Bounty Hunter Honor. Kara Lennox
and he never had to pay them,” she said.
That was all Rex needed to know. “I’m willing to bet Peter’s power base is right here. We guessed right.”
“For all the good it will do us if we don’t get out alive.”
“We’ll get out. But we need to move—as quickly and quietly as possible. And we need to get rid of these damn vests.” The neon orange, designed to prevent hunting accidents, could have the opposite effect in their case. They shed the vests.
They couldn’t get out the way they came in. That path involved too much open prairie, and Rex wanted to avoid the old mansion, which afforded their shooter an excellent bird’s-eye view.
Rex knew approximately where they were on the property, based on a map he’d seen near the front desk. He also knew the only way they were getting out of this place alive was over the fence—unless they killed the person hunting them, and Rex didn’t want to think about that. He’d had more than his fill of killing.
They cut through the woods, which was thick with undergrowth. It offered good cover but made for slow going. Tree branches and mesquite scrub scratched them as they blazed a path.
At one point they stopped to listen, as they’d been doing every few minutes. Before, they’d heard nothing. Now, Rex discerned two sounds that concerned him. One was a barking dog. It was a good bet some of the hunters who hung out here had tracking dogs. The other sound was unmistakably running water. Rex had seen a stream or river on the map, but he couldn’t remember now precisely where it had run. They would probably have to cross it to get to the perimeter fence.
“Dogs,” Nadia whispered.
“Let’s keep moving.”
Rather than avoiding the water, Rex headed for it. If they waded or swam in the steam, the dogs might lose their scent. Of course, they might freeze to death. It was maybe fifty degrees out, not terribly cold, but the water in streams around these parts came from mountain springs way up in Colorado and would turn them blue in no time.
When they reached the stream, it turned out to be a very shallow, fast-running creek. They scrambled down the limestone bank as the dogs’ baying—definitely more than one dog—grew louder.
Rex grabbed Nadia’s hand. “Let’s run along the creek. Maybe the dogs won’t be able to follow our scent. At least it might slow them.”
“Do you have the slightest idea where we are?” Nadia asked. “Because I don’t.”
“I know exactly where we are.” It was an exaggeration, but he needed Nadia to be optimistic and confident. He couldn’t afford for her to fall apart in despair.
They splashed along the stream for maybe a quarter mile, until the water got deeper and they couldn’t move quickly enough. They climbed out on the opposite bank, using protruding rocks and roots and small bushes to pull themselves up. Then they started running again, shoes squishing with water.
“I can still hear the dogs,” Nadia said, panting slightly. He was amazed at her stamina and wondered what she did to stay in shape.
“We can’t be far from the fence now.” And they weren’t. He saw it looming ahead, and his heart sank. He’d been hoping to discover a chain-link fence with some sort of baffling behind it to prevent stray bullets from escaping the gun club’s grounds. What he saw was a sheer sheet-metal wall, ten feet high and extending as far as he could see in both directions. With razor wire at the top.
Nadia stopped and stared at the fence. “Bozhe moj, we’ll never get over that.”
“It seems excessive for a hunting club,” Rex observed, wondering why the Payton Gun Club needed this degree of fortification. It called to mind some crazy cult, preparing to barricade itself inside a fortified compound with lots of weaponry and await the revolution. But there was no time to ponder the gun club’s motives. The dogs were getting closer—Rex could see them now. The foray into the creek hadn’t fooled them—they were probably tracking their prey on the wind anyway.
Rex looked up and down the fence line until he spotted something promising. “How good are you at climbing trees?”
NADIA WAS ACTUALLY VERY GOOD at climbing trees, or she had been when she was twelve. She’d been something of a tomboy as a child. Her American grandfather in Michigan had owned an orchard, and she’d spent many a fall day climbing high into the branches to snag apples the pickers had missed. When she saw what Rex had in mind, she didn’t hesitate. She kicked off her athletic shoes and socks and climbed barefoot, gripping the old pecan tree’s trunk with her feet like a monkey, using the barest of handholds. The skill came back to her without effort. She even remembered not to look down.
Rex was right behind her—and the dogs right behind Rex. No sooner had he cleared the ground than two enormous black-and-tan hound dogs leaped through the underbrush toward them. Moments later they were at the bottom of the tree trunk, baying loudly. Fortunately their human counterpart—the one with the gun—was far behind.
Nadia headed for one high branch in particular that reached out almost over the perimeter fence. She could walk out onto it a short distance, holding on to a branch above her for balance, but soon she lost her handhold and she had to sit on her branch and scoot. Unfortunately, the branch bent lower and lower with her weight. By the time she reached the wall, she was below the top. This wasn’t going to work.
But Rex had the solution. He had grabbed on to the sturdier branch above and was working his way toward her, hand over hand, as if he were on playground monkey bars. “Grab on to my leg!”
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