They listened to the so
unds of rocks and pebbles rolling down the mountain below. Hunter said, “You okay?”
Art shook his head, tight-lipped. He pointed at his right ankle, “Twisted it.”
“How bad?”
“Sprained, but I don’t think it’s broken.”
Hunter looked over her shoulder at the faint glow of lights. They were so close…
Art said, “I’ll wait here, you go ahead. Take some pictures, then come get me and we’ll go back.”
“Are you sure?”
“We didn’t come all this way and get this close not to have a peek. Go ahead.”
She hesitated another moment, and then walked away with the moonlight showing her the faint game trail to follow. She couldn’t see the trail if she looked directly at it, but if she looked to the side, her eyes picked it out.
Hunter crossed the mountain slope high enough to clear the hill that had hidden the compound. She found a good location and sat down, stabilizing her binoculars with elbows on knees.
She had a different viewpoint than when she was taken to Osorio’s as a captive, but it was the same location:
Pasqual Osorio’s villa was a sprawling fifteen thousand square foot adobe ranch house centered in an emerald green twenty-acre oasis, the entire area surrounded by a rock wall six feet high. The grounds were manicured and immaculate, with fountains and flowers everywhere. Behind loomed high desert mountains that provided early shade from the setting desert sun, and that was where she hid.
She scanned the entire area for anything unusual, but nothing stood out. It was then that she saw several men emerge from the hacienda. One was Osorio. The other two appeared military in bearing, but not in clothing. One of them called on a handy-talkie of some kind, then the three men stood in the yard, looking at the mountainside.
Hunter felt a prickle of unease. Did they see us? She couldn’t imagine how, except for the rocks Art dislodged. Sound carries far in the desert air, so that might be it. She saw a faint shadow float over the rocks two hundred yards below her position. The hair stood up on her neck as she spotted two drones passing back and forth over the slope in search patterns.
Hunter rose and moved as quiet and fast as she could. The last look at the drones showed them equipped with what she was sure were night vision cameras.
Stopping often to look for the drone’s progress, she moved at a shuffling trot where she could. Sweat rolled down her face by the time she reached Art. He’d been busy, carving a crude crutch from a small dead pine nearby. He stood when he saw her. She said, “We have to go, they’ve got drones searching for us.”
“How could they know we were here?”
She pointed down the mountain, “The rocks I guess. It doesn’t matter. We have to go.”
Art didn’t argue, just pointed for her to lead the way. They worked to remain quiet rather than going fast, and Art struggled with the makeshift crutch, but he didn’t complain.
Ten minutes later, Hunter glanced back and said, “Hide!”
Art put his crutch down and crawled between two large rocks. Hunter slid in beside him. Both of them watched the drones coming closer, and they were now audible with their rotors cutting through the air. Art hissed, “They’re coming right at us.”
If they were seen, neither knew what would happen, but they couldn’t afford to find out. The drones flew in crisscrossing patterns so nothing was left unseen. When one of them came to within thirty yards, Hunter made her decision. She pulled the revolver as Art said, “What, you’re going to shoot it out of the air? At night?”
She followed the drone’s pattern, ignoring the second one, and let her eyes work in coordination with her hands. Hunter cocked the hammer, watched over the moonlit sights and estimated Kentucky windage in her mind as she aimed slightly in front of the drone, and fired.
The drone dropped in a wobbling fall to crash in a cluster of cedars downslope from their position. Art was wide-eyed, “You hit it!”
“I was lucky.”
The second drone did a pass over the downed one, hovered there for a few seconds, and then made a beeline for the compound, leaving Art and Hunter alone on the mountain.
Hunter holstered her pistol and stood as Art said, “They’ll send people to retrieve it. Let’s get back across the river.”
As they retraced their route, Hunter let Art go in front so she could watch the back trail. She also noticed Art struggling, but he didn’t complain. For the next three hours they walked on the mountain until finally descending to the fissure where their bikes were hidden. Hunter said, “Let me check you.”
“It’s nothing.” Art’s armpit was wet, and not from perspiration.