The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp 2)

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“Can I at least know why you’re going to extremely extract me?”

“For the world, Al. The welfare of humankind.”

I heard him slide the bullet into the chamber. The wind sighed in the trees. I could see my own breath.

“I should tell you that I hate doing this, Al—you know, how I always liked you and respected you and all that, but that just isn’t true. To be frank, you’ve always annoyed the heck out of me.”

10

I waited for the bullet, but the bullet never came. Instead a gigantic white horse burst from the trees to my right, bearing a figure dressed entirely in black, down to the ski mask over its head, bending low over the horse’s back as it came straight toward me. I heard Mike cry out, the sharp pop-pop of his gun, and then the rider was between Mike and me, and an arm swooped down and yanked me off my feet. Barely off my feet, because this rider was a lot shorter and thinner than I was, so my toes dragged the ground as the horse made straight for the ravine. I grabbed on to the back of the saddle and heaved myself up behind the black-clad rider as the horse swung around and headed back for the cover of the forest.

Mike had gone to one knee, holding the Glock with both hands as he fired, and a bullet tore through the back of my shirt as it fluttered behind me.

Then we were in the woods, plunging into the pines and oaks and maples, through thick undergrowth and hanging vines, and if we were following a path or trail, I couldn’t see it—but I didn’t see much because half the time my eyes were closed. When I did open them, I could see the rump of the white horse and the ground sloping down as we thundered toward the foot of the mountain, a descent that seemed to get steeper as we went. Any second I was sure the stallion would lose its balance and both of us would fly into a somersault, flipping end over end before a tree stopped us.

We zigzagged between the trees and scrub growth, occasionally becoming airborne as the horse leaped across ravines and deep gouges in the ground where tributaries of the Little Pigeon River ran.

Then we burst into a wide clearing maybe halfway down the mountain, a flat, treeless area, and the rider brought the horse to a snorting stop. I didn’t dismount as much as slowly slide off the saddle onto the ground.

The rider fell to the ground beside me, and we lay there, contemplating the night sky. The rider moaned, one hand pressing against the dark fabric of the turtleneck sweater.

“I’m hit.”

I rolled to my side. I recognized that voice.

She reached up with her free hand and pulled off the ski mask.

“Ashley?”

She tried to smile, but it was more of grimace. “Hello, Alfred.” “I guess you’re not a transfer student from California.”

“No.”

“I knew it! Seniors don’t eat lunch with sophomores.

You’re OIPEP, aren’t you?”

She nodded, her eyes watering from the pain, I guess.

“Where are you hurt?” I asked.

She pulled up the sweater, exposing her rib cage. Mike’s bullet had torn through the left side. She was bleeding pretty bad.

“Chopper’s on its way,” she gasped. Then she started to cough, and I saw blood shimmering in the starlight on the corner of her mouth.

“Got the lung,” she whispered. “Alfred, strapped to my left leg . . .”

Her eyes rolled in her head. I reached down and pulled up her pants leg and saw a long knife in a black leather sheath strapped there.

Then I understood. I knelt beside her and yanked the knife from its sheath. My hands were shaking. I pressed the edge of the blade against my left palm. I hated knives, but I didn’t see how I had a choice. Maybe the OIPEP chopper had a medic on board, but Ashley might not make it if we waited for them. She was bleeding to death.

I pressed harder and a thin line of blood welled up around the blade. I threw the knife into the grass and pressed my bleeding hand over the bullet hole. Ashley gasped. Her eyes came open.

“Alfred . . .” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re going to be okay.”