on my neck when he laughed and said, “That’s not likely to happen.”
With three feet to go, he tossed the blue fabric over my head. It caught and wrapped like a lasso around a dense thicket of Rosa rugosa shrubs just in front of me. I stopped in panic and watched as Zukov yanked on the strip to make sure it was secure before dropping off the ledge and flying to a clearing in the dirt just above the rocks and below the rosebushes. The gust of air, the draft created by his movement, had nearly carried me with it, practically knocking me off-balance and onto the pile of thick rocks below.
I was close enough now to shuffle to the end of the precarious ledge and jump down to the ground. Zukov had overshot that position by just a few yards to get ahead of me and was scrambling up the slope to take me on face-to-face.
I needed to circle around the bottom of the hill that held the old basement enclosure and retrace my steps to the pit in which Mike and Chat were confined. I started to climb, pushing brambles out of the way and trying to ignore thorns that nipped at me from the sturdy rosebushes.
Zukov’s hand reached almost to my foot. I could see the blood dripping from it, where the splintered wood had cut him. He was gaining on me, seemingly oblivious to the pain when his hand brushed thorns or scraped rocks.
At a break in the rise to the crest of the small cliff, I stepped to a clearing at my side and straightened up. I had only seconds to think through my decision as Zukov tugged on his silken bolt to retrieve it from the bush, no doubt planning to use it again, perhaps to restrain me when he caught up with me.
I would be fortunate to outrun him to return to Mike, but far likelier to be overtaken by him and fall victim to the combat techniques of his extreme ministry. In either case, the gun was a liability in my hands, without the opportunity to examine and prepare it for firing.
I went to my waistband to retrieve it, and while Zukov watched in disbelief and stretched out his bloody hand to try to stop me, I heaved the pistol as mightily as I could, beyond the rocky shore and into the icy waters of the Sound.
I didn’t wait to see where it landed, as he did. I knew from the splash that it was beyond his deadly reach, and that my best chance for helping the captives was for me to get to them before Zukov.
“You’ll die here,” he called out to me again. “I promise you that.”
As frightened as I was, the thought that I might die, that I might be too late to help Mike, juiced me to go even faster. I twisted and turned among the thickets, knowing that he had to do the same. On this scrubby terrain, it was impossible for Zukov to fly.
At the summit of the small slope I called out to Mike. “Are you alive?”
I needed to know that he was, and I wanted his voice to guide me in the right direction.
“Don’t come back here, Coop. Get help.”
I had only halted for a fraction of a second and was on my way again. As agile as Zukov was, the rough landscape had slowed him too.
I reached the granite coping of the pit, sat on the side of it, and lowered myself to the ground. Chat Grant was struggling quietly against her restraints. I ran past her to Mike’s side. He’d been punched and kicked, and the bullhook was stuck into the ground, pinning both hands behind his back to hold him in place. It was unbearable—unthinkable, really—to see him incapacitated by this murderous perp.
“You’re mad to come back,” he whispered as I tried to lift the long instrument out of the ground.
“Not a word more,” I said.
I could see Zukov approaching the edge of the dark pit. I removed my flashlight from my pants pocket and knelt beside Mike.
“You got the gun?” he asked.
“Take this,” I said, placing the flashlight in his hands. I knew he’d be furious if I told him about the Glock. “Count to five and turn it on.”
“What will that—”
“I’m still in the driver’s seat. Just listen to me,” I said, my mouth against his ear.
Zukov had turned his back to us as he retied a length of