor, struggling to break free of her bonds. The leather around her wrists had been tied so tightly that, struggle as she might, she couldn’t work it loose. She kept pulling and jerking until she realized she was only abrading her own flesh.

She lay for a moment, breathing hard. Skip’s distant crying echoed weirdly down into the kiva, and she shook her head, trying to clear the drug-induced fogginess but only partially succeeding.

Damn it, think.

She glanced around in the dim torchlight. The nichos along the kiva walls were filled with ancient artifacts: masks, flutes, pottery, lightning stones—and obsidian blades.

She managed to wriggle herself over to the nearest wall. She braced herself against it and, with a mighty effort, forced herself into a kneeling position. There were the obsidian spearpoints, stacked in a bowl in one nicho. She leaned her head toward the niche and, grabbing the edge of the bowl in her teeth, pulled it free. It fell and shattered, scattering spearpoints over thehard-packed surface of the floor. Falling back onto the ground, she rolled atop one of them, fumbling around with her fingers. It took only a moment for her to grasp it and press it edgeways into the dirt floor. Then she positioned her wrists over it and used the exposed edge to saw through the leather binding. Despite its age, the obsidian was still incredibly sharp, and within moments she’d cut her hands free.

She grabbed the blade and quickly sliced the hobbles from around her ankles. She staggered to her feet only to feel an overwhelming sensation of dizziness.

Skip was still sobbing and pleading—at least he was still alive, thank God. But now she heard a new sound: a guttural snarling that she knew instinctively could not be human. What the hell kind of an animal was it? There weren’t many apex predators in New Mexico other than cougars and black bears—and this didn’t sound like either.

She looked around, trying to focus. She was free… but what now? How was she going to prevent her brother from being killed?

Even as she tried to think, she caught movement out of the corner of one eye. It seemed to be coming from the far wall of the kiva, and she turned toward it quickly. It was the Feathered Serpent on the wall. It was starting to move, slithering itself free of the adobe, taking form, and sliding toward her…

She slapped her own face, hard, to rid herself of the hallucination. Shaking her head into a semblance of clarity, her cheek stinging, she headed for the ladder.

Then she halted once again. Climbing up to fight them, willy-nilly, would be stupid. There were a dozen of them, or more, and they had a gun. No, two guns—Bromley had taken Corrie’s Glock. Christ, she needed a plan,right now—but what?

She cast frantically about the kiva.

Weapons… there were weapons in some of those niches: a bow and arrow, a club, some obsidian knives with bone handles.

She grabbed the bow and arrow. With a rush of relief, she noticed it was still strung. She hadn’t shot an arrow since Girl Scouts, but maybe if she could take down Bromley, the rest would fold. Wasn’t that how cults worked?

She drew the bow back and the wood immediately snapped. Dry rot.

Son of a bitch.

She seized the biggest knife. It was razor-sharp—but what did that matter against a dozen people out of their minds with bloodthirst and armed with guns? A futile slash or two, then they’d cut her down. Nevertheless, she tucked the knife into her belt and continued to look, but there was nothing.

She felt overwhelmed by panic. If she couldn’t fight them, could she do something else? Knock over the tripods with the club? If only she could find a way to interrupt the ritual, something to disrupt the ceremony…

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