Flashback by Justine Davis (reading e books .TXT) 📗

storms. Charm wasn’t happy about the low overhang, but she was well trained and went in under it, anyway. A good partner, Alex thought, like when we turned the tables on Justin.

She waited, listening, calming the horse with a soothing touch when she got restless enough to move around. Charm quickly got the idea they were staying put a while and settled down. Alex crouched beside her, closing her eyes for a moment to focus on her most useful sense at the moment, hearing.

Slowing her own breathing to a shallow minimum, Alex strained to listen for any movement that sounded out of place. Nothing.

Then came the familiar squawk of a cactus wren, a sound she knew as well as the whinny of a horse. But her breath stopped when the naturally skittish bird began a chatter that sounded much like a dog warning an invader off his turf.

An invader…

With a mental thanks to the bird for the warning, she stood up. Charm’s head came up.

“I need a favor, sweetheart,” she whispered, and the horse’s alert ears flicked forward.

Alex reached into the saddlebag where she’d deposited her backup bottle of water. She opened it, turned toward the horse and poured a small amount over the pommel of the saddle and let it run down the seat. She rubbed it in, knowing she’d have to oil the leather up later.

When she was done, she stepped back slightly. The darkened spot on the tanned leather stood out even here in the shade. From a distance, to someone expecting it, it could easily be mistaken for blood.

She took the rest of her supplies out of the bags. They were fairly minimal since she’d only planned on an afternoon’s ride, but more than a novice would have brought, since she well knew the precariousness of life in the desert. She checked her cell phone; she was getting a signal, if only a couple bars. But the hunter was too close now, if she used the phone the sound of her voice would lead him right to her. As would the ring, she realized, and turned it off before she shoved it into a back pocket.

Then she tossed the reins back over the horse’s head, turned her to the opening and shooed her out.

“Home, Charm. Go home,” she whispered.

The horse hesitated for a moment. It was something they were trained for, but these circumstances were unusual. Alex risked a slight rise in the volume of her whispered urging.

“Get, girl. Home.”

The gray flicked her ears once more, then trotted off, back the way they had come. Alex watched until the horse clambered up the bank and went out of sight. She clipped the Glock in its holster at the small of her back. She pulled on the gloves that had been in the bags. Then she took out the knife that she always sheathed in her boot when in the desert.

With great care, and not without some damage, she went to work with the knife just outside the overhang. She cut away at the local plant life, moving as quickly as she could, but still listening every second for any warning sounds. She heard the scrape of something on stone before she was satisfied with her efforts, but she had little choice but to take cover now.

She ducked back under the overhang and waited. She ignored the stinging of her hands where the sharp spines had stabbed her.

With any luck, her hunter had seen that dark spot on the saddle and thought he’d gotten her, thought that she was down and helpless, and all he had to do was come ahead and verify she was dead or finish her off.

Come on down, she thought, her body gearing up, muscles taut, nerves tingling and aware, brain ready.

She thought she heard a faint muttering from above, about where she and Charm had come down the lesser slope, and near where Charm had gone back riderless. When the sound became clearer, closer, she smiled. A cool, merciless smile. Taking a shot at her was one thing, it came with the territory. Endangering her horse was another thing altogether. And he’d pay for that.

She pressed herself up against the side of the overhang. She heard a small tumble of sound, pebbles and sliding sand. Just what she’d expected to hear. Then a heavier sound. A thud. The voice again, louder.

“Shit!”

Male. Pissed. Clumsy? The possibilities ran through her mind rapidly.

More pebbles rattling. Another thud.

“I know I hit her. The bitch has got to be dead, damn it, that should be good enough.”

Hope you believe in ghosts, Alex thought.

And on another level she was wondering, Good enough for who?

That this wasn’t the man himself who was after her, but someone working for him, was added to the various plans she was making. It could make a difference. Mainly in just how much he was willing to risk to get her.

The man apparently gave up on stealth. His progress now was clearly audible. And then he ran into her handiwork and his presence was trumpeted.

“Damn! Son of a bitch!”

The string of curses went on, accompanied by the sound of scrambling feet in sand. Alex ignored the impressive vocabulary. This was her chance. She darted out from the overhang.

He was dancing. Dancing amid the piles of stabbing cholla cactus, famous for its habit of seemingly jumping at unwary passersby, that she’d left for him to blunder into.

He hopped, brushing madly at his legs, then yanking back his hands. Continuing to swear.

But most important, looking anywhere but at her.

She was on him before he even realized she was there. He went down hard, facedown, yelling. She dug a knee into his back. He squirmed, trying to throw her off, but she had the leverage. And the knife.

Quickly she searched him for weapons. She found a small automatic, but a sniff at it told her it hadn’t been fired. She’d figured he’d been using a rifle of some kind; he didn’t seem the type to want to