Zeb could feel incoming danger the way animals can sense it.
But before he could react, the round slammed into his left thigh.
He had been fired upon several times in his life. He had experienced more severe injuries than a bullet to his leg.
So now, his training and experience took over.
He allowed his body to fall limply. Weight and gravity took over and dragged him down the slope, beyond the sight line of the sniper.
In the distance he heard the yips of his pursuers.
Namir and his men, he thought. He knows I am hit. They came quicker than I expected.
And then he stopped worrying about them.
Because Sara Ashland’s face was in front of him. Crying. Grasping at him. Helping him stand.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said, gritting his teeth.
‘What?’ she sobbed.
‘We have ten minutes before they come. Get to cover. Hide. Take this.’ He thrust one of Koeman’s knives at her.
He took long hops, ignoring the pain. Ignoring that he even had a left leg. His body could protest and groan all it wanted.
He would become Zen.
‘Dig a hole. Leaves. Branches to cover yourself. Take this.’ He cut a section of rubber tube he had found in the guard’s tent. ‘Use it to breathe. Like you are underwater.’
‘Give me a safe word.’
‘What?’ She was gulping enormous breaths of air. Sucking in oxygen. The sounds of pursuit were coming clearer now.
‘Ma’am!’—he grabbed her shoulders, blinking his eyes rapidly to dislodge sweat—‘Listen to me. Carefully.’
He repeated his instructions, looking deeply into her eyes. He sighed inwardly with relief when her eyes turned intelligent again, and she nodded in understanding.
‘Give me a safe word.’
‘Tulip,’ she replied promptly, not asking why he wanted one.
‘Tulip?’
‘Yeah. It’s Gramps’ cat.’
‘Go. Don’t think of me. I will deal with them. We will be fine.’
Her strained face bobbed, and she fled.
Zeb waited for the forest to swallow her and then looked back.
Three figures were racing down the slope.
Eight, maybe nine minutes away.
One of them shouted and pointed in his direction.
Zeb hobbled toward the protection offered by the firs.
A shot rang out, the bullet losing itself in the forest, and then he was out of their sight.
He stopped immediately and looked around.
For a moment he thought of digging a hole in the ground and burying himself.
The way he had asked the girl to do.
No time for that. Will require too much effort.
He looked up.
Branches. And leafy cover.
Favoring his right leg, he jumped as high he could.
He slipped and bit back an oath when he landed on his left leg and agony raced through him.
He leaped again.
Hooked his right hand around a branch and pulled himself up.
Got his right leg over the branch, and levered his body through sheer dint of will.
He was ten feet above the ground now. Waiting, Koeman’s second hunting knife in his hand. One of his Glocks within easy reach.
At Koeman’s tent, he had pocketed several strings that he now used to tie the HKs to his waist to prevent them from clanking.
A simple tug would release them and bring either one to hand for quick use.
He wiped sweat off his eyes and hunkered down.
Someone would die in the next few minutes.
He hoped it wouldn’t be him.
Or the girl.