ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE by Cindi Myers Page A

able to see me.”
    “I don’t think we should split up,” she said. “What if they do see you and shoot you?”
    “I won’t let that happen. If I don’t try this, they’ll just keep us pinned down here until dark, then they’ll move in and pick us off.”
    Silence. Had he frightened her so much she was unable to speak?
    “All right,” she said after a long moment. “Tell me what to do.”
    “When I tell you, move as fast as you can to my side. Stay low.”
    “All right.”
    He sighted in on the rock outcropping and steadied his pistol on the hood of the car. “Now!” he called, and squeezed off three quick shots.
    Stacy hurtled out of her hiding place and dived into the snow beside him as another hail of bullets shook the car.
    Patrick helped her to sit up. Blood streaked her face. “You’re hurt,” he said.
    She shook her head. “Just some broken glass that nicked my cheek. I’m fine. Now tell me what to do.”
    He fit a fresh magazine to the weapon and handed it to her. “See that rock outcropping up there—the one where there’s a slash of almost purple-colored stone, sort of shaped like an arrowhead?”
    She nodded. “I see it.”
    “When I give the word, start shooting at that outcropping. Just hold down the trigger and empty the magazine at that spot.”
    “You can’t go up there without a gun.”
    “I have another.” He slid the SIG Sauer from the ankle holster and checked the load. “I’m going to leave you with an extra magazine.” He didn’t explain she was to use the other bullets if their assailants slipped past him and came after her; she was smart enough to figure that out on her own.
    She clutched the gun in both hands, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground. “Be careful,” she said.
    “I will.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment—she felt so small and fragile, yet she had more strength than some men he’d known. “Are you ready?”
    She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
    He nodded and she took aim and began firing, splinters of rock exploding from the stone outcropping, the report of gunfire obliterating all other sound.
    He ran, keeping low and moving in a zigzag pattern they’d drilled into him during training. The movement was supposed to make him a more difficult target to hit, but he doubted a spray of automatic weapons fire would miss. But his plan to focus the assailant’s attention on Stacy seemed to have worked; he made it to the tree unharmed and dived over the trunk, landing in thick, soft snow on the other side.
    Post holing through knee-deep drifts, he powered his way to the opposite bank and began making his way up the rocky slope. Ice, snow and loose rock made the climb difficult; for every foot he gained, he slid back six inches. The cold left his hands numb and penetrated his thin clothes until he shook from a bone-deep chill. Rocks tore at his clothing, cutting his skin, but he ignored the pain, pushing on.
    When he judged himself to be a little above the outcropping where he’d spotted the shooter he began working his way sideways, scrambling over scrubby trees that clung to the side of the canyon, slipping in slush and loose gravel. Below, all was silent; even the echo of the gunfire had faded away.
    His path intersected a narrow game trail, the hoofprints of deer clearly outlined in the snow along with the ridged soles of a man’s hiking boots. Patrick examined the imprint; it was fresh and sharp, and similar prints led down the slope. The shooter had come this way to set up his post among the rocks.
    He moved more slowly now, as soundlessly as possible, his pistol drawn and ready to fire. Soon he could look down into the niche formed by the outcropping of rock, a space just wide enough for a single man to crouch.
    But the niche was empty. The snow around it was littered with spent bullet casings, the metal jackets glinting in the snow.
    Patrick dropped into the niche and looked around. A search revealed an empty chip bag and