Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

he could not see, he hauled himself along, hand over hand, rock to rock. The thin Mechanix gloves protected his hands at first, but he bashed his forehead twice, nearly knocking himself out, before he learned to keep his arms relatively straight and his hips arched. In effect, he crawled across the top of the tunnel, creating the necessary distance to avoid ripping off his nose on a hanging crag.

Not quite two minutes into the dive now, the edges of his mind began to fray.

He could see perfectly now in the crystalline-green water. Grumpy swam beside him, younger, like when Arliss was a boy. Ethan was there too. No longer alone, Cutter decided to give in, to breathe. He wanted to talk to his grandfather again. To let go and stop the crushing pain in his chest. The cold water could have him.

Grumpy pointed a finger, silently chiding him. He’d have no talk of quitting. Ethan dolphin-kicked alongside, challenged him to a race – like the old days. And then Barb, his last wife, was there, her shoulder brushing his. She was always an excellent swimmer. Flowing hair enveloped her face in the water, long, like before the chemo. And her smile… she looked so much like Mim…

Mim.

Cutter pulled harder. The gloves were in tatters now, and he shredded his knuckles on the knife edges of rock, grabbing, hauling…

And then there was no more rock above him, only a column of water. He felt his lungs expanding, and the sensation of floating upward. He kicked, feebly at first, then harder as he realized he’d made it.

Light shimmered above him. People. Danger. The closer he got to the surface, the more his lungs expanded and the faster he rose. He knew he should slow, for safety’s sake, but he had to have air. Caution was worthless if he drowned. He broke the surface like a missile, shooting out of the water almost to his waist. A long, croaking breath filled his lungs with sweet, wonderful air.

More light. Screams. Echoes.

Cutter inhaled deeply, feeling his vision clear with each lungful of air. He blinked, trying to get his bearings amid the chaos. Pistol shots boomed off the rock walls, slapped the water around him, forcing him to dive again, back into his airless tomb. Oblivious to the cold now, all he could think about was air. He needed to breathe.

Underwater, he kicked his way to the far edge of the pool, fifteen or twenty feet away from where he’d first surfaced. A stone outcrop no larger than his head offered momentary cover from the searching lights. He allowed himself two quick, shivering breaths, before reverting to slower combat breathing, abbreviating the cycles because of his hypoxia. In for a three-count, out for a three-count. Water drained from his ears. His pulse began to slow enough that he could discern voices.

“Holy shit!” It was Slick’s voice – from the gunfight on the mountain. “What was that? A falling rock?”

“That wasn’t no rock!” another voice said.

Tough Guy, the rifleman. Cutter had robbed him of the long gun, but he’d proven himself plenty handy with the pistol.

Cutter blinked, moved slowly to wipe the excess water out of his eyes. Both men wore climbing harnesses. Headlamps illuminated their faces, the beams playing this way and that, crossing each other, then stopping to study some spot before moving to another. So far, Cutter remained in the shadows.

The girl he assumed to be Donita Willets wasn’t so lucky. Cutter could see her clearly from his vantage point. Tough Guy sent a round slamming into the stone column where she was hiding, sending her scurrying around it for cover. If she went too far, she’d expose herself on the other side.

She screamed again.

“Would you just shut up!” Tough Guy barked. He held something in his hand. The bone rattle. “Who else is down here?”

Something boiled in the black water to Cutter’s right. He heard a noise he couldn’t place. Tough Guy jumped at the sound. He dropped the rattle and spun toward it, using two hands to fire a couple of snap shots from his Glock into the middle of the pool.

Behind Tough Guy, Slick stooped to grab something from the ground. He spun on his heels, the light from his headlamp bouncing and bobbing on the far wall as he hauled ass back to his rope – bone rattle in hand.

Pressing against the rock deck, Cutter used the diversion to push himself up and out of the water. He’d intended to draw his Colt as soon as he was up, but cold and fatigue cramped his muscles. He stumbled forward on numb feet for the cover of a stone column – and almost made it.

“Hey there,” Tough Guy said, his light settling on Cutter, still three feet from the rock support. “Got some friends in the water, do you?” The Glock was aimed directly at Cutter’s chest. He had the advantage and he knew it.

Water drained from Cutter’s clothes. His Xtratufs were full. Running would be a joke. He raised his hands to shoulder level, opening and closing his fists to get the blood flowing. He kept his voice low, soothing, trying not to look like too much of a threat, which wasn’t hard considering he looked more like a drowned rat than a deputy US marshal.

“Only me.”

“Bullshit!” Tough Guy snapped. The pistol remained rock steady. “Dollarhyde, cover the pond,” he said, so focused on Cutter he wasn’t aware that Dollarhyde was halfway up the rope. Cutter spoke again, drawing Tough Guy’s attention back to him. If he felt suddenly isolated, he might go ahead and shoot. And Cutter needed a second or two longer to get the circulation back in his hands.

“I… s-swear.” He didn’t have to affect the chatter. “It’s only me.”

Tough Guy’s headlamp bobbed slightly as he nodded to the Colt Python. “Mighty big pistola you got on your belt there, sport.”

“For bears,” Cutter said. He made a fist, held it, then opened his hand slowly.

“Bears?”