The girl was almost in shock when he returned, carrying Abbas’s possessions. His HK MP7, his cellphone, his water canteen and his power bars, and his wallet.
She gasped loudly in relief when she saw him and fell into his arms.
He held her until her trembling had lessened and then rose.
‘We have to go.’
‘Where?’ she asked tremulously.
‘Deeper into the forest.’
Away from the Middle Fork River. Toward the mountains.
He set off at a fast pace, using the dim light to guide him, confident that none of the killers would return.
They will not hunt now. Not in the darkness, when they have already lost a man. They will resume in the morning. When daylight is on their side.
When the girl was close to exhaustion, he carried her. She was light, frail; she soon fell asleep, lulled by his movement.
His pace was brutal and would have exhausted ordinary men.
Five miles later, he came across two fallen trees, both rotting, with a pile of dead leaves and branches collected around them.
He started to go around them, then changed his mind and looked beneath.
The tree behind was resting at an angle, the wide base of it propped on a rocky outcrop.
He laid the girl down gently and thrust a hand underneath the trunk.
The space was roomy. Large enough to comfortably shelter her.
He cleaned the opening, made a bed of soft leaves, and woke her up.
‘That’s your mattress.’
She looked at him heavy-lidded and then at the tree trunk.
She crawled underneath without a word and within seconds was fast asleep.
He covered her with his jacket and lay down in front of her.
Zeb woke at six am. Streaks of sunlight were streaming down the thick canopy overhead, brightening the forest.
He lay motionless, checking out his surroundings.
Trees as far as he could see. The sounds of birds. A chopper hovering somewhere far away, then fading.
He rose, found rain water in a hollow and washed his face, and returned.
‘Who are you?’
Her voice stopped him as he was inspecting Abbas’s possessions, the terrorist’s HK MP7 slung around his shoulder.
All he could see were the whites of her eyes as she lay beneath the trunk.
‘Zeb Carter. A hiker. I told you.’
‘I don’t believe you. My dad and I camped a lot. We met many hikers. Not one was like you.’
‘Who are you?’ he countered.
‘Sara Ashland,’ she replied after a long pause. ‘Dad was Kenton Ashland.’