Chapter 2
“I do not want you dead, Mr. Tunbridge.” The voice was still even, still soft, and the more he spoke, the more convinced Ian became the accent was Slavic in origin. “But I have no qualms ensuring you never walk again.”
It was enough time for the men to resume their bruising holds on his arms, pulling Ian upright, though he stood a solid four or five inches taller than both of them. Now that he could assess his pursuers, he counted seven of varying ethnicities and sizes, all but their apparent leader carrying guns. One had blood stains on his coat. Another had a hole in his worn jeans with a cut oozing beneath it. Otherwise, everyone appeared unscathed from their earlier encounter.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He had no idea what this was about, why his insignificant archaeological team had been attacked or what they could possibly want with him. He was nobody, a scholar from Oxford in love with history and culture. He knew nothing about guns, or men who carried guns, or men who would chase other men through forests wielding guns. Clearly, though, he was of some importance to these people.
Ian pulled himself even straighter. It was pointless to show fear. He got the distinct impression it would matter little to the dark-haired man.
When Ian didn’t speak for a full minute, the man nodded as if they’d reached some agreement. “Let’s go,” he instructed the others, turning on his heel. “We have delayed long enough.”
The men holding Ian yanked him along to follow back into the thick trees, making him stumble for a moment before he found his footing again. His ankle throbbed, but he refused to limp.
He very much doubted it would gain him any sympathy anyway.
* * * *
They took him deep into the forest again. Ian recognized little of the brilliant green foliage, but he’d been too worried about saving his life to enjoy the scenery. He hadn’t been in California long enough yet to learn the terrain, either. Their planes had only arrived two days previous, their camp made the day before. Today was to be their first day actually digging.
His mind worked, grateful for the distraction from the potential peril around him. Could it have something to do with the site? It wouldn’t be the first time a group protested digging up artifacts or remains, though he’d never heard of murdering an archaeological team before to stop them from working.
Ian glanced at the broad back of the leader. His gut response was no. This was a Native American site, and these were not Native Americans. Scratch sabotaging the dig as a possible reason.
The more he contemplated, the more convinced he became this was about him in some fashion. The leader stressed he didn’t want to kill Ian, which meant he needed him somehow. Not mobile, however, if he’d been willing to paralyze Ian in order to get him to cooperate. But why kill the others? Because they were witnesses? To what?
His head hurt. From the questioning, from the running, from the pain in his ankle. Without more information, it was impossible to formulate answers, and without answers, he could do little for the time being but exactly as he was told.
The trees began to thin, but instead of the road Ian had expected to see, there was a small building, with weather-washed walls and a flat roof that looked like Gulliver had sat on it. A small enclave was visible behind it, with scaffolding and ropes hanging off the large redwood shading both, and the undergrowth had been worn away in a distinct circular patch. It was a small bit of civilization dropped into the middle of nowhere California, and Ian frowned as they led him toward it.
Words were exchanged in a language he didn’t recognize. All but the leader and the two men holding him changed paths to head for the building, but his attention was focused on the small bit of land they approached.
There was a reason there wasn’t any grass. At its center was a hole, its edges mostly smooth, large enough for a man to get through if it was a tight fit and he wasn’t bothered with small spaces. The leader came to a stop and turned around, pulling his gun out from an inside holster to train it on Ian.
“I trust you will not run,” he said.
“Never walking again. I remember.”
His shoulders sagged when he was suddenly released, the two men moving past their leader to the rigging hanging from the redwood. Ian watched, curious about what they were doing, though his awareness never wavered from the gun aimed at him. It soon became clear that it was a harness of sorts, connected to a pulley anchored to the tree. The men were careful as they positioned themselves, one near the hole with the harness in hand, the other at the end of one of the ropes.