David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

A gully loomed, water churning through it. Before Malone could hit the brake pedal, the Explorer charged down and up through it, splashing waves on each side and over the windshield. Driving blindly, desperate to control his steering, Malone couldn’t understand where the gully had come from. He’d driven along the beach many times and had never encountered the obstacle. Then he remembered there had been numerous wide, shallow dips. Were they the equivalent of dry streambeds? In major storms, did water rage from the bluffs on the right and fill these dips with flash floods?

The wave drained from his windshield. Wind buffeted the car. At once his headlights reflected off another gully, this one wider. Reflexively, he stamped the brakes, instantly realizing it was the wrong decision. As the car’s tires dug into the wet sand, he wouldn’t be able to stop in time. He would slide into the surging water and be trapped. He needed to go as fast as possible, to force the car through to the other side. Jerking his foot off the brake, he applied gas. He felt the car skid and then gain speed. And more speed.

When the front end hit the water, the impact jolted his teeth together. Waves sprayed. But the car kept surging forward. Flying forward. With a punishing jolt, it landed on the opposite bank and started to climb the crest.

But the back end was in the water. Although the tires dug into sand, they fought the strength of the current. Malone pressed harder on the gas pedal. The car gained traction, but not enough. He felt the back end shifting sideways. Oh, Jesus, the current’s pulling me in.

As the Explorer swirled in the raging water, he tried to work the steering wheel. It spun in his hands, the current controlling him. The water drowned the engine. The electrical system shorted out. The headlights darkened. He felt the force of the water beneath the car. Then the Explorer twisted sideways and walloped to a stop. Blocked by the edges of the gully, the car was now a plug, the current roaring against it, rising above the windows on the driver’s side and pouring over the roof. Water seeped past the windows. I’m going to drown in here, he thought.

He shifted to the passenger side and pressed the switch to lower the window, belatedly remembering that, with the electrical system dead, the window wouldn’t budge. More water seeped in. He pulled the latch on the passenger door and shoved, wincing from the pain the effort caused him.

Nothing happened.

He tried harder.

The door opened slightly.

He rammed his shoulder against it. The force of the water spilling over the roof caught the door and thrust it fully open, yanking him with it. He barely had time to breathe before he was sucked under. The current’s turmoil shocked him. He couldn’t tell up from down, right from left. He struggled to swim but found it impossible. About to inhale water, he brushed against the side of the channel. The current foamed around a curve and hurled him against a slope, where he gasped for air, clawing. He kicked his feet to propel him, kept clawing, and broke free, flopping onto the top of the sand. A wave crashed into him, almost dragging him back. Another wave followed, this one rolling him onto higher ground.

He struggled upright and staggered onward. But his legs didn’t want to support him. Dazed, he sank to his knees. He gulped air and shivered. Despite the pain in his ribs, his chest heaved.

Santa Clara was too far to walk to in the storm. The roiling stream blocked him from going back to Fernando. The odds were he would get hypothermia and die out here.

It didn’t matter. What happened to him wasn’t important. Getting to Sienna was , and now he would never be able to help her.

Lights flashed from farther along the beach. A car.

Help, he thought.

He managed to stand.

It’s someone who can help me.

Squinting from the headlights, he waved his arms. An alarming thought made him wave his arms harder. Dear God, the car’s coming so fast, the driver won’t be able to see the stream in time to stop. He’ll do what I did and crash into it.

Stop! he mentally shouted. The headlights sped closer.

Abruptly another alarming thought seized him. Nobody drives along this beach at night in a storm unless…

It’s the police. Someone saw the fire. They’re hurrying out to investigate.

Or it’s a friend of Ramirez, wondering where he is.

Assaulted by stronger rain, Malone looked frantically around for a place to hide, but the only place was a dune on his right. His legs were numb with cold. He seemed to take forever as the headlights got larger. With a torturous effort, he rounded the dune and collapsed.

Can’t go any farther.

From his vantage point, he saw the headlights glint off the raging stream. They seemed to be slowing. Had the driver seen the stream in time?

Or did the driver see me ? Malone wondered.

A car stopped just before the stream. Malone couldn’t tell if it was the police. He tensed, waiting to see what the driver would do.

Two men got out.

Flashlights gleamed toward the dune.

Shit, Malone thought. What if they work for Bellasar? What if he sent them back to make sure I’m dead.

He struggled toward a farther dune.

But the flashlights kept coming. They checked the first dune, found where his footprints led to the next, and followed.

Malone didn’t have the strength to do anything except crawl. His hands and knees didn’t seem to belong to him. He felt skewered in place.

The flashlights centered on him, hurting his swollen eyes as he squinted up. He waited for the bullet that would blow his brains out.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” a familiar voice asked.

Malone frowned up at a burly man beyond one of the flashlights, straining to identify him.

“My God, Chase,” Jeb said, hurrying to lift him, “we have to get you to a hospital.”

“No. Not the hospital.”

“What? I can’t hear you.” Driving as fast as he dared along the stormy beach, Jeb risked a glance toward Malone in the backseat.

“The airport,” Malone murmured. “Yuma’s airport.”

“The poor son of a bitch is delirious,” the man next to Jeb said.

“Save your strength,” Jeb said.

“Yuma’s airport.” Malone shivered. “Bellasar’s there. He’s got Sienna with him.”

“What?”

Malone tried to explain about Ramirez.

“I know about him,” Jeb said. “This morning, Ramirez used a computer at the Mexican immigration office at the border to find out what he could about a couple named Dale and Beatrice Perry. Dale Perry was one of ours.”

“I took his wallet.”

“We eventually figured that out. A half hour after his name surfaced, I was on an Agency jet to talk to the Mexican immigration official whose computer Ramirez used.”

“Bellasar arrived ahead of you,” Malone managed to say.

“ How ? Dale Perry was our man, not his. Bellasar couldn’t have known about him.”

“Unless somebody in the Agency is on his payroll.” Malone forced out the words. “How else could Bellasar have known we were at that safe house in Virginia?”

A rumble of thunder was followed by a heavy silence in the car.

“Hell,” Jeb said.

Malone hugged himself, shivering worse.

“We’ve got to get him out of those wet clothes.” Jeb’s stocky companion crawled into the backseat and opened a travel bag on the floor. He pulled out a shirt and a pair of jeans. “Since we’re about to get intimate, I might as well introduce myself. Name’s Dillon.”

“I’ve got the heater turned as high as it goes,” Jeb said. “We’ll do everything we can to get you warm, Chase.”