Chapter 26 A Race Against Time
Raw and bleeding, a conduit of pure adrenaline, Clara hurtled down a treacherous slope. Each jarring step sent fresh agony through her already protesting muscles, but the pain was a distant hum beneath the roaring current of her purpose. In her zipped jacket pocket, the film canister with the thumb drive, laden with the truth, spurred her forward.
Behind her, a cacophony of shouts and crashing branches faded and swelled, a horrifying soundtrack to Ethan’s diversion. He was up there, somewhere, leading Victor Thorne’s men on a wild killdeer chase, buying her precious minutes. The thought of the way he smiled, a reckless glint in his eyes as he promised they would never catch him. As much as she desired to be with him, what she was doing was their only hope to expose the truth about Thorne and Obsidian.
The mountain offered no mercy. She plunged into a section of loose scree, her boots skidding wildly. She fought for balance, arms flailing, but the shifting stones pulled her down. She hit the ground hard, her knees taking the brunt, followed by her palms scraping against sharp rock. A choked cry escaped her lips as she scrambled to her feet, ignoring the fresh rips in her hiking pants and the sting of blood. Dirt and grit clung to her face, a grim war paint. She was no longer the Denver analyst, afraid to wrinkle her clothes; she was an animal, driven by instinct and an unwavering resolve.
Ahead, the sound of a stream grew louder. She didn't hesitate, crashing through thick undergrowth to reach its banks. The water, fed by snowmelt, was frigid, seizing her breath as she waded in. The rocks beneath her feet were slick with moss, treacherous and unseen. She slipped, tumbling backward with a splash that soaked her to the bone. Her head went under for a terrifying second, the cold shocking her system, but she surfaced, gasping, spitting out icy water. The film canister was still there, she checked, a quick pat to her pocket. Good. She pushed through the current, fighting to gain purchase, her progress agonizingly slow against the relentless flow. When she finally stumbled onto the far bank, shivering uncontrollably, her teeth chattering, she didn't allow herself a moment of rest. She was battered and bruised, but her gaze was fixed on her unseen destination. Aunt Bea’s legacy, the future of the mountains, Ethan’s sacrifice, it all depended on her.
The sounds of their pursuit of Ethan were no longer audible over the rush of the stream and the frantic thrumming in her ears. A brief flicker of desperate hope. Unknown to her, deep in the woods, a chilling realization was dawning among Thorne’s men.
“He’s alone!” Boone snarled into his comms, his voice tight with frustration. He had cornered Ethan Kincaid by a sheer rock face, only to discover that he’d slipped away once more, his eyes glinting with a dangerous satisfaction before disappearing. “He was just leading us in circles!”
“What?” Thorne’s voice crackled back, laced with venom. “Where’s the woman?”
“She must have broken off. Headed down, maybe?” Boone speculated, glancing at the steep, winding path Ethan had led them on. “He was buying her time.”
“You idiots!” Thorne roared. “Fan out! She can’t have gotten far. Find her! Now!”
He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Lake Finney. They had been descending toward the lake when they’d discovered them the day before. For some reason, Lake Finney was their destination. He’d waste no time searching for her; he’d go straight to the lake.
“Marcus. You’re with me,” he called out. “The rest of you keep after Kincaid.”
Over a mile away and far down the slope, Clara pushed harder, ignoring the fiery protest in her thighs, the burning in her lungs. The dense forest began to thin, and through the breaks in the canopy, she caught glimpses of shimmering blue, Lake Finney. Relief, sharp and potent, surged through her, quickly followed by a new wave of caution. The campground. People, perhaps, but also, Thorne’s reach. She couldn’t risk being seen, couldn't risk the drop-off being compromised.
She worked her way around the outer edge of the campground, staying deep within the tree line on the north side. Her movements were less a run and more a desperate, stumbling crawl, but she kept moving, her eyes scanning for the landmarks Ethan had described: the Ranger’s dock. She was close. She could hear the muffled sounds of families, children laughing, a stark contrast to the primal game she was enduring. Camping spaces three and four. She found them, tucked away from the main road, semi-private, shielded by a dense cluster of towering firs and thick brush.
Her gaze landed on a massive, ancient stump, its weathered surface a testament to decades of mountain storms. “Facing north,” Ethan had said. “Search the base, between two heavy roots on the left side.” Her heart hammered against her ribs, a drum solo of hope and terror. She dropped to her knees, oblivious to the damp ground, her fingers scrabbling in the earth. The air felt thick, heavy with the possibility of being discovered at any second. Time stretched, agonizing, as she probed the coarse bark and root systems.
Then, her fingers brushed against a cold, flat stone, smooth and heavy, lying against the base of the stump. With trembling hands, she shifted it. Beneath, a small, dark opening, barely larger than her fist. The hollowed-out space. A sob of relief, choked and tearless, escaped her. This was it. The culmination of Aunt Bea’s tireless work, of Ethan’s courage, of her own harrowing journey.
She pulled the film canister from her pocket, the metal cool against her palm. It gleamed faintly in the dappled sunlight filtration through the trees. She prayed that it hadn’t gotten wet when she fell in the stream. She held it, whispering a prayer. “For Aunt Bea. For Ethan. For the mountains.” She brought it to her lips, pressing a quick, fierce kiss against its surface, a talisman of good luck and a promise to the woman who had started it all. Then, with a deep breath, she tucked it carefully into the hole. She moved the flat stone back into its place, obscuring the opening perfectly. Done. It was done.
Her mission, the critical first step, was complete. But she knew she wasn't safe. Looking around her, she made her way around the edge of the campground, staying in the shadows of the trees, her eyes constantly sweeping her surroundings. The road that led back to the highway lay ahead, a gravel road that would lead to the blessed ribbon of asphalt that promised escape. It was well into the afternoon, the sun beginning its slow descent, casting long, distorted shadows through the pines.