C. Palov - Templar's Code

“Quite.” The man had a face straight out of a Botticelli canvas; it wasn’t one that he would easily forget.

Finished wrapping his wound, Edie tore the gauze from the roll with her teeth and knotted it off. “Okay. Now what?”

“We take the plunge.”

Her brows instantly shot upward. Eyes saucer-like, she turned toward the river. Flowing at a furiously fast rate, the current frothed and foamed as it pounded against the granite slabs.

“Unfortunately, the river is our only means of escape.” He hurriedly shoved the GPS device into the same bag as Edie’s memory chip, along with the gauze roll and a tube of antibiotic ointment. He then checked to make sure his shirttails were tucked into his denim jeans before placing the watertight parcel inside his shirt, buttoning it to his chin. That done, he cinched his belt another notch.

“So, how do we stop Rico Suave from following us downstream? All he has to do is jog along the riverbank and wait for us to get out of the pool.”

“A diversion is required.” Leaning over, he retrieved the flare gun from the field kit. Plan hatched, he verified that a 12-gauge shell was in the barrel.

“We need more than a diversion,” Edie muttered, dubiously glancing at the plastic single-shot gun. “We need a Sherman tank.”

“Diversions can move mountains.” He caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. “Here he comes! Ready yourself!”

Heart painfully thumping against his breastbone, Caedmon watched as their assailant slowly moved toward them, bow held in front of him, the string drawn.

Come on, you bloodthirsty bastard, just a few more feet.

The bow dipped slightly, the killer having sighted his prey.

Beside him, Edie drew in a sharp breath.

Every muscle in Caedmon’s body tensed. Then, like a jack-in-the-box, he sprang up. Took aim. And fired .

The discharged shell made a high-pitched whistling sound. It was the only warning the archer had before the flare lodged in the V of his armpit. The sleeve of his nylon windbreaker instantly caught fire. Dropping the bow, the beautiful young man began to wildly flap his arm as he spun around in circles. An enraged rooster desperately trying to extinguish the flame.

“Hurry! There’s no time to lose!”

Offering up a quick prayer—that they wouldn’t be dashed on the rocks—Caedmon grabbed hold of Edie’s hand and leaped.

Colder. Deeper.

Those were the first two thoughts that Caedmon processed as his body hit the water, plunging feet first into a river that was much colder and far deeper than he’d expected. Keeping his arms locked at his sides, he furiously kicked his feet as the raging current shot him back to the surface like an ocean buoy.

“Edie!”

He turned his head just in time to see her break the surface, her arms flailing as she pitched and rolled in the river current. She opened her mouth, hacking, coughing, gasping for air.

“Caedmon!”

“I’m here! To your left!” he yelled over the crescendo of thundering whitecaps. He tried to swim toward her, but the current was too strong. Already carrying him down river. As though he’d been shot through a water chute. “Go with it! Don’t fight the current!”

Caedmon took his own advice, going with the flow, using his legs as propellers, he concentrated on keeping his head above water. Glancing behind him, he could see that Edie was now swimming with stronger, more confident strokes. Thank God.

About fifty yards ahead of them the river curved, the current smoothing out into a more manageable course. In the bend of the curve was a toppled tree, the fallen hardwood extending into the river. A perfect place to dock.

“I see it!” Edie shouted, having read his thoughts. “I’m headed that way!”

“Right!” He deepened his strokes. Grunting, he furiously kicked his arms and legs, putting every ounce of effort into—

Yes! He grabbed hold of the rough-hewn bark. Fortuitously, a large boulder was wedged beneath the tree. Using it as a launch pad, he pulled himself out of the water and onto the limb. A throbbing corona of pain radiated from the arrow wound. He wanted very much to bellow.

“I’m right behind you!” Edie called out.

Caedmon leaned over the side of the tree and wrapped his uninjured arm around her torso, hauling her out of the river. They both awkwardly straddled the limb. Huffing from her exertions, Edie’s head dropped to her chest.

“I know that you’re exhausted, Edie, but it’s imperative that we make a hasty departure. Can you manage the tree trunk?”

Raising her head, Edie nodded. “I’ve got a good sense of balance and it’s a pretty thick trunk.”

“Right.” Testing his own sense of balance, he stood up.

With his arms held perpendicular to his body, Caedmon gracelessly ambled to the river bank, doing a fair impersonation of an inebriated tightrope walker. Leaping to the ground, he turned and, with outstretched arms, caught Edie as she jumped from the tree trunk.

For several long moments they clung to one another. That is, until Edie began to violently shiver. Worried, he pulled away.

“We need to get you to the car before hypothermia—”

“Caedmon, look down!”

A stricken expression on her face, Edie pointed to a spot some eighteen inches from his boot tip. There, coiled in a pile of rotting humus beside the fallen hardwood, was a mottled brown snake. Beautifully camouflaged. As nature had intended. Caedmon took its measure at three to four feet.

“I think it’s a copperhead,” Edie whispered. “No sudden moves. They’re very sensitive to vibration.”

In a lowered voice, he asked the obvious. “Is it poisonous?”

“Oh, yeah. And they can strike as fast as you can move.”

As though to prove that very point, the snake reared its head.

Bloody hell!

About to shove Edie out of striking range, he was flat-out shocked when a single shot rang out, severing the snake’s head from its coiled body.

Caedmon spun on his heel, brought up short when he saw a dark-skinned man standing twenty feet away. The scowling stranger had a face like a closed fist. He also had a bolt-action rifle raised to his shoulder—the muzzle pointed directly at them.

CHAPTER 39

“Do you want to live?” the rifleman inquired.

Edie’s jaw slackened, disbelief trumping fear. “That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

“Yes, we want to live,” Caedmon answered. He stepped forward, his right hand extended. “Tonto Sinclair, I presume?”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t Dr. Livingstone.” The pony-tailed Native American, whom Edie placed in his early sixties, tipped the rifle skyward. To her relief, he flipped on the safety. Still scowling, he stared at Caedmon’s proffered hand. Rather than take it, he shrugged out of his brown flannel jacket and flung it at Caedmon’s chest. “Leech the lead from your asses. He’ll soon be on the hunt.”

Edie assumed that their “guide” referred to Rico Suave.

“Put out the flame, did he?” Caedmon handed her the jacket, silently mouthing the words Put it on.

The other man shrugged. “You only singed him. He’ll live.”

“Pity.” Caedmon gallantly swept his arm, drops of water plopping to the ground as he did so. “By all means, lead the way.”

Grateful, Edie donned the jacket, toasty warm from Tonto Sinclair’s body heat. Peering at their guide, she noticed the faded tattoo that ran across the knuckles of both his hands— red-blooded. That’s how Caedmon correctly deduced Sinclair’s identity; Jason Lovett had mentioned the tattoo in his digital voice recording.